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somedrunkpirate · 4 years ago

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in the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au ficlet)

Rating: T | Wordcount: 3,4 | No major warnings | pre-slash, first meeting @geraskierfunday prompt: space

//let me know if you want of this because I have too much lore for a oneshot//

Read on ao3 or continue reading below

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel.

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag.

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble.

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway.

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime.

The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught.

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago.

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed.

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation.

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.”

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath, insert threat specificities here.

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was.

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion.

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all.

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead.

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do.

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too.

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them.

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one.

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger.

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.”

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it.

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he—

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture.

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head.

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly.

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places.

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself.

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!”

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd.

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.”

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening.

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.”

Some smile, some even chuckle.

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality.

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled.

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness.

“Come, scivan. I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.”

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod.

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there.

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions.

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction.

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep.

Bards.

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact.

Most Bards were spies.

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand.

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off.

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun.

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade.

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.”

There is a breath. Geralt waits.

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.”

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it.

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too bright-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting.

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter.

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!”

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer.

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive.

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem.

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard.

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.”

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.”

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!”

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.”

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath.

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares.

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case.

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape.

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.”

He isn’t afraid. He is awed.

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways.

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall.

—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it.

But one survivor shouldn’t — can’t — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another.

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating.

“Does she have a name?”

“Roach.”

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.”

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.”

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness.

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand.

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it.

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go.

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff.

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.”

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship.

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint.

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?”

“None of your business, Bard.”

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?”

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles.

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else.

The Dizan, watching them with interest.

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him.

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach.

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye.

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze.

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over:

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #witcher #the witcher #geralt/jaskier #witcher fic #myfic #alternate universe scifi #in the dark we travel

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jincherie · 6 years ago

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fox rain | intro

• ☽ — pairing: bts x reader • ☽ — genre: crack, fluff, angst, college/uni au • ☽ — words: 9.9k • ☽ — rating: sfw? • ☽ — warnings: this is PRIME crackheadery and headassery, this is literally such a mess fuckk, anyway-- accidental voyeurism, extreme amounts of stress, sleep deprivation (uni life amirite) • ☽ — notes: lets get it miss FOX RAIN!!!!!!!! also: links will be put in at a later date

— posted; 04.05.2019

When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well... maybe not as easy as you think.

— • masterlist | intro | next • —

Living as a University student paddling through your second year means that, as one would expect, you aren’t exactly a poster-girl for good decision-making—especially when it comes to things like sleep and time management. Those two areas in particular are probably your biggest weakness, but at least, you think as you pass through the brief lawn that marks the beginning of your University campus and join the throng of tired, yawning students, you are not alone in your suffering. Inability to catch the recommended hours of sleep and manage your time is a common trait among the student population.

It is your poor strength in these areas that landed you where you are now; dead-tired and still dealing with a delayed stress response that was lingering from yesterday’s deadline. You were up stupidly late last night, running on probably about four hours of sleep across three days, and barely coherent as you hastily emailed one of your assignments to your professor. It wasn’t all that hard for you, but you’d forgotten and by the time you realised the deadline was looming so close it was practically on top of you. You’re pretty impressed with yourself that you managed to make it, in all honesty.

You aren’t unfamiliar with this particular state of exhaustion, but thankfully aren’t as completely out of it as you feared you might be when you finally allowed yourself to sleep last night—or rather, this morning. Which you feel might be a good thing, because if you were any more tired than you are right now then you probably wouldn’t have noticed the change in the air as you amble deeper into campus.

Chatter isn’t uncommon in the people you pass on your way to class most mornings, but currently the air is buzzing. A sense of excitement, anxiety and trepidation mixes together within you, a cocktail with a taste eerily similar to fear, as you push forward. The people are excited, animated… you don’t like it. What is there to be so hyped up about at 8AM on a Friday morning? You decide to ignore the buzz and continue to plod on as intended.

You don’t get too far before your ears are catching excited gossip and hushed whispers exchanged between friends, despite your best efforts.

“…who though? Do you think its someone we know? I really…”

Your ears burn with the effort it takes to strain them, but you’re still walking and now too far to catch anything more from them. The next few people you pass do an excellent job of filling in the blanks one by one, offering their own jigsaw pieces to complete the mystery in your mind. Each new thing you hear stirs a certain sense of paranoia in your mind, the voice that always whispers, is this about you? Usually dismissing it is easy, but the more you hear, the more a tendril of dread begins to twirl within you and entwine around your bones.

“… do they know it’s been leaked? I feel so bad for them…”

“… apparently it was sent to their whole class? That’s so embarrassing…”

Oh god, is it you? Something was leaked? Was it nudes? Wait—you don’t have any nudes to leak. Well, not digital ones anyway. You do your best to ignore the paranoid voice in your head that tells you the poor person everyone is so fussed about is you, hastening your pace and heading towards the building that houses your Music Composition class with renewed vigour.

The people you pass in the halls seem to be abuzz with the same news that everyone else was, and it’s at this point that the dread curling within you is joined by a powerful, burning curiosity. You want to know, god do you want to know what everyone is whispering about. What the hell happened that has everyone like this? How had you not heard anything by now?

More snippets of conversations brush your ears as you near your room, something useful finally brought to light as you hear someone mention an infamous facebook page made by students of the university. Perhaps that is where you will find the answer to the questions flitting across your mind. The morsel of excitement within you is squashed suddenly as you catch something else.

“… what an idiot, to accidentally email everyone. I mean, it’s something I’d probably do, but still…”

You almost trip as your legs freeze and your spine goes rigid, one very important detail surfacing from the depths of your memory. That sounds like something you would do too, and the realisation that just last night you were emailing something particularly sensitive has a horrified sensation sliding down your spine. Suddenly very, very worried, you bolt over the remaining distance between you and the classroom doors.

Your increased speed from before has landed you there much earlier than usual, and the few students that are normally there at this hour shoot you mild looks of alarm before returning to whatever they were talking about before you burst through the doors in your dishevelled, panting state. The teacher isn’t here yet and to your momentary delight there is much more space available, leaving you a wider spread of choices for your seat that what you usually have. You decide to plop your ass in a seat against the wall in the middle-back of the room, quickly pulling out the necessary items for the class and then whipping your phone out, nearly yanking your earphones out by accident in the process.

Hastily, with speed and agility you didn’t even know your fingers possess, you pull up the email app you have hooked up to your private and university emails and slam your fingertip onto the ‘sent’ tab. It takes a second to load, the duration of which you spend resisting the urge to vault yourself over the desk and flee, but when it does you feel your heart drop through your stomach in horror.

The first thing you notice is the abundance of typos and poor grammar that litter the very brief but very incriminating body of the email, and you internally die a bit as you take them all in. The second thing that catches your eye, to your absolute horror, is the actual email address you sent it from. You feel your cheeks catch fire, flooding with heat that spreads all the way to the tips of your ears, and you have never regretted not deleting that stupid, stupid email address you made when you were twelve, more than you did in this moment. You’d not even come anywhere near partly to terms with those first two observations, when you unwittingly make your third, and arguably the worst, observation.

‘bcc: Jodi, Yuki, Jacob… and 423 others’

On god, you’d fucking emailed your heartfelt poem-turned-assessment piece to the entirety of your creative writing course.

You sit in horror for a moment, brain producing some sort of static in the absence of intelligent thought. You feel kind of faint, would it be very alarming to your classmates if you suddenly passed out? Probably—you slap a hand to your cheek, the person in front of you jumping and turning around in alarm at the noise. You don’t even have the presence of mind to assuage their worries because your embarrassment meter is completely fucking maxed out and if you make eye contact with another human being in the next few minutes you know for sure you’re going to combust. God, oh god this is literally your worst nightmare—you’ve had nightmares about shit like this since the night before your first day in high school. Is this karma? You can’t think of anything you’ve done in your meagre years on this earth that would be atrocious enough to warrant a fate like this.

It is in the midst of your current humiliation-fueled crisis that you remember some of the people you passed mentioning a certain facebook page that the university students here held dear— CCU Love Letters, a page where shy individuals could anonymously submit love letters or other such media for the page to post without it being linked back to them. A new shade of horror begins to paint your insides and it’s almost at double speed that you bring up the app on your phone and search for the page in question. It takes a moment to load, but when it does you’re once more stuck fighting the urge to throw yourself over the desk and run away.

There, for all to see, is the poem you’d spilt part of your heart into and submitted as what was supposed to be a confidential assignment piece.

The sight of how many likes, reactions and comments there are already alarms you, but it is as you’re avoiding the comment section that you notice, with an incredible feeling of relief, that nothing like your name or anything similar is present to possibly link it to you. Pausing, you switch apps and go back to the email, scanning it to confirm your suspicions. The great gust of relief that passes your lips has a few heads turning as more people enter the room but you don’t even care, too busy trying not to cry as you console yourself.

Sleep-deprived and incoherent as you were, by some serendipitous miracle you’d forgotten to tack on your name or anything that identified you in the original email, aside from your student number. Even then, the only way someone would be able to link that back to you would be if they find your student card or hack the school systems or something. You’re really about to weep in relief right before your class starts, resting your face in your hands. Have you ever been so close to death that you could almost taste it before? The answer is that you haven’t, but today you almost glimpsed the ruler of the heavens and you’re not keen to repeat the experience.

Attempting to quell the remaining anxiety and humiliation swirling within you, you give yourself a pep talk of sorts. It’s fine, everything is fine. There is no way that anyone would know it was you, and yeah a private poem meant only for your eyes and the eyes of your teacher— perhaps even the person you had in mind while writing it— had been shared to a very public platform where the entire student population could view and read it, but it’s fine. Why? Because they have no way of knowing it’s you who wrote it. A shuddering breath leaves you as you attempt some sort of abridged form of meditation. Fine, it’s fine. You know what? You bet that by the end of your class, no one will even be talking about it anymore. It’s probably old news already, you doubt the mass of student that have better things to worry about than a leaked poem are going to keep being so fussed about it.

Yes, you reassure yourself as the teacher finally enters the room and you begin to prepare the necessary items. By the time your class is over this humiliating incident will be long gone and forgotten in the minds of the student populus, and everything will be fine— just fine.

x x x x x x x

Sweet cheese and bacon rolls, things are not just fine as you leave your classroom two hours later and return to the halls that are now ten times more busy and bustling than earlier. You’d stayed in the room long past the time your class was over, using the excuse of studying on the spot, but now you can no longer avoid leaving as the next class’ students begin to filter in and you dart out.

The buzz is worse, everyone is still talking about it and even though it kind of makes you want to throw yourself into the lake on campus you keep self-soothing with the reminder that no one knows the author of the poem is you. Slapping a half-assed smile onto your face in an effort to convince yourself and think a better mood into existence, you leave the building and head towards the food court. You’re in need of comfort and food mightn’t be the best answer but at least it’s better than letting loose a blood-curdling scream in the middle of the road.

Twenty minutes later finds you sitting at a table in the outside area of the food court with newly bought coffee and a big kebab, dissociating as you attempt to ignore the obnoxious chatter about you know what that floats around you. It’s to no avail, evidently, and you pout as you finally reach for the kebab that’s been sitting there for the past few minutes, untouched but still warm.

“... Are you eating a kebab?”

You don’t even jump at the sudden sound of a voice to your side, remaining in your seat and facing forward as the owner comes around to sit across from you, seat scraping the ground. The familiar sight of your best friend as she gets comfortable in front of you makes the urge to spill your current troubles to her rise within you, but just barely you resist. It’s already a mess enough as it is, you don’t need to add to it.

“And if I am?” you ask, raising a brow in challenge. If she’s surprised you’re getting defensive over food that is clearly a very indulgent choice, then she doesn’t show it.

Sera instead laughs, her eyes closing in her mirth as she sweeps her hair over her shoulder and out of her face. “Seriously? It’s almost ten in the morning, you didn’t want something a bit lighter to munch on? Lunchtime isn’t that far away.”

You grumble incoherently, taking a generous bite of the food in question and glaring at the sweet chilli sauce that threatens to drip down your hand as a result. She simply smiles at you, taking out the container of fruit she likely cut up and packed the night before along with a fork, and digging in. This is a bit of a ritual, since your classes align every second day or so— the two of you usually meet after the first class of the morning for something to munch on and chat over. You both eat in silence for a while before she speaks up again, the chatter of a nearby couple apparently reminding her of something she had to say.

“Oh!” she bursts around a mouthful of kiwi fruit, pointing her fork at you as her eyes widen almost comically. If you weren’t busy attempting to chew and not choke on an alarmingly sized mouthful of meat and lettuce, you might have laughed. “Did you see?!”

Ignoring the feeling of apprehension beginning to seep into your abdomen, you tilt your head in question, prompting her to continue. Thankfully, the overly excited girl takes a moment to finish chewing what is currently in her mouth before she speaks once more.

“Did you see?!” Sera repeats, with just as much zest as before. She quickly amends her statement at the perseverance of your questioning gaze. “Or rather, did you hear? Everyone is talking about it!”

The feeling of apprehension in your tummy grows heavier, weighing it down further, but you can only continue to chew your food with a sense of resignation as the girl reaches into her bag for her phone, pretty, manicured fingernails tapping against the screen with a satisfying sound once it has been retrieved from the depths. Her fingers fly across the screen a few times, metal bangles around her wrist tinkling as their charms collide, before she is setting it down and sliding it over to you. Just as you had expected, what she is showing you is the CCU Love Letter post that displays the entirety of your shamefully romantic poem. You swear, the one time you let yourself be a sap and it gets plastered all over the internet for the entire campus to see.

A part of you is thankful you’d figured it out and seen it earlier in the day, because you know that if the first time you saw it was when Sera showed you then your following reaction would have given you away instantly as the author. Of course, you didn’t know why that would be a bad thing— she was your best friend, this was the kind of shit you should be telling each other. You supposed you just weren’t emotionally prepared enough for the embarrassment that would follow your recount of events. So, it is a confession that can wait until another day when you’re less… vulnerable.

Eyes narrowing at the post displayed before you, you glare at the number that displays reactions and comments. It’s gotten bigger, much bigger, since you last checked, and you don’t like that at all. A sense of betrayal fills you at the thought of the student population doing you dirty like this— are you not bros in suffering? Where is the solidarity? The sisterhood? The brotherhood? The sting of this betrayal is not one that you will forget anytime soon.

You make a discontented noise around the food in your mouth, one that Sera misinterprets as one of incredulity and interest, and wallow in a distinct feeling of regret as she immediately takes it as a signal to let her building excitement flow. This is probably the most interesting thing that has happened for her all semester, you don’t doubt she’s going to hold onto it for a while— you can only hope and pray the same won’t be the case for everyone else.

“Some poor soul in our writing course accidentally emailed their assignment to the entire cohort, and then from there someone must have leaked it and submitted it to the CCU Love Letter page,” Sera whispers, as though she’s spilling trade secrets to you. Her words make it seem like she feels sorry for the idiot that has messed up so badly— little did she know that idiot is you— but the expression displayed on her elfish features is anything but sympathetic. It is excitement and a tinge of something else that gleams in her eyes, but you choose not to dwell on it for the sake of your sanity. You feel like you’re going to implode.

“God,” you begin after finally swallowing the gargantuan mouthful you’d taken before, like the idiot you’re gradually proving yourself to be. “That’s so… I feel so bad for them, whoever they are…”

Sera doesn’t even notice the awkward nature of your weak attempt at contributing to conversation, too busy scrolling through her phone— a quick peek tells you she is reading through the comments on the post. You resist the urge to smack the phone out of her hands. You’re a rational being, you’re above such caveman instincts.

“It sucks for them,” she agrees, once more completely unsympathetic. You can’t say you’re surprised; Sera is the type to develop tunnel vision of sorts whenever it comes to the latest bit of gossip or news across campus. “But god, it’s so juicy… I wonder who shared it— I wonder who wrote it?”

Wisely, you choose this moment to take another, perhaps unwisely-sized, bite of your second breakfast. Sera drums her fingers against the flesh of her cheek as she skims through the comments once more, making a sliver of irritation prick your insides.

“Is this what everyone is talking about?” you query, unable to help your next line of questioning. “Why is everyone so hyped up about it?”

Sera hums, bright eyes flicking from her screen to meet your own. You think she looks perhaps a bit too gleeful considering her best friend is suffering immensely at this current point in time, but then again… it’s not like she knows.

“Don’t you see it?” she asks, tinted lips curling. She pauses only to flick her finger over her screen, scrolling through the ridiculous plethora of comments under the post. “It’s like a modern-day rom-com storyline! Everyone is rooting for the mystery author and their ‘one true love’, and the fairytale ending that is bound to result… I’m pretty sure if people had any idea who the author was there would be OTPs and ships already, to be honest.”

Her words have a shudder of horror rolling down your spine before you can stop it, but thankfully her attention is otherwise occupied with the comments once more.

“Touching…” you attempt to smile but can feel it come as more of a grimace, the panic from earlier beginning to return at even the slightest mention of a hypothetical situation where your identity is revealed. “I suppose that would be kind of romantic…”

Sera hums, nodding, and spears the juice-box you didn’t even realise she had with an alarming amount of vigour. Her grin bunches her cheeks as she faces you again. “I’m dying to find out who the author is and who they wrote the poem about, though!”

With a slightly sickening feeling in your stomach, you take another hasty bite of your food. “Mmhm, me too.”

Is it too late to flee the country?

x x x

By the time your ‘brunch’ with Sera ends and you’re making your way to your next class, you’re fighting the imminent return of the anxiety and panic from earlier. You feel a little high-strung, admittedly, and you’re sure that anyone who passes you in the halls must get the message to give you a wide berth. Resiliently, you continue to console yourself with the fact that no matter your paranoia and fear, no one knows it was you who wrote it. You cling to this a bit like a lifeline, and while a part of you acknowledges that isn’t a very healthy way of dealing with the situation the other parts are living la vida fucking loca and dancing on the precipice of a cliff, the edge of which reveals the possibility of a minor mental breakdown. You’re far too tired to be dealing with this shit but karma got its kiss for you, you guess. What the hell did you even do to deserve this again?

It’s as you near the room where you attend your History of Music class that your attention is wrought from your depressing inner monologue and drawn to a slight commotion in the small seating area to the side. Unsurprisingly, the first person you see is the tall noodle of a man that usually haunts the halls of the musical arts building— surprisingly, the second thing you see is that he’s currently surrounded by a gaggle of girls and guys alike, who flock around him in a manner not all that dissimilar to the way reporters yap at people walking up the steps to a courthouse. You squint, wondering if you were seeing things— since when was Kim Namjoon this popular? Did he commit some blasphemous act forbidden to university students? You once heard he attempted to cut a fruit with the blunt side of a knife, but you didn’t think that counted as a crime against the university— that was more of a crime against common sense sort of thing.

As you walk past, pace quickening because that is one mess you most certainly want no part in from the looks of it, you catch a few of the words thrown into the air. Brows furrowing in confusion, you hasten your steps even more in accordance with the sudden shred of alarm tickling your ribs. The questions the students, who in all honesty look like a bunch of first-years, are throwing at him are all about the moon, and to the odd stranger nearby probably sound like nonsense. To you though… let’s just say that after the events of today so far you have a healthy dose of fear already coursing through yours system and aren’t about to risk your face being caught anywhere near that line of questioning no matter how ridiculously paranoid it made you seem.

“Hey, not to be rude but, uh, I kind of have somewhere to go…” you catch Namjoon’s low register as you zoom past, unable to resist the urge to spare him a brief glance out of curiosity. There are men and women grabbing at his clothes like lost children and he has a look of complete and utter alarm, mixed with a bit of befuddlement, as he attempts to pry their grip off. “Please… my reputation is at stake— HEY, WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TOUCHING—”

Unfortunately for you, your haste to leave the scene means that you’re entering your classroom, the door clicking shut behind you and muffling the sounds of the ensuing struggle, before you can catch what happens next. Angry at yourself for moving too fast for once, you move to your usual seat in a similar manner to a sulking toddler and settle in for the lesson. The teacher arrives soon after and you wish you could say your attention was stolen from the scene you’d just witnessed but alas, today was not the day your poor, weathered professor finally received your complete and undivided attention.

For once, the lesson that usually drags on passes quickly, although you think this probably has something to do with the fact that you weren’t paying attention like, at all. Which for you wasn’t unusual, but you were particularly distracted today— understandably so— and you were in all honesty surprised that your teacher hadn’t called you back to earth at any point in the lesson.

Pointedly ignoring the chatter and topic that is becoming so hauntingly familiar to you as the day wears on, you attempt to reassure yourself again as you depart the room once the class has ended. Everything is fine, this is just a temporary fad, a brief trend. It will die down soon like all trends do, surely.

You aren’t sure if you could have really convinced yourself of that completely, but the further into the day you get the wearier you become. As the day continues, you also begin to notice an increasing number of weird incidences. You haven’t touched your phone since this morning and, quite frankly, refuse to until you get home— at which point you will clear your alarms and attempt to sleep through your problems and the entire weekend. Just barely do you resist the urge to pull out your phone when, on the way to your next class, you see a large gathering of people in the lush, green courtyard area outside the older part of the campus. Slightly concerned, you eye the group when you catch sight of them in between columns, the fact that you’re a little pressed for time being the only thing stopping you from halting in the middle of the path and squinting to see better.

You nearly stumble in your steps though, when you finally discern what is going on. What you thought might have been a pop-up food stall or a club gathering was actually a tall male— who you quickly recognised as one of the campus heartthrobs, Kim Seokjin— who appeared to be holding court over the small mass of people that had gathered before him. You couldn’t shut your mouth it dropped so far open in incredulity at what you were seeing as the male yelled something indiscernible and stepped up onto— onto a stool?— and began gesturing emphatically, as though he was a fresh hire presenting his first pitch in front of company executives.

Coming back to your senses somewhat, you try to shut your mouth and turn on your heel, returning to your original path, as quickly as possible. You’re pretty sure his brand of idiot is contagious and you aren’t willing to hang around and find out if it’s airborne. A part of you desperately wants to know what the theatre major is being so dramatic over, but the remainder reminds you that he’s a theatre major and therefore prone to being dramatic about anything and everything he can get his hands on. You pointedly ignore the tiny minority in your mind that whispers suspiciously that god, what if he was talking about the poem?

Nope, he isn’t. Not a chance. You’re safe because the poem is in writing and you’re eighty-five percent certain Seokjin doesn’t know how to read.

Your next class passes in a little bit more of an anxious haze than the last, and you should be relieved because it’s technically your last class of the day but, unfortunately, your current source of income takes the form of tutoring sessions that occur three days of the week and are held in the closest library to the edge of campus that you leave from. Considering that, despite your two hour block of tutoring that you have yet to get through, you have finished classes for the day, your mood is considerably lifted. As well as that, you’ve either grown very good at blocking the voices out or people have finally stopped gossiping about your stupid poem. Regrettably and unbeknownst to you, the part of you that deep down knows the latter is most definitely not the case would soon be proven right.

The soft scent of vanilla and caramel isn’t one you’d traditionally associate with a library, but thanks to the soft-spoken library worker that resides in the one you frequent it’s a scent that greets you often. The young student enjoys having a nice-smelling work environment and you’re not one to complain; while you like the smell of books and paperback you hate the musty undertones that accompany it in libraries. The second you step foot into the library, somewhat early for your first session, your gaze first zeroes in on the table you usually take, free for you to plop your ass in once more, and second onto the tall form of the boy behind the front desk. You decide to throw him a quick greeting on your way over, for once momentarily distracted from the prominent problem that has followed you through the day.

“Hey, Koo!” you throw a smile over your shoulder as you pass the desk, missing the way the boy startles and drops the thick textbooks in his hold all over the desk. You hear the noise though, and when you turn back the boy, Jungkook, is flushed bright blossom pink and hurrying to bend and gather the scattered tomes. Embarrassed that you scared him so badly he dropped absolutely everything in his grasp, you hurry to take your seat and duck out of view. God, can you please just catch a break today? You’re not asking for much, just a little reprieve from the all-encompassing humiliation that’s been dragging after you like a second shadow all day.

Settling into your seat and avoiding looking back to the front desk like the plague, you bring out the books and materials you’ll need— your first client is a bright-eyed, bright-smiling boy whose name the whole campus pretty much knows thanks to a somewhat hilarious incident that ensued in his first year and had you instantly very easily convinced to stay away from moonshine when looking to get drunk off your face. His sunshine-y disposition meant that what would have been crippling for the social wellbeing of anyone else, had actually turned him into one of the most well-known and popular students that attended the university. It is incredible and you are in awe of it, but have yet to crack the code of exactly how he did it. In all honesty at this point you’re willing to accept that it was just part of his nature that had people loving him unconditionally.

The peace and quiet of the library is more than welcome at this point, and you are able to enjoy it without qualm for a good few minutes before your still-racing mind begins to get antsy. You’re not one that deals well with boredom or being patient for extended periods of time, and you got here early enough before the session that its too much time to pass quickly and not enough to spend doing anything meaningful, like studying. You consider your options for a moment, pondering your last resort. It isn’t the most appealing idea right now, but the thought of sitting in boredom for another however-long-it-took-Hoseok-to arrive is even more unappealing. It is for this reason that you finally cave and reach into your bag, pulling out the phone that has remained untouched since early morning. The screen lights up and regrettably unlocks before you can read the notifs, thanks to the over-eager facial recognition feature your phone has. Deciding to just bite the bullet, you open facebook and click the post to survey the damage so far.

Instantly, you are filled with regret. You don’t know how but the stupid thing has become even more popular since the last time you saw it, and to your absolute horror not only has the reactions and comments increased but also the number of shares. Wincing and regretting your choice of schooling, you allow your finger to press somewhat shakily onto the ‘view more’ option in the comments. Your screen adjusts to fit more into view and you don’t get very far before you’re freezing in your seat, heart stuttering anxiously. There, in the body of the most popular comment, is a link— your stomach sinks as you press it, swallowing heavily. What are you about to see, did someone post a response to your poem? Are people making fun of you? Of your shitty, sappy writing? You wait with bated breath as the page finally loads.

You nearly throw your phone.

Just as you feared, the link leads to a post made in a forum on one of the most popular sites that students at this university used to keep up to date on things that were usually dumb or none of their business, aptly named ‘CCU Campus Stalker Space’. It is the first post in a subforum labelled, “Mystery Moon Author & Their Mystery Muse”, and a feeling of nausea begins to rise within you before you even read the first word.

‘posted by u/triceratops [12:36PM]:

unless you’ve been living under a rock all day, you’re bound to have seen or heard about the latest drama to take the campus by storm. it has been learnt from various sources that in the early hours of this morning a poem was sent to the entire cohort of a creative writing course, presumably by accident, and then leaked to the CCU Love Letters page where it has since taken off and gone viral among the students. the questions on everyone’s minds right now are no doubt the same— who is the author, and who is the subject of this lovely poem? well, that’s what we aim to find out, and that’s what i have dedicated some time to figuring out this fine friday. this thread will be dedicated to getting to the bottom of this mystery, and finding the answers we all want, as well as bringing about the happy ending we’re all rooting for! now, please find below my analysis on the poem and the situation, and the connections i have been able to make thus far ^^’

Distantly, you feel your breath quickening slightly as your chest begins to pinch, wide eyes locked on the screen as you continue to read as though in a trance. Your fingers grip the pen in your hold so hard that it threatens to snap and still, you can’t stop reading— even as abject horror begins to seep into your abdomen and slide over your insides like slick ichor and oil.

‘after analysing the poem extensively, there is one clear theme that surfaces frequently throughout; that of the sky, the stars, but most importantly— the moon. evidence and instances of this will be attached in the post below this, but before that i will say that, taking into consideration the various personalities and reputations attending this university, i have been able to narrow potential subjects/muses of the poem down to seven people. each of them is tied to the moon in some form or another, leading me to include them in this shortlist— i will include my reasoning in the post below this along with the other information. without further ado, here are the seven people i believe to be strong candidates for possible subjects of the poem by our mystery author;’

You want nothing more than to stop reading, to throw your phone and flee the scene, yet you cannot stop— each word your eyes rake over hammers home a feeling of dread and horror that swirls with the distinct sensation of regret within you. One after the other, the names listed below the paragraph you just finished punch out the remaining shards of your sanity and ground them to bits.

‘Kim Seokjin’

Your teeth sink into your lip, gripping at the flesh anxiously.

‘Min Yoongi’

You feel kind of faint, hints of the panic from earlier in the day brushing your senses.

‘Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon’

The slightest sting of pain registers in the back of your mind from the pressure with which your fingers are gripping the table increases, knuckles turning white.

‘Kim Taehyung’

Each name your eyes pass over brings you closer to the section that has an undercurrent of fear thrumming in your veins.

‘Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook’

Your brain almost refuses to let you read the next part, still reeling over the information it just recieved, but as though you’re in a haze your eyes continue to roll down the screen anyway, thumb scrolling absently.

‘these are the candidates i believe most likely to be the subject of the poem. before we explore further on that, i will list those i have narrowed down as potential authors. the list of students in the writing course is vast, but i have been able to discern the most likely few— only 115 of the 423 students in the course submitted their assignments by email, and of those only 12 were in the class that had the deadline that aligns with the time the author’s email was sent. here are the possible authors of the poem;

Jodi Figuro Lee Melody Sarna Sinter Lee Sera…’

Impatient and desperate to prove yourself and your worst suspicions wrong, your eyes skip ahead, scanning frantically. To your absolute horror, you find exactly what you were looking for, exactly what you feared.

‘and finally; y/n l/n.’

For a moment your mind is silent, buzzing almost like a fluorescent light in a classroom, and then the information fully registers and you kind of want to hurl. The last of your sense and sanity is thrown out the window, food for dogs, and you shoot from your seat, cramming your belongings back in your bag. Oh god oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no—

This can’t be happening— it is happening, oh good lord you’re a good person why is this happening to you? You shouldn’t have sent that stupid email in the state you were in, hell you probably shouldn’t have even written that poem in the first place. Now it’s a mess, a big, massive mess and oh god you can’t even console yourself because now you’re a suspect! Now people think you might be the one who wrote the poem! And you are! But people cannot know that! You nearly trip over the chair in your haste to flee. You want to go home, oh lord do you want to dive beneath your covers and perish in the suffocating comfort of their embrace. Is that too much to ask? You really don’t feel like you’re asking too much—

“Hey, y-y/n are you okay—”

You jump so badly at the sound of a voice behind you that you nearly throw your bag into their poor, undeserving face. The abrupt spin you perform on your heels has you facing who you quickly realise is Jungkook, who you rationally know works here and has likely come over out of concern, but all your brain can think at the sight of him is SUSPECT and suddenly your fight or flight instinct is decisively engaged.

“No! Y-yes!” your brain isn’t fast enough to catch up to your mouth, brain cells on their absolute last fucking legs. “It’s not you!”

Poor Jungkook stares at you with a look of complete and utter befuddlement, whipping out the puppy eyes that usually have you caving when he asks for help sorting textbooks at the desk but right now you’re a shell of a woman, a ghost of who you were this morning before all of this, and you can barely summon coherent thought let alone carry a conversation.

“I— what?” the boy is stuttering but you’re three seconds away from a mental breakdown wherein you scream and dig a hole to shove your head in the dirt like a disillusioned ostrich and you can’t handle this right now.

Your brain is running on a loop and the sad truth is that your speech isn’t much better. “Not!” you almost yell, voice at an absolutely inappropriate volume and pitch for a library. “Not you! It’s not you!”

You then have the sense of mind to flee while you can, and without further ado spin and bolt out of the library. If you can just get home in one piece you can gorge yourself on ice-cream, the expensive shit, and pretend none of this ever happened. Head in the sand, that’s where you want to be.

Unfortunately for you, it seems the universe has other plans. You don’t even make it out of the library before you run into the next person to push you closer to a mental breakdown.

“Woah, y/n, where are you going?” the alarm riddling Hoseok’s tone might have touched your heart on any other day, but right now you were too focused on your escape to appreciate the sentimental value of the moment. “We have a session right now? Hey, are you okay?”

You go to tell him that no, you are not, in fact, ‘okay’, but all that escapes you for a moment is a choked sound from the depths of your larynx. You don’t think Hoseok has ever looked as concerned for another person’s wellbeing as he does now, dark eyes wide and slightly frightened. Is it you? You feel like your head is about to explode, does it show?

“Nghgh…. Hoseok,” your voice is a little too high and it only serves to alarm the poor redhead even more. “For personal reasons… I will be cancelling away— passing today— away— I will have cancel. I’m s.. I need to go.”

Making the most of his current shocked-senseless state, you turn and begin to dash down the hall once more. Are you acting suspicious? God you hope not—

“y/n, wait—”

“IT’S NOT YOU!” you squawk in a mismatched response, scurrying down the hall as fast as your wobbly legs will take you. Each step you take is a step closer to home, each step you take is a step closer to home—

Careening around the corner of the library hall, only metres away from the glass double doors that mark the entrance, the last thing you expect is to almost run into two of the other people who are on that god forsaken list.

Kim Taehyung, with his artistically messy mop of light honey hair, is leaning against the wall that houses the vending machines. He appears to be mid-discussion with the shorter red-haired male before him that you know to be his friend, Park Jimin, who in all honesty you don’t think even goes here? You’re so close to the exit that you’re almost frothing at the mouth in relief yet you can’t help the way your eavesdropping little ears pick up on their conversation.

“Have you ever heard of this dude, Kim Nam— what was it? Kim Nam-Moom? Nam-Moon?” It is Jimin that is currently talking, gestures wild and emphasised as he shifts his weight and cocks the hip that has his hand on it. “Anyway whatever his name is that bitch has gotta go, there can only be one winning protagonist in this romcom and it’s gonna be me.”

Taehyung, who thankfully hasn’t seemed to catch sight of your wired form yet, slaps a hand to his chest as his mouth drops open. The part of you that isn’t running around and bouncing against the walls of your skull like a headless chicken thinks that he’d probably do pretty well in your Tuesday morning drama class, he has that sort of air.

“I’m on the list too?” he says, and points a finger at his friend, brows raising. You think the effect he is looking for with his expression is somewhere between heartbroken and accusatory and, oddly enough, he achieves it for the most part. His voice drips with challenge. “Are you gonna kill me, Jimothy, after all I’ve done for you?”

Admittedly, a particularly-wired part of you wants to burst into borderline hysterical laughter at hearing the male call Jimin, who is actually the second student you tutor every other day after Hoseok, something like ‘Jimothy’, but your instincts are still stuck on fight or flight and your poor brain gets stuck choosing between them. The end result is like when you can’t choose whether to say ‘have a good day’ and ‘goodbye’ and end up saying ‘have a goodbye’ instead.

Your first bet is to dart past and hope they don’t see you, but when you embark on that journey it takes all of a second for their gazes to move to you and for you to be, regrettably, caught out. Panicking, you halt to point at both of them and present your winning argument.

“It’s not either of you!” It comes out a garbled mess and you want to shrivel up and die already, but somewhat productively choose to instead channel that energy into your prompt escape from the scene.

Before either of them can even open their mouths and ask what you mean or, better yet, if you’re alright, you’re already bolting to the glass doors and darting through the first narrow gap big enough to fit you through it as they automatically open.

Realistically, you know that everyone is looking at you because you give off the energy that you’re about to have a mental breakdown and not because they know, or even suspect you’re the author. Even so, it feels as though everyone’s eyes are on you at once and you suddenly feel extremely paranoid, making the executive decision to shortcut through a building in an effort to escape the weight of their gaze.

Lady Luck has truly scorned you and thrown you to the dogs, you know this because the second you step foot into the building, the glass door not even having time to slide shut behind you, you’re being pulled to the side and hands are gripping your shoulders.

“y/n! Please tell me I need to know.” To your utter shock and horror it’s Namjoon that has you in a panicked death-grip and you want to fall back and let the wind carry you away to a place where none of this is happening to you. You’ve hardly come to terms with the fact you’ve managed to so far run into five of the seven candidates mentioned in that stupid post when he continues, shaking you a little. His eyes are wide and filled to the brim with concern, but for what you will never know.

“Do I look like a Nam-boob to you?”

A scream bubbles in your throat before you have the presence of mind and self-control to stop it, and you yank yourself from his hold with a shriek. You don’t even have the capacity to process how dumb what he just said is, nor the energy for the incredulity that would follow. All you can manage, mind stuck on the fact that he was listed as a possible candidate and you cannot have him thinking he is the subject of the poem, is a sharp, warbled, “IT’S NOT YOU, EITHER!”

With that, you leave him standing in place, wide-eyed and slightly scared as you tear off down the hall like a madwoman. In your haste to flee and the result of your poor decision-making earlier, you don’t even realise you’ve entered a building you’re completely unfamiliar with until it’s too late. Relief floods you as you find an exit, finally, and you bolt from the building as quick as your legs can take you.

You emerge onto the grassy area that you’d passed by earlier, bag slipping from your shoulder almost as you register the throng of people dispersing from the centre of the area— you choose to ignore it for the sake of your current mental state. Perhaps unwisely, you take this as a moment to catch your breath and adjust your bag, but evidently it is a moment too long because barely a split-second later there is another all-too-familiar voice greeting your ears and making you jump five feet into the air.

“y/n?” The voice is coloured with surprise and you turn, a knowing horror lurking in the pit of your abdomen, to see the one and only Kim Seokjin standing before you. His eyebrows shoot up at the sight of your face and the confirmation it is, indeed you. He is apparently blind to your frazzled appearance, you note this because he immediately continues like nothing is amiss in your current high-strung presentation.

“Aw, y/n, you literally just missed the greatest TEDtalk of my career, perhaps even all time,” his plush lips are tugging into a shit-eating grin and you can feel your last brain cells, the final frontier, depleting just looking at him. “You see, I just brought around thirty-something people to see the light on why I am the true subject of the moon poem. Don’t worry though, the next session will start soon, you didn’t miss out. I’m actually booked out until about eight PM so you’re kind of lucky—”

A muted sound, awfully akin to a sob, escapes you, but the pink-haired male doesn’t even notice, too busy enjoying the sound of himself talking. He turns to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. Compassion drips from his features, brows furrowed as he places a hand on his heart.

“I understand you must have heard the news late and rushed straight here to hear my piece… fear not young padawan for I am nothing if not a humanitarian always willing to help those in need.”

“You’re so stupid,” you finally manage to dislodge the incredulity holding your tongue in place and your words come out in a sob. You slap your hand to your face as your eyes genuinely sting with tears. “You’re so— so stupid oh my god, I’m going to kill you—”

It’s like the fucker is deaf to anything that isn’t praise and compliments because he’s not even remotely phased by your words. The simper that curls his lips kind of makes you want to throw your fist in his face but instead you turn on your heel, choosing to be the bigger woman.

The sensible thing to do would be head in the direction you need to go to get home, but you’re currently too focused on the need to escape and instead end up darting across the field into another building. If the universe won’t let you go home then you guess you’ll just lock yourself up in a janitor’s closet or something for some reprieve. You hear Seokjin yelling after you as you make a hasty retreat, despite your best efforts to block him out.

“Should I book you in for a later session? y/n? HEY COME BACK YOU KNOW I NEED PRAISE AND VALIDATION DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE WITHOUT GIVING IT TO ME—”

The firm thud of the next building’s doors closing behind you might just be the best sound you’ve heard all evening. Eager to put even more distance between you and Seokjin, you start to move once more. Idly, you recognise the building as the one next to the engineering centre— the architecture building? You know this part of campus is actually close to the dorms you used to stay in, but the realisation isn’t as comforting as you wish it was.

Feeling like an absolute shell of a woman at your complete and utter witt’s end, you scrape your feet down the halls with all the energy of a tired victorian-era ghost. Closet, or a classroom? Which is a better place to have a mental breakdown? If you don’t cry soon you’re worried the suppressed tears are going to leak out your pores, and you really don’t want to look or feel like you’re sweating a monsoon’s worth of tears. Realising that classrooms come with the risk of students entering whenever they please, you settle on the next closet you see embedded into the wall. It’s a room deep into the bowels of the building, not too far from the bathrooms you accidentally stumbled upon last time you were here. The sight of it brings a morsel of hope amongst the trauma the day has brought you and you think any minute now you’re really going to cry from the stress. The thin plaque near the top of the door informs you that this particular closet houses cleaning supplies and you’re not really in a position to be picky so you take what you can get.

Eager for the next best thing besides the sweet release of death— complete and utter solitude, for anyone wondering— you waste no time in gripping the handle and yanking the door open. Usually you’d rather tear your own toes off and feed them to the monstrous fish in the lake than trespass into a cleaning closet but you’re truly a hair’s breadth away from total mental collapse and at this point in time you could care less. You should have known that the universe wasn’t going to let you choose a damn closet in peace.

As you swing the door open with enough force that the hinges squeak, there are several things that come immediately and alarmingly to your attention. First, is the light hanging from the ceiling which is already on and humming softly. Second, is the tall old-school mop leant against one of the walls in the small space, a pair of mismatched googly eyes slapped onto the twisted bundles of thread that hang limply, despondently, on the side of the mop not pressed against the wall. Third, the closet reeks of must and sweat and a sneeze is already building in your nostrils when you realise the fourth and fifth, arguably the most alarming, details about the closet.

You’re not alone in the space and the male standing kind of slumped against the wall, momentarily frozen and staring at you with wide eyes, is someone very familiar to you. Min Yoongi, your old RA from when you were staying in the dorms last year, stands like a deer caught in headlights before you— your gaze trailing the length of his pale arm leads you to the fifth and final discovery that, arguably, is probably the one that finally pushes you over the edge. Your brain flatlines and heat floods your face so unbearably you feel like your head is about to tip off your shoulders.

It would seem as though you’ve walked in on Min Yoongi having a bit of good, old-fashioned one-on-one time with Min Jr.

The two of you stand in silence for a few seconds as the situation sinks in, your eyes unable to remove themselves from where they are fixed on his Min Sceptre until you forcibly tear them away. It’s only as your cheeks burn and your gaze flicks shamefully between his face and where his hand stays frozen mid-stroke that Yoongi seems to realise you’re not an apparition and indeed he’s been caught with his literal hand down his literal pants— well, they’re open and halfway down his legs but you get the idea.

For some reason, the male doesn’t think to tuck away his junk before he begins speaking in defence of himself and his actions. It hangs loud and proud still engaged and engorged, ready for battle, as he sputters in an attempt to form a response.

“It’s not- not what it looks like— actually,” the shamed expression that had contorted his features quickly twisted into one of indignance; shamefully you note that he’s still full-mast and not looking like he’s about to lower any time soon. “It’s exactly what it looks like. What, you want me to say sorry? Can’t a man jerk his gherkin in peace? I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

Your mouth drops open, brain still decisively flatlining and out of commission for probably the next few days, and the male continues on, his free hand flying into the air to gesture emphatically while the other remains in a trusty grip around the long balloon that still— still— doesn’t look like it’s going to deflate anytime soon. “I just need five minutes— five minutes! — without a freshman asking me for some god damn fucking TOILET paper, alright?”

You really can’t help but wonder, how is it that he’s still got such impressive blood flow to his lower region despite the situation and his rapid, indignant defence. He drops into silence for a moment, dark eyes looking at you expectantly. You’re still speechless.

“Well?” he prompts, his free hand resting on his hip in a posture similar to that of a middle-aged mother with a can-I-speak-to-your-manager haircut scolding her misbehaving child. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I…” you feel kind of faint, too much blood rushing to you head, and struggle to formulate a fitting response— and really, what the hell can you say in response to this? He’s still standing there with his dick out! His DONG-saeng! His home-grown churro! Is he not embarrassed, at all? How is he still fully pumped and rearing to go?! “Y… p-pee- peen—”

“Go on, do you have anything to say about rudely walking in on me at such a crucial moment? Mop-ssi here was about to get to the good stuff, do you have any idea—”

For the first time since you’d entered the closet, Yoongi releases his grip on his ramrod serpent and your gaze is caught, once more, as it bounces heavily in the air. All the remaining blood in your body rushes to your head and you have a moment of realisation that you’re about to literally pass out, right before you do. At least, you think as your vision fades to black and the last thing you see is Min Jr winking at you salaciously, at least you were finally getting some reprieve from the nightmare this friday turned into. When you wake everything will be fine, this will be just a dream. It’s fine, it’s all over now.

Unfortunately for you it is, in fact, not over.

— • masterlist | intro | next • —

[please like & rb and pls pls pls let us know what you think!! <3 thank u for reading!]

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shadowywinnerdonut-blog1 · 5 years ago

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Interesting information about cats

Cats can hear sounds too faint or too high in frequency for human ears, such as those made by mice. They can also see in near darkness.

Cats have relatively few taste buds compared to humans. Domestic and wild cats share a gene mutation that leaves them with no ability to taste sweetness.

To aid with navigation and sensation, cats have dozens of movable whiskers over their body, especially their face. These provide information on the width of gaps and on the location of objects in the dark, both by touching objects directly and by sensing air currents.

The average life expectancy for male indoor cats at birth is around 12 to 14 years. However, there have been reports of cats reaching into their 30s, with the oldest known cat, Creme Puff, dying at a verified age of 38.

Cats usually sleep 12-16 hours a day, although some cats can sleep as much as 20 hours in a 24-hour period. The term "cat nap" for a short rest refers to the cat's tendency to fall asleep (lightly) for a brief period. While asleep, cats experience short periods of rapid eye movement sleep often accompanied by muscle twitches, which suggests that they are dreaming.

Domestic cats use many vocalisations for communication, including purring, trilling, hissing, growling/snarling, grunting, and several different forms of meowing. By contrast, feral cats are generally silent.

Types of body language, including position of ears and tail, relaxation of whole body, and kneading of paws, are all indicators of mood. The tail and ears are particularly important social signal mechanisms in cats e.g. with a raised tail acting as a friendly greeting, and flattened ears indicating hostility.

It has been theorised that the high-pitched sounds house cats make to solicit food may mimic the cries of a hungry human infant, making them particularly hard for humans to ignore.

Cats are known for their cleanliness, spending many hours licking their coats. If you have ever been licked by a cat, you have probably noticed that their tongues feel like sandpaper. Cats use their tongue to brush their fur and keep it smooth.

Owing to the close similarity between play and hunting, cats prefer to play with objects that resemble prey, such as small furry toys that move rapidly, but rapidly lose interest (they become habituated) in a toy they have played with before. Cats also tend to play with toys more when they are hungry.

The mechanism by which cats purr is elusive. The cat has no unique anatomical feature that is clearly responsible for the sound. However, felids of the Panthera genus (tiger, lion, jaguar and leopard) also produce sounds similar to purring, but only when exhaling.

Kittens purr to let their mother's know that everything is ok. Adult cats purr when they feel safe and happy. Cats can purr for a long period of time without stopping.

Cats have 4 four different meanings for "'meow'". If you listen carefully, you can hear that each meow is different: 1). I'm hungry!, 2). I want to go out!, 3). Help! and 4.) I want attention!

Cats will sometimes roll over on their backs when they see you. This is probably the friendliest thing a cat can do. It's his/her way of saying 'I trust you'.

Cats often press against you with their paws. Kittens get milk by nursing from their mother. They press against their mother with one paw and then the other. This is called "kneading". Kneading helps the mother cat give milk to the kittens. When adult cats knead with their paws, it reminds them of their mother when they were a kitten.

Do cats always land on their feet? Not always, but they have better balance than most animals. When cats spread out their back and front legs they fall more slowly, because their bodies act as a parachute. The tail can also help balance a cat.

Cats rub up against your leg to make you smell like a cat. The more you smell like them the more they like being around you. Also, they are letting other cats know that you are their own special friend. They are depositing their scent, or marking their territory, on you. A cat will rub its head or the side of its chin against you, the furniture, or any object. Cats have glands on their forehead, mouth and chin that produce pheromones and they transfer these onto objects.

Cats sometimes make mad dashes around the house. This is because they have pent-up energy that needs to be released. Instincts also make them want to hunt and run.

Catnip is a plant that cats love to smell. It is often stuffed in many cat toys and can be sprayed on their toys too. Why does catnip make cats act crazy? It is a response to the herb's chemical. Catnip produces feelings of ecstasy through the odour, not the taste.

Can you train a cat to do tricks? Cats are not like dogs, but they can understand many human words and commands. Many common tricks that cats can learn are retrieving a ball, ring the doorbell, or turn on a tap.

Are cats smart? In the animal kingdom, the cat's IQ is surpassed only by monkeys and chimps. Cats think and adapt to changing circumstances and learn by observation, imitation, and trial and error. Interestingly, cats seem to learn more quickly from their own mothers than from examples set by unrelated cats, but imitate humans. They have been shown to exhibit greater problem solving abilities than dogs. Tests conducted by the University of Michigan and the Department of Animal Behavior at the American Museum of Natural History have concluded that while canine memory lasts no more than 5 minutes, a cat's recall can last as long as 16 hours, exceeding even that of monkeys and orangutans.

Why do cats wag their tails from side to side? The tail moving from side to side in a gentle manner means contentment. If the cat is sitting quietly, she might be focused on something. Fast, whipping back and forth could be anger or annoyance. Tail wagging in between these descriptions could mean he or she's feeling indecisive.

Why do cats love boxes so much? When cats explore, one thing they are looking for is a potential hiding space. The experience of jumping and sliding into a box resonates with their instinct to find protected spaces out in the wild where they are able to see their environment without being seen.

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redphienix · 5 years ago

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I was digging through the few pics that still exist in an old account I have elsewhere and here’s some trash:

Halo 2 used to be big, eh? And teabagging was so universal and ubiquitous that it had lost all sense of vitriol. Incredible.

I was going to post a gif to demonstrate another old internet thing but nope, gross, nope. So description instead:

People found they could make really lengthy (we’re talking minutes long) gifs if the gif was just a slide show, it could be a pretty small file size too which was VITAL back then. So the gif in question was a pretty common one- it’s a teamspeak recreation of WW2 in which every participating person (Hitler, Churchill, etc etc etc etc I’m not talking at length about WW2 today) sorta just, does WW2.

As in it starts by saying “etc joined the game” for each person and then they play through the actual events (I mean, truncated viciously) of WW2 up to its end. But with everyone talking like gamers from back then. Lots of “d00d”s and slurs like the R word or calling each other f*g, it’s very very gross holy shit, but there’s a peek behind the years for anyone who didn’t know-

A “fun gif” to post was a gamer recreation of WW2 where still images of the events and people talk in colored text at each other in a slide show and use “Modern slang”.

Interesting, but not worth posting in my opinion because I had not remotely held onto the memory of what language it contained, holy hell.

HOW ABOUT A GLIMPSE AT **MY** SPECIFIC INTERNET EXPERIENCES! lol

I desperately wish the date was listed in the bottom right, but I’ll estimate this give me a second....

Holy shit, if that’s from gamma, then this was roughly 10 years ago, and what’s “holy shit” about that is that’s not that long ago in the slightest and yet this is like 10 levels of disconnected from me today.

Anyways- a lot of the internet for me was astroempires, like a LOT of it. The game is... It has potential, and clearly it does well with that potential sometimes- but it’s a spreadsheet space game where people quickly learned how to abuse the numbers (specs, which were my favorite part of the game actually!) and found that playing in a tight knit zerg using calculators for their attacks and using a scout mod that mapped out the servers and uploaded the info to a database and a million other tools that effectively broke the game into a “press 1 to win and make everyone else have no fun” game-

it was messy.

Anyways here’s a poem about someone tanking and getting hit by a blob or gate crash (was it called a gate crash? fuck I forget, I know blobs were what they called it when you swarmed all your guilds fleet on top of one spot- it wasn’t USUALLY used in reference to MOVING said fleets, but it could be- and if this guy got hit by “millions” then it was probably more than one person IE a coordinated attack or just a whole guild blob sending a message- unusual but possible).

I also have this from AE:

The almighty Win Bomb- made by someone who dedicated 21 fleets (you can only move/have so many individual fleets based on the “computer” research) to drawing a bomb on his galaxy map.

This was often (it was not often posted) posted in response to being told to scout to fill the database, some people didn’t like using auto-scout and this was a fun response in which you say you’re scouting right now! Here’s proof! All my fleets are looking all over for win!

Stepping away from AE because I’d like to, it brings a lot of nostalgia but it’s also just kind of a place where a lot of formative hours of my life disappeared for not a lot of gain- ain’t like I “got good” because “getting good” required abusing tools and being a dick (and being funded by derbs [debris] from your guild, so, you know, that wasn’t me).

Here’s a fun one from a more modern time:

Rock Band 2 had a limited online offer for a time there in which you could get a PHYSICAL figure of your rock band character!

I was HUGE into rock band, we’re talking expert guitar, no life, nonstop playing, I was BIG on that game- and I wanted my character badly and my mom said no because it was like 70 bucks or something (maybe more? can’t remember).

Maybe that’s for the best in a sense. I was a dumb kid and I wanted to make a “loud proud gay guitarist” and that means I went with punk attire and showing as much skin as I could. And then the tats, the fuckin’ tats. I wanted to make a character I thought was cool- and I fuckin’ succeeded, but let’s just say knowing that a straight kid made this colors it a bit differently, doesn’t it?

I’ll admit, this was the age where I was internalizing all kinds of shit- “gay” was an insult, I heard the f slur all the time- so I am glad that my drive was to create a positive character despite that negative homophobia surrounding me- but let’s be quadruple real and say “It had effects” and since I was only just starting to question the things I was told by friends and family- I don’t think Greg would come out the same if I were to design him from scratch today. Maybe he’d be pretty similar since a lot of him I love, but some of the stuff is clearly remnants of bigotry I was birthed and grown in. Or that’s my interpretation when I see his tats or the ‘he’s gotta be showing skin!’ aspects.

Long and short of it is in RB1 I had “Gregohreeey” who was a generic looking goth/metal kind of guy.

In RB2 I named him “Greg” (full name still Gregohreeey, obviously, just not typed out) and he became a creative outlet for me- possibly the OC I put the most work into up to that point. His style evolved, whether I made his look “quiet” or “loud” changed, and by the end of the game he landed squarely on “Loud, proud, gay mother fucker” and I fuckin’ love him.

The green and orange motif? STILL A FAVE!

The hair and hat? HELL YEAH!

The raindrop (Or reverse V strat) guitars? THAT’S GREG!

The tats? I really went and did that, huh.

The attire? Seeing as I was trying to make him as punk as possible my drive wasn’t the worst, but yeah, I assume on some level his attire adds up to “idiot kid makes what he thinks gay looks like” and it’s really not great in that context. I still think it looks punk as hell though and **I** would sport the look, but that’s different to kid me saying “what would look cool on a gay guy?” after being raised by homophobic bullshit.

I will say, I think he’d be one to call himself Gay Greg as his frontal tat declares, he was a hyped up mother fucker and here’s the render I had at that point:

He has a fucking 8==D penis on his arm for fuck’s sake. And a “:)” on his ass which I don’t believe the render showed.

The gay greg tat almost holds up though.

Even as a reminder of how I stereotyped a lot of things as a kid, the ‘thoughts’ I had surrounding him still make me happy since I had nothing but respect and love for him as my avatar. Just. Man. Looking back on things you said, thought, or did in the past can be difficult.

Assless chaps and all.

#shit red doesn't want read

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nightvision-of-thesoul · 6 years ago

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stolen hearts

Part 2

things are beginning to change at the outpost, in some strange and unexpected ways.

The resounding thud from Venable’s cane brought me and the rest of the grays to attention, making it clear we could return to the tedium of tending to chores around the outpost. Nearly as fast as Langdon left, we all scurried in the same direction he did, only to quickly scatter throughout the different sections of the large common room. The task I had set before me prior to the preparing and serving of dinner was scrubbing down the stairs. Menial at best, it was an understatement to say that I wasn’t looking forward to it. Especially after the events of the evening, the last thing I wanted to do was confine myself to the floor and put myself in an even more poor position to present myself as a deserving subject to follow Langdon to the sanctuary. That is, if I was even able to be granted an interview with the man himself. The more I thought about it, the sillier it seemed. If I wasn’t even considered worthy enough to be above scrubbing shit stained toilets, how could I be considered worthy enough to repopulate the planet by someone who clearly held more influence than our current leader?

While I tried not to think too hard about it: the prospect of never returning to this bunker proved too enticing not to hold on to at least some semblance of hope that I could possibly be chosen. However, I knew that regardless of what I felt about my station, I could be dead in the ground, or worse yet, covered in lesions and pustules aplenty, mind and body addled with radiation. I thought about that while I scrubbed, always trying to seek out the positives, not only in a world that had constantly sought out negativity but in this microcosmic one as well. I was surrounded by people who were the center of their own universes within this one, people who were callous, cruel, and unforgivably full to the brim with hubris, impulses I hoped never to align myself with. When it really came down to it, why were they the last people allowed alive? If the Sanctuary was looking for these kinds of people to repopulate it, did I even want to be a part of that future? The people I was surrounded by would sacrifice their own children for a shot at being allowed to say they were important enough to be selected for some unspoken, nondisclosed honor. I supposed money was the root of all their evils though, and in the end I couldn’t fault any of them for the way the acted, their actions being a product of that evil. Sometimes even that made me feel all the more alienated, still in the lowest position even in this world. I wanted so badly to belong, but felt like there was no way I ever could, not when the remainder of the populous was narrowed down to these select few.

Lost in all my own longing and self-doubt, I hadn’t even realized I had stopped my scrubbing. Instead, I found myself sitting on the floor, tears flowing loosely down my cheeks, which were flushed not only from the heat of the surrounding candles but also from the intense sensation of loss and in some ways, shame. Loss of the world that I had once known, loss of the purity that could once be found in humanity, and finally, loss of my sense of self. I wondered how I could even think I was a part of what Langdon was looking for, and the idea inexplicably broke my heart.

My self-pity was interrupted swiftly by the raucous thud of Venable’s cane contacting the hard floor behind me. I scrambled to a standing position, unintendedly spilling the bucket of soapy water at my feet. Torn between standing at attention like I was always required to do and bending down to clean up the mess, I chose to remain upright and see what it was Venable was about to request. Her eyes fell disdainfully on the spill, but she returned her attention to me without comment.

“Layla, would you escort Mr. Gallant to my office please? Mr. Langdon is waiting to begin his interview.” Feeling the blush deepen in my cheeks, this time from pure embarrassment, I could do no more than nod quickly and scurry quickly past her to the living area where Gallant still remained, hastily wiping off my cheeks.

The hairdresser was chatting cordially with Coco, something about how the apocalypse was no good for split ends as he caressed the blonde tips of her hair with disgust.

“Mr. Gallant, Mr. Langdon is ready for you now,” I called from the doorway to the room, clearing my throat to signal my entrance. He slowly turned his head towards me with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Let’s get this over with.”

I walked briskly in the direction of Venable’s office, Gallant traipsing along behind at his usual relaxed and aloof pace. My heart fluttered unexpectedly at the prospect of seeing Langdon again, his sharp jaw and measured tongue weaseling their way back into my mind as we approached the large sliding doors. I could tell Gallant was excited by the idea as well, for his pace began to pick up behind me the closer we got to the room, closing the space between us as I grabbed the ornate handles and took a pause before I opened the entrance to the office.

Langdon’s immense presence was there to greet us, waiting patiently just on the opposite side of the door, his lips still upturned in that sultry smile that suggested he knew something you had no way of knowing. I nearly jumped, startled to be met with his soft and unblinking gaze that met my eyes before I had even known he was there. His hands were folded behind his back, and it looked as though he was waiting for me to speak.

“Mr. Gallant is here to see you sir.” Though it took considerable effort, I forced myself to hold his stare, taking note of how the yellow light from the fires caused the blue of his iris to melt almost seamlessly into the whites of his eyes.

“Right on time. Thank you, Ms…” His honeyed voice trailed off, awaiting a response.

“Layla.” Suddenly I felt ridiculous saying my own name, like somehow it wasn’t worthy enough to be said.

“Mmm, Layla.” He let his breath linger over it like he was trapping it in a cage. “You may leave us now.”

I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath until he finally transferred his attention to Gallant, who was practically jumping over my shoulder to make himself a part of the interaction. It was interesting how he had this strange sort of effect over everyone. With a quick flick of his eyes, Langdon signaled me away. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t hurry away with my tail tucked between my legs as I had done after the first time we all met him. For whatever reason, he didn’t give me the same sensation as Venable, who tried her damndest every moment to remind you that you were beneath her. No, Langdon stirred something else entirely in me. Amid the squirming desire to crumble in his presence, the desire to stand rigid and unflinching, unafraid, before him, was equally as strong. His authority was undeniable, in an effortless way that made him far more menacing than Venable could ever hope to be. That was the closest I could come to describing just what it was about him that made me so uneasy. I couldn’t begin to shake the memory of his eyes looking into mine as though he was standing face to face with my fully bared soul, a rattling experience considering we had only just met.

I returned to where I had begun the evening, the floor still splattered with the cleaning fluid. Trying to repress him from my mind, I knelt back down again and got to tidying up my mess.

*****

The evening began to stretch on, lengthening more slowly than the spread of molasses. Gallant still remained in the interview, but I had since moved on to other tasks, sweeping, dusting, tending to the many fire pits in the main room. Though time had no real meaning here, I could tell it was impossibly late. Letting out a monumental yawn I began to make my way towards the spiral staircase, just past Venable’s office. A high-pitched tone caught me off guard from behind the doors. For an instant, I wasn’t sure if I should stop or not, but the words spoken were what caused me to stop in my tracks and press my ear tenderly against the wood.

“Do you like leather?” The question came from Langdon. Above the crackle of the coals behind me I couldn’t tell if Gallant had answered or if he was just waiting, wondering what to say. The high-pitched voice rose again, giving me my answer.

“I like a lot of things.” Another pause followed before . “Can I ask you something? Are you gay? Because I’m getting a real major hit off of you.”

“Does the idea of that excite you?” The words came out almost biting, an undertone I wasn’t quite sure was a good or a bad thing. All I knew was that I didn’t like that the answer wasn’t immediately no. I couldn’t pinpoint why that would matter to me: I had known of Langdon for less than 12 hours. His sexual preferences meant less to me than Gallant’s, or anyone else’s for that matter. So why him, why now? Trying not to read too much more into it, I leaned closer to try and drown out any excess background noise.

“Yes.” Gallant’s reply was slightly breathless, signaling his deeper intent. “What are you going to do about it?” The question seemed odd being asked from his perspective, but held me rapt nonetheless. The space between this moment and Michael’s reply seemed to last for eons. I tried to listen now above my own heartbeat, the steady rushes of blood that clouded my ears. When he spoke again, his voice was much closer, making me nearly jump out of my skin. I could tell he was only inches from the door, the only thing separating us the inch and a half thick slab of sturdy oak. Though I know it was the heat of the fire behind me, it was as though the warmth of his body radiated through instead, causing my cheeks to blush uncontrollably once more, the third time this evening. I knew I should walk away, but it was like an unspeakable magnetism holding me in place.

“Let’s continue this conversation another time.” His tone invited no answer this time, and before I could move an inch, the doors were thrust apart, exposing me like a deer in some goddamn headlights.

There was a moment where he began to turn again towards Gallant, but he stopped cold in his tracks, expression of cool repose melting quickly into look of undignified shock as he saw me standing outside the door. It looked almost foreign compared to his usual composure, like I was somehow able to catch him unawares. The three of us remained frozen for an instant, but Langdon was still the first to regain his poise.

“Are you going to tell me just how long it was you’ve been standing there?” Each syllable was measured evenly, thinly veiling an impatient undertone. An inexplicable fear trickled down my spine like ice water, and I did as well as I could to repress the chills that riddled my body. The look he gave me held no warmth this time, but instead of mixture of frustration and what looked like confusion. The reasonable thing to do would’ve been to apologize, maybe say I was just passing by, but I decided instead to rise to his challenge, feed that confusion I could clearly see in his features.

“I hadn’t planned on it, sir.” I matched my tone to his as best I could, each word coming out of my mouth a bolster added beneath my feet to give me higher ground to stand on. His visage hardened like stone before he took a few sauntering steps towards me, his boot heels clicking in an echo that resounded throughout the room. His breath was sweet and warm, washing over me as he postured himself just a few inches away. Unblinking, his slanted eyes gave me a slow and steady once-over, causing me to feel much less like a human being and more like a bug under a microscope. Despite the overwhelming sensation of exposure, his unwavering gaze turned the ice water running down my back to butterflies trying to escape my belly.

“I believe you’d better go now, Ms. Layla.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it rumbled low and with great purpose. He lingered on the “s” in my title, reminding me uncomfortably of the snakes that had been resurrected earlier.

“Good night, Mr. Langdon. Mr. Gallant.” I peered over his broad shoulders to find the blonde sitting slack-jawed and gaping at the interaction, dark brown eyes peering over his purple tinted sunglasses. He quickly shook his head and gave me a half-hearted smile, turning around once more in his seat. I met those baby blues one more time before turning on my heels, looking forward to nothing more than being embraced by the comfort and seclusion of my bed. I could feel his gaze like a target on my back, but resisted the urge to look back. Despite our now-growing distance, the butterflies refused to yield.

@sojournmichael @ritualmichael @readsalot73 @kaigitana @queencocoakimmie @itsyagirl01

second installment is here!!!! i forgot that i had a name for our girl already so i hope that that doesn’t bother anyone, i had never originally planned on publishing it anywhere so i just never changed it up !!! i hope u guys enjoy thank u so much for your support it means the world!!!

#michael langdon #ahs apocalypse #fanfiction #writing #i hope u all like it it was a bitch to edit

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just-jordie-things · 7 years ago

Text

We Had A Deal - Peter Parker

word count: 6013 warnings: slight infinity wars spoilers, (no death spoilers tho)but i started it before the movie came out so the plot isn’t completely following that of the film’s. you’ve been warned !!

You’d never seen such a gathering of people in one place before. The crowd in the Avengers Facility main room a little overwhelming as you scanned the area.

Star Lord, aka Peter Quill and his crew, the Guardians of the Galaxy. The fact that they even existed, two aliens,a raccoon, and a small tree-man, blew your mind, but there was no time to ask what space was like.

Stephen Strange, who you had met earlier was here, drinking his tea and sitting on a small ottoman while everyone else was gathered standing around. He seemed bored, and unamused by the large group of people. He had his fingertips pressed to his temple, as if he had a headache from being there. His large rectangular ring stood out on his fingers, but then again so did his cape and the rest of his ‘wizardly attire’ as Tony had put it to you.

Thor and Loki stood together near Dr Strange, Loki casting poisonous glances at a select few of people. But mostly it was Stephen. Thor on the other hand, looked incredibly amused by the crowd he was in. His missing eye was unsettling, so you didn’t focus too much on the God.

You turned away, nearly running into somebody.

“Careful there” A thick Wakandan accent told you light heartedly, followed by a slight chuckled.

“Sorry King T’Challa”

“None of that, just T’Challa miss (y/n)” He told you with a kind smile. You nodded in return, and made your way out of the common room, and into the kitchen where you were sure nobody else would be.

You were proven wrong when you saw Tony sitting there at the breakfast bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a half filled bottle on the counter in front of him.

“Hey kid, what’re you doing in here?” Stark asked you, and you reluctantly sat on the stool across from him.

“It’s loud, and I don’t feel like talking to people” You told him. Tony chuckled, taking a sip out of his glass and shaking his head slightly.

“Same here. Didn’t want to deal with all those nutcases” You laughed quietly, knowing he was pretty much right. “You getting freaked out about this whole ordeal?”

“What? No, I don’t get freaked out about this shit anymore” You told him. “I’ve been going through this course of… battling… with you guys since I was twelve, and quite frankly I’ve lost my sense of fear”

Tony laughed heartily, grinning as he swallowed down the rest of his whiskey.

“Figures. But trust me, there’ll come a time when you think that there’s no way something can scare you like you’re six and there’s a monster under your bed. But there will be, and you’ll be so goddamned terrified you’ll be shaking”

“You forget that I’ve cut men’s heads off and thrown them like a shot put ball”

“That would be what terrifies me” Tony replied, still chuckling.

“Mr Stark have you seen-”

You spun around instantly, Peter Parker standing in the doorway looking disheveled and tired.

“Oh you’re both in here!” Peter said, quickly making his way to sit with you and Tony.

“Hey Pete” You smiled sweetly at him as he took a seat next to you. Tony let out a tired sigh, the boy in his presence already wearing him out.

“Two teenagers? Ditching an important get together? I’m so surprised” He muttered sarcastically. You give him a playful mischievous smile before turning to Peter.

“Why’re you skipping? Figured you’d be in heaven with all those superheroes” You said, and Peter flustered slightly, his fingers linking together and fiddling awkwardly.

“Yeah uh… I don’t know it was crowded and they’re all adults and-”

“Lies. Quill has the mental capacity of a ten year old, and his shirtless bald blue friend is no different” Tony cut in. You shrugged a shoulder and nodded in agreement, having remembered him getting in a fight with the tree alien that couldn’t say more than three words. “Peter, you’d get along with them well”

Peter looked offended at Stark’s words. “Are you saying I’m a ten year old?”

“I’m saying your a kid”

“I’m a kid” You perked up, and Tony chuckled.

“Well surprise kiddo, you’re the most mature person in this room” He said while laughing. Even Peter laughed a little bit, knowing that it was true. It was quiet for a few moments, Tony pouring himself another glass, Peter still anxiously messing with his hands, and you were deep in thought.

All you could think about was how Thanos, this alien dictator of a sort, was preparing to destroy the world as you know it. It’s not exactly the first time you’ve encountered something like this, after Loki and his army a few years ago, and then the events in Sokovia, as well as a few other minor inconveniences. This was the life you were used to, a few years of peace and quiet at most, and then something or someone gets their hands on something they shouldn’t, and decides they want to take over the Earth.

And no, you weren’t as scared as you knew you should be. Sure, there was the stress of having to train, and being in battle. Which you seem to have done a thousand times before. You knew that at any moment you could be killed, or someone else. You knew deep down that this was bigger than anything you’ve ever faced before. That people from all over the world, no, all over the universe were here to stop this catastrophe from taking place. Nothing had ever been like this before.

You looked over at Peter, who was drumming his thumbs on his legs and staring at the table. He was obviously also deep in concentration, and you wondered briefly if he was scared.

He seemed to have realized you were gazing at him, snapping out of his daze and looking up at you with an almost worried expression.

“Stark can we leave?” You asked Tony, who just nodded.

“Sure. Be back before midnight, so we can talk about whatever those lunatics out there come up with for a plan”

“A plan of death” You muttered, sliding off the stool and already heading out of the room. Peter scrambled after you, nearly tripping but balanced himself and stealthily walked after you.

“Where are we going?” He asked, and you shrugged, avoiding the common room, as the raccoon was now threatening to blow up the entire facility. Peter was looking wildly into the room, desperate for some sort of explanation as to what was going on. Where as you kept walking, without even casting a glance towards the room.

“Roof I guess, it’s too crazy in here” You said, slowing your pace so that Peter could fall into step with you.

“That’s kinda funny, cause I’ve seen what you do in the training room. You had Barnes a little freaked out” Peter said. “Hell I still get kinda freaked out”

You laughed softly and gave Peter a sweet smile that didn’t fit the memory in his mind. You just seemed to radiate with sunshine and purity.

Yet, when you had a sword in your hands, you were the image of terror and destruction. It was in your genes. Implanted there.

“You know me better than that, Pete” You said, nudging his elbow with yours as you stuck your hands into your pockets.

“Can I ask you a question?” He spoke up as you opened the door to the stairwell that led to the roof. You nodded your head at him while he let you up the steps ahead of him. “Are you afraid?”

You didn’t answer right away, continuing up the steps in silence until you reached the second door that led right out onto the roof of the facility. Opening it, you turned and held it for Peter.

“Yes” The simple word was small on your tongue, barely a whisper that he wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t seen your lips move. The two of you stood frozen for a few seconds, staring at one another. “But I’m not scared to die”

“You aren’t?” He asked, surprised. He thought death was something everyone feared.

“I’m scared that everyone else will, and that I’ll live and have to deal with it” You murmured, walking out along the rooftop to look out at the night. It was beautiful, springtime in New York always was at nighttime. Just cold enough to feel a chill, but warm enough that you didn’t need a jacket. “I think that makes me a coward” You told him honestly, your back turned to him as you stared at the sky.

“You? A coward?” Peter chuckled at the idea. “Never” You looked over your shoulder at him, and he walked over to stand with you and enjoy the view. Except he wasn’t staring at the sky.

“Are you?” Your voice was soft as you spoke. “Afraid?” You clarified.

“What? Pfft, no. This is going to be easy” He said, and you looked up at him, quirking a suspicious eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m terrified”

“Yeah?” A hopefulness sparked in you that you weren’t alone.

“Yeah, of course” He shrugged. “A big purple alien is hoping to have a full blown genocide made out of earth. I don’t want to die, I don’t want you- anyone else to die” He caught himself on his words, cheeks heating up as he began to stammer. “I-I’ve never fought something that’s s-so insane! There are literally aliens inside right now”

“Nerd alert” You said, earning a shocked look from Peter that made your lips blossom into a smile. He scoffed, acting as though he were offended.

“Oh like you aren’t secretly in love with Star Wars. And I’ve seen you do chemistry! You closeted genius” You giggled, shaking your head at him.

“And what do you know about chemistry, Peter Parker?” You asked in a murmur, crossing your arms over your chest and turning to completely face him. It dawned on the boy that you weren’t talking about the subject, and he visibly gulped.

“L-lot’s of stuff” He stuttered. “Water’s the only substance that expands when it freezes, and-and ionic bonds are non-directional, and-” He stopped himself, having looked down to meet his eyes and his voice completely failed him. His mind was screaming; when did this happen? When did she start looking at you like that?

“Pete I don’t care about Chem” You mumbled. He hadn’t realized how close you were standing until your foot had bumped into his when you shuffled anxiously. “Can we make a deal?”

“Yeah o-okay” He agreed, nodding his head and looking at you almost worriedly.

“I won’t die if you won’t” You said quickly and quietly. His brows rose at your statement, and your eyes didn’t leave his once. So many emotions displayed in them that he was sure you were scared that you were bound to die.

“Okay” He answered smoothly, nodding again and in a quick decision grabbed your hand in one of his. “Alright, I can do that”

“Promise” You whispered. Peter’s brows drew together as he nodded his head again.

“I promise” You squeezed his hand in response, tugging slightly, which he took as a prompt to hug you. His arms winding around your shoulders as yours wrapped under his arms, your chin able to set on his shoulder as you stood on the tips of your toes. You held onto him tightly, never having really hugged him before.

“Peter you’re- you’re like the only real person I have” You told him. He didn’t want to let go of you, so he just rubbed your back as calmly as he could.

“It’s okay” He said softly. “We’ll make it out of this”

“I know” Your voice cracked, and you pulled out of his hold reluctantly. “I know I just, I need you to know is all” You shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly, trying to slip back into casual conversation. “You have to live”

He still had that worried loving look on his face that made you want to burst into tears and throw your arms around him again, but you refrained from doing so.

“Okay” He replied simply. You smiled tightly, taking his hand in yours again and looking back up at the sky.

“Can we just sit here and enjoy this for now?” You asked in a small voice that he never would have expected hearing from you. But he nodded, and the both of you walked to the edge of the building to sit and stare at the stars.

He wondered if you were alright, deep down. You always wore a brave face, ready to rip a man’s head from his body if you had to at any moment. He knew you could knock someone out with one punch, snap someone’s spine with one kick spin, and split a body in half with the swing of your beloved sword. But this? Hand holding, promise making, teary eyed girl was not something Peter was used to. Seeing your soft side was completely new to him, and it made him happy to see you allowing your vulnerability.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, tugging you slightly closer to him, in which you laid your head against his shoulder and shut your eyes.

Neither of you moved or said anything, until Vision came looking for you both to go over the plan of attack.

And it was not a plan you were all that thrilled about.

Sat on the new and improved Quinjet, and sharpening your sword so it’d be sharp enough to shave a man’s face, you were trying your best to clear your mind. Thor Bruce and Tony was standing by the cockpit where Steve was flying, Peter Quill arguing heatedly with the Iron Man about the ridiculousness of this plan. Where as Stephen T’Challa and your Peter were going over the possibilities of actually winning this.

You looked over to Peter, decked out in his new metallic attire, without the mask on.

“There’s over fourteen million futures of how this could possibly go” Doctor Strange was speaking to the two of them.

“Great, how many do we win?” Peter asked. You smiled slightly to yourself as you saw the joy begin to spread on his features.

“One” Stephen answered in monotone, instantly killing Peter’s mood.

“Oh” He responded quietly.

“We will just have to make the one count” T’Challa said, but the Spiderman was already walking away, coming to sit next to you.

“Only one chance, huh?” You mused, sheathing your sword and looking at the boy next to you.

“I guess so. Makes it kind of hard to focus”

“Just clear your head. Treat it like any inconvenience in Queens” You suggested. “That’s what I do. Try my best not to think about it”

“And that works?” Peter asked, surprised that it’s a tactic that could be all that easy. How could you possibly clear your mind while on that battlefield?

“Usually, yeah” You shrugged. “I just focus on what’s happening in front of me. That’s the key, don’t get distracted by the others, because that’s how accidents happen” You told him. He nodded, wondering if it’d work for him. He wasn’t sure if he could do it. Knowing that you were out there somewhere, in a life threatening situation like this, Peter didn’t think he’d be able to focus on any other thing.

“I guess I’ll try that then” He said almost weakly, to which he nodded and looked out the glass windows of the ship.

T’Challa turned curiously to the Doctor next to him, after having heard your conversation.

“What is their deal?” He asked curiously, and Stephen hummed in confusion. “Their story” The king clarified. “How long have they been in love with each other?”

“Oh” Strange’s brows rose as he realized what T’Challa meant. “I’m not sure. I just met them this morning. But yeah, you can tell there’s definitely a passionate connection-”

“A passionate connection?” Thor’s booming voice practically silenced the whole aircraft, now holding everyone’s attention. Including yours and Peter’s. Stephen cursed, giving the God a blank look in order to silently get him to shut up. It didn’t work. “Where? Who’s in love? Do share wizard!”

Peter and you looked at each other in amusement, also wanting to know what was going on.

“What’s going on?” Tony demanded, stepping out of the cockpit to see what all the commotion was about. “Thor why are you yelling it’s like five in the morning”

“Wizard here tells me that someone’s in love, I wanted to hear the story” THor shrugged innocently.

“Did you lose your fucking brain when you lost your hammer?” Rocket sneered, earning an elbowing from Peter Quill next to him. “What?” The raccoon shrugged his shoulders and tried to hide his snicker.

“No, I’m just a sap for stories” Thor said. “Mother used to tell me stories of her and father every night when I was a boy” He said with a big smile. You laughed and shook your head at his antics, where as T’Challa and Strange gave him a weird look.

“What a weird man” Strange mumbled, walking away. You looked at Peter as you smiled, causing the boy to smile back.

“I wonder who’s in love with each other” You hummed curiously, but not paying much mind to it. Peter stared at you for a moment before forcing a chuckle.

“Probably Stephen and Tony” He replied awkwardly, making you giggle quietly.

“I’ve noticed that weird tension they have going on too” You told him.

Peter didn’t respond, just watched you as you double checked your getup to make sure you were ready, and shut your eyes for a moment, trying to get into concentration.

Peter liked the outfits you wore into battle, because you always looked like a total badass. Black leather pants, tall black boots with a slight heel but not enough to make it difficult for you to fight. And a dark green bodice that hugged your curves excellently. Not that Peter noticed that sort of thing of course…

“You staring at me Parker?” He hadn’t realized you were looking at him until you spoke up, drawing his line of sight directly to your own. You were quirking an eyebrow suggestively and there was a slight smirk tugging on your lips. But he could tell you were blushing.

“Sorry, I zoned out” He mumbled a lame excuse and turned away from you. But you kept your sight on him, curiously wondering why he was staring at you for so long. Not wanting to embarrass the boy, you didn’t say any more on the subject.

“We’re landing folks” Steve announced, and you shot up from where you sat, walking to the window instantly, looking out at the new planet you’d landed in.

“Woah” You mumbled. The whole place looked deserted, destroyed even. You’d never left Earth before, but this was a whole other world and that was hard to grasp. You were in another universe now. And the possibility of dying here was very high.

“Hey, kiddo!” A voice called, and you turned to see Peter Quill, handing you what looked like an earpiece.

“Oh, I don’t like your music” You told him, awkwardly declining.

“No no, hey!” He sneered at you. “My music taste is amazing you asshole” You shrugged a shoulder in response. “It’s a mask” He told you, clipping it over your ear and pressing a button on the side of it. Instantly, a mask generated over your face, looking somewhat like his did. “You can’t breathe the air out there” He told you, and you smiled, thanking him as you pushed the button again, the mask going away again.

“Interesting…” You hummed. “Thank you though” You added. Quill nodded before walking off. Peter looked at you with raised brows, a slight smile on his face as you wandered back near him.

“Look at you, space girl” He commented, standing to almost tower over you. He turned your face to the side with his thumb gently pushing your jaw, and he pressed the button of you earpiece to see the mask cover your face again. You giggled as you looked up at him through the lenses. It was a technology that reminded you of the Iron Man suit, how the lenses cleared your vision, and gave you an analysis of the boy in front of you. Peter Benjamin Parker written in front of you with a line pointed at Peter. “What’s it like?” He asked you.

“Very cool. I feel like the Spiderman now with this mask” He chuckled, pushing the button again to see your face. He was smiling down at you, the pad of his thumb still awkwardly resting on your jawline. But neither of you bothered to move.

Until there was an abrupt jolt of the entire ship, causing everyone to stumble. Except for Vision, Wanda, and Stephen, who simply levitated rather than try to keep their balance. Peter’s feet were firmly planted on the ground, damn Spiderman boots keeping in place. Whereas you had stumbled slightly to keep yourself upright. Peter’s hand grabbed your arm, stopping you from toppling over.

“Rogers what the hell was that?” You hollered angrily, but silently thanked Peter, patting your hand against his sweetly.

“I don’t know! I think we got hit with something!” Steve yelled back, and you realized then that he was struggling to keep control of the ship.

“Shit” You cursed, already trying to find your way out of this before you crashed and burned.

“The windows!” Bruce interjected, already racing towards the glass and hitting it wildly in hopes of it breaking. Tony groaned with annoyance at Banner’s actions.

“Those are specially designed Banner, not even the Hulk could bust out of-”

He was cut off by Rocket locking and loading his blaster, and shooting a gaping a hole in the side of the jet.

“Holy shit!” Quill hollered, the loud sound of the engines failing and the air that gushed into and out of the opening almost deafening. You turned your mask on again, trying to figure out when a good time to jump would be. Stephen, Vision, and Wanda had simply flown out of the plane. Starlord turning on his rockets and grabbing Groot and Rocket before zooming out. Drax following, leaping out like a madman. Tony’s suit assembled around him, and Cap grabbed his ankle as he flew out, easily carrying Steve out with him.

“You trust me?” Peter asked you, his own mask assembling together. Perks of the new suit.

“With my life” You yelled over the loudness, staring up at him seriously.

“Good” Was all he said, before running and jumping out of the plane, his arm wrapping tightly around your torso as you free-falled through the air. The Black Panther easily following after you, and the God of Thunder as well.

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to scream in absolute terror, your throat closing up on you as you shut your eyes and firmly planted your face in Peter’s chest, preparing for a rough landing. But in no time you were swinging into the air, and realized that he’d shot out a web to bring you to the ground easier.

Your arms around his neck tightened, breathing heavy and ragged behind your new mask.

“It’s alright” He assured you, already nearing the ground. “I’m not gonna let go” His voice was so soft you opened your eyes and looked at the masked boy.

You were so scared right now that you were going to lose him.

You landed and Peter set you on your feet in no time. You felt light, like the gravitational pull here was off.

As soon as he’d set you down you jumped slightly, your body floating in the air before slowly coming back to the ground.

“Careful” Tony warned everyone.

“Gravity’s different here” Quill said, looking at whatever device was able to tell him that. “Damn this planet is fucked up” He mumbled.

All was quiet as everyone scoped the area, before a loud booming sound caused you to fall to your knees and cover your ears. Peter instantly going to you, the mechanic eyes of his mask wide to see you better. His gloved hands covering yours as he spoke so quickly, asking what was wrong. But all you could hear was a distant ringing noise. You knew he was speaking to you, you knew he was trying to pull your hands from your ears, but you couldn’t move.

“There’s something wrong with-!” Peter’s cry to Tony halted when he saw what he could only assume was a portal, and out stepped the largest man he’d ever seen. “(y/n)- (y/n)/n you gotta get up come on” He said as carefully as he could, his eyes never leaving the portal as he helped you up to your feet, his shaking hands gasping yours as he pulled them away from your head.

“I’m okay” You breathed out heavily, analyzing the scene in front of you for a battle strategy as quickly as you could. Turning back to Peter you gave him a serious look, though he could barely see your eyes behind the lenses. “Don’t get distracted” You told him. “Remember our deal”

He nodded quickly in response, and just like that you were sprinting off after the rest of them, unsheathing your sword and swiftly leapt up into the air. Using the new gravity defect to your advantage as you flew towards who you assumed was Thanos.

Starlord and Iron Man were currently blasting it, and with ease you swung your sword over your head before bringing it down towards him. Just barely nicking his cheek before he uses the gauntlet stones to send you flying through the air and tumbling to the ground.

Stay focused, she’s alright, stay focused, she’s gonna be fine, don’t get distracted, it’ll get you killed, stay focused stay focused stay focused-

“Strange!” Peter called, finally grounding himself and figuring out a plan. “Portal me over there!”

He ran through the ring that the Doctor had created, and when he leapt through it he was suddenly kicking Thanos right in the head. He did it again, this time shooting a web in his face, and a third time, punching him across his large jaw. Feeling empowered, he kept on going, coming out of nowhere and everywhere as Stephen Strange kept on creating portals.

“Enough!” Thanos roared, grabbing the boy right out of the air and shoving him to the ground with his massive hand keeping him there.

“Peter!” Your distant voice cried. You stood up, hurling your sword perfectly and it flew through the air towards The monster holding him down. Peter gasped for air, just as the weapon lodged into the alien’s abdomen.

The others took this moment of weakness to begun their brutal attack, claws swiping, tree limb winding, shield throwing, blaster shooting, and again web slinging as Peter was able to squirm out of Thanos’ grasp. You thanked the heavens as you made your way back to the scene, desperate for your sword back. Sure, you kept a small dagger on you for backup, but you only used it in emergencies.

“You’ll pay for that” Thanos growled towards you, yanking the blade out of himself. It looked small in his hands, and just as you neared him, he snapped it in half.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening as the broken weapon fell to the ground in two. A useless piece of metal now.

“She’s gonna fucking kill you man” Stark snorted, pieces of his armor coming off and shooting him continuously. You fell to the ground in front of the broken pieces. That sword had been a part of you since you were young and it was handed to you by Natasha. She’d always trained you and taken care of you , and when she handed you that blade at such a young age, it had meant everything to you.

And Thanos broke it like it was a mere toothpick.

You grimaced, standing up and yanking the smaller blade from where it was sheathed at your thigh. He seemed distracted by all the blasts Tony was sending his way, and the spells that Strange kept throwing left and right. Wanda trying her best to hold back his arms with her magic.

Again, you raced towards him, never having felt so angry. A scream came past your lips as you catapulted towards him once more.

But Thanos had interpreted your move, and grabbed you right out of the air, just as your arm swung down, knife in hand. The alien flung you up into the air like a baseball. But you’d already done what you had to.

Looking back down at the ground as you flew through the air once more, your blade had pierced straight through his thick skull, giving the Avengers a chance to beat him in his moment of weakness.

“(y/n)!” Peter ran towards you, leaping up into the air gracefully. The arms in the back of his suit detached and wrapped around you, cradling you carefully as you both began to fall.

“Peter” You breathed out gratefully, before you both landed hard on the rocky ground. “What the hell is up with your new suit?” You asked almost breathlessly, chuckling quietly as you looked up at him, still held in the metal legs.

“I-I have no idea I kind of went into that without a plan” He replied, laughing nervously. You shook your head at him, finally released and standing on your own. The contraption folded itself up and was tucked into his suit once more. “I have no idea how this thing works” He told you, but you were already running towards the fight again. He shook his head, following after you.

“Is… is he dead?” You mumbled, halting yourself as Thanos had fallen to his knees. But from the way Thor still had his axe raised, and Strange and Wanda still had their magic flowing around their hands, showed everyone was ready for one final attack if it wasn’t over yet.

“You can’t beat this” He muttered, before forcing his hand out and using the space stone to send everyone back in a massive explosion, and then promptly vanishing through his portal again.

You coughed, inhaling too much dust and smoke as your eyes fluttered open. Your breath was heaving as you tried to fill your lungs, even though your mask had stayed intact it felt like you were deprived of oxygen. You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, looking around you.

Fires were everywhere, as well as Avengers in scattered areas, all trying to stand up and remember what had just happened.

An explosion, something exploded, you thought.

Trying to stand on your legs, you scanned the area for Peter. Certainly he was fine, he could survive a minor explosion-

Just as that thought came to mind, a larger fire erupted and you jolted, nearly falling again. But you shakily kept your balance.

“Peter?” Your voice cracked, head moving all over the place in search of the boy. “Peter!” You called louder, feet moving faster as you scanned the area. “Peter!” You full on screamed now. “Peter! Peter where are you!?” You cried out, running frantically as tears began to fill your vision.

He wasn’t responding.

“Peter!” You begged, sobbing now as you stumbled around. “Peter-!”

“(y/n)!”

Your breath caught in your throat as you spun around, seeing the Spider Boy heading towards you. You gasped, taking off in a sprint and running towards him, crying out his name in a much more joyful cry now.

Without even thinking it through, the palm of your hand pressed the button of your earpiece, your mask going away, and Peter removed his own mask almost magically just before your crashed into him, your lips colliding as you held onto each other tightly.

It was such an abrupt kiss that he nearly forgot to kiss you back. But it felt so natural to move his lips over yours. His gloved hands tangling in your hair and yours clutching onto his shoulders so tight he could feel it through the metal.

When you parted, he instantly turned your mask back on, as well as his own. Your eyes opened wide, staring up at him even though his face was covered once again.

“You followed through with our deal” You said heavily, never having felt so relieved for someone’s life before. “And you saved my life”

Peter was blushing beneath his mask. His hands untangled from your hair to cup around your face for a moment, before dropping completely to wrap around your waist.

“We gotta go back”

“Back?” You questioned as he lifted you up.

“To Earth” He said, and Dr Strange opened his portal.

After everyone got situated for the long night of bad sleep and nightmares ahead of them. You dragged your feet down the hallway to your own room, ignoring the party that Tony was already beginning to throw. You weren’t exactly in a party mood.

Peter followed you, but you hadn’t heard him.

Taking off your earpiece, you tucked it into your pocket. Figuring that you’d still need it another day.

When you felt a hand grab your wrist you spun around, smiling happily to see Peter Parker there, hair disheveled and a bruise spreading across his left cheek.

“Hey Pete” You whispered, your hand coming up to softly brush over his black and blue skin. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m doing alright, you?” He replied quietly. Even though you were alone in the hall, it felt natural to speak in a whisper. You just nodded your head, your lips pressing together as you stared at him. Your eyes glossed over, and as soon as Peter could tell you wanted to cry, he wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly.

“I’m so fucking pissed I lost my sword today” You whimpered into his shoulder, arms wrapping around his shoulders tightly. He chuckled quietly, his nose pressed to your temple. “But I’m so glad I didn’t lose you” You finished, pulling away. Your hands splaying over his cheeks, delicately brushing your fingers over his bruise. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I… if you…”

“I know” He murmured in response so that you didn’t have to say it. His hand grasped your wrist, pulling your palm over his mouth and leaving a small kiss there. “You don’t have to think about that” He told you. “It’s not happening, I’m not going anywhere” He assured you. A few tears slipped down your cheeks. “I’m never going to leave you (y/n)”

You slid your hand to his jaw so that you could lean up and gently press your lips against his. Your kiss soft and careful, neither of you wanting to hurt the other. Peter’s hands cupped your face so carefully, as though you could shatter with one rough move. Your lips parted for a short moment before meeting quickly again, you sucked in a sharp breath as your hands threaded into his hair, pulling him closer still.

When you pulled apart again, your eyes fluttered open, looking up into his. You were so happy, he could see it in the way they sparkled as you stared at him.

“(y/n) I’m in love with you”

“I love you too” You told him right away, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I love you too” You repeated almost under your breath. Peter tugged you in again, lips grazing your forehead before holding onto you tightly.

You weren’t sure how long you were standing there in his arms, but you didn’t care. You never felt safer anywhere else.

Steve wasn’t so fond when he turned to corner to find the two of you though.

taglist: just added peter parker to my taglist! add urself if ur interested

xoxo ~ jordie

#spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman scenario #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker scenario #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland scenario #tom holland imagine #infinity wars #infinitt wars spoilers

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lovemohamadus · 5 years ago

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Interesting information about cats

Cats can hear sounds too faint or too high in frequency for human ears, like those made by mice. they will also see in near darkness.

Cats have relatively few taste buds compared to humans. Domestic and wild cats share a point mutation that leaves them with no ability to taste sweetness.

To aid with navigation and sensation, cats have dozens of movable whiskers over their body, especially their face. These provide information on the width of gaps and the situation of objects within the dark, both by touching objects directly and by sensing air currents.

The average anticipation for male indoor cats at birth is around 12 to 14 years. However, there are reports of cats reaching into their 30s, with the oldest known cat, Creme Puff, dying at a verified age of 38.

Cats usually sleep 12-16 hours each day, although some cats can sleep the maximum amount as 20 hours for 24 hours. The term "cat nap" for a quick rest refers to the cat's tendency to nod off (lightly) for a brief period. While asleep, cats experience short periods of rapid eye movement sleep often amid muscle twitches, which suggests that they're dreaming.

Domestic cats use many vocalizations for communication, including purring, trilling, hissing, growling/snarling, grunting, and several other different sorts of meowing. against this, feral cats are generally silent.

Types of visual communication, including the position of ears and tail, relaxation of the whole body, and kneading of paws, are all indicators of mood. The tail and ears are particularly important social signal mechanisms in cats e.g. with a raised tail acting as a friendly greeting, and flattened ears indicating hostility.

It has been theorized that the high-pitched sounds housecats make to solicit food may mimic the cries of a hungry human infant, making them particularly hard for humans to ignore.

Cats are known for his or her cleanliness, spending many hours licking their coats. If you've got ever been licked by a cat, you've got probably noticed that their tongues desire sandpaper. Cats use their tongue to brush their fur and keep it smooth.

Owing to the close similarity between play and hunting, cats like better to play with objects that resemble prey, like small furry toys that move rapidly, but rapidly lose interest (they become habituated) during a toy they need to be played with before. Cats also tend to play with toys more once they are hungry.

The mechanism by which cats purr is elusive. The cat has no unique anatomical feature that's liable for the sound. However, felids of the Panthera genus (tiger, lion, jaguar, and leopard) also produce sounds almost like purring but only exhaling.

Kittens purr to let their mother know that everything is ok. Adult cats purr once they feel safe and happy. Cats can purr for an extended period of your time no end.

Cats have 4 four different meanings for "'meow'". If you listen carefully, you'll hear that every meow is different: 1). I'm hungry! 2). I would like to travel out! 3). Help! and 4.) I would like the attention!

Cats will sometimes roll over on their backs once they see you. this is often probably the friendliest thing a cat can do. It's his/her way of claiming 'I trust you'.

Cats often press against you with their paws. Kittens get milk by nursing from their mother. They press against their mother with one paw then the opposite. this is often called "kneading". Kneading helps the mother cat give milk to the kittens. When adult cats knead with their paws, it reminds them of their mother once they were a kitten.

Do cats always land on their feet? Not always, but they need a better balance than most animals. When cats opened up their back and front legs they fall more slowly because their bodies act as a parachute. The tail also can help balance a cat.

Cats review against your leg to form you smell sort of a cat. The more you smell like them the more they like being around you. Also, they're letting other cats know that you simply are their special friend. they're depositing their scent, or marking their territory, on you. A cat will rub its head or the side of its chin against you, the furniture, or any object. Cats have glands on their forehead, mouth, and chin that produce pheromones and that they transfer these onto objects.

Cats sometimes make mad dashes around the house. this is often because they need pent-up energy that must be released. Instincts also make them want to hunt and run.

Catnip may be a plant that cats like to smell. it's often stuffed in many cat toys and may be sprayed on their toys too. Why does catnip make cats act crazy? it's a response to the herb's chemical. Catnip produces feelings of ecstasy through the odor, not the taste.

Can you train a cat to try to do tricks? Cats aren't like dogs, but they will understand many human words and commands. Many common tricks that cats can learn are retrieving a ball, ring the doorbell, or activate a faucet.

Are cats smart? within the Animalia, the cat's IQ is surpassed only by monkeys and chimps. Cats think and adapt to changing circumstances and learn by observation, imitation, and trial and error. Interestingly, cats seem to find out more quickly from their mothers than from examples set by unrelated cats but imitate humans. they need to be been shown to exhibit greater problem-solving abilities than dogs. Tests conducted by the University of Michigan and therefore the Department of Animal Behavior at the American Museum of explanation have concluded that while canine memory lasts no quite 5 minutes, a cat's recall can last as long as 16 hours, exceeding even that of monkeys and orangutans.

Why do cats wag their tails from side to side? The tail moving from side to side during a gentle manner means contentment. If the cat is sitting quietly, she could be focused on something. Fast, whipping back and forth might be anger or annoyance. Tail wagging in between these descriptions could mean he or she's feeling indecisive.

Why do cats love boxes so much? When cats explore, one thing they're trying to find maybe a potential hiding space. The experience of jumping and sliding into a box resonates with their instinct to seek out protected spaces call at the wild where they're ready to see their environment without being seen.

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northamptoncouplestherapy · 5 years ago

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In every waking millisecond, we sit on the cusp of delight and apprehension

In our daily lives, we often do not know when a moment morphs from creation to cessation. Beginnings command our attention, proclaiming themselves with confetti and sparks: babies are born, we fall in love and build houses. While dancing in our kitchen, we throw caution to the wind, getting drunk on dreams and hope. Equally apparent are finalities, though they declare themselves more somberly: loved ones die, relationships end, and our children inevitably grow up.

In between memorable instances is the stuff of life — moments that make memories, which in turn compost into time and pave the way for the new. It’s in the realm of folding laundry, checking texts, and sitting in traffic that we dwell — not knowing in time, what each interaction and minuscule detail will stand out as, or if it will stand out at all.

I remember one autumn, walking in a meadow with my aging father. He was struggling with worsening heart failure, and his grey eyes and softened coloring seemed to coalesce into the landscape that surrounded us. This man, whose back I rode in tidal pools — who took me bushwhacking, owling and fishing for trout — could no longer cross a stream without taking my hand. In that moment, unbeknownst to me, slept the seeds of an ending, and I now realize that this was to be the last time we’d walk on wild ground together.

Often, only in hindsight do we comprehend that we have crossed such thresholds: moments when endings occur, and we are nescient. Though if we are lucky, we can still recall the last kiss or time we perched our child (now too heavy) on our hip. But, more likely, we will not remember these junctures. How could we? Nescience, defined as the absence of knowing, is more accurately associated with innocence, and less so with ignorance.

That we don’t recognize most endings when they happen is simultaneously tragic, merciful, and perhaps most poignant, profoundly human.

Is there a realm in between? Where the unconscious and the conscious intermingle — affording us daily opportunities to wake to our child’s musings, our mundane chores, and the silenced stirrings of our heart?

Social scientist and bestselling author Brené Brown speaks to foreboding joy (FBJ): windows of beauty and awe so painfully tender and lovely that in the space of a millisecond, we unconsciously flash to terror and shut them down. It seems our minds are prone to transposing the ghosts of catastrophe onto our sleeping children, most intimate loves, and occasions of good fortune.

FBJ, an instinctual recoiling from delight, is one of the most insidious defenses against vulnerability and is inherently embedded in being mortal. When (or if) we have a history of trauma, we may live for years unknowingly haunted by it, and, if left unchecked, it has the potential to shut down love and connection, two of the bedrocks of a wholehearted life.

Recently, while writing the article: John Gottman and Brene Brown on Running Headlong Into Heartbreak, a thought occurred to me that was so heartrending and breathtaking, it warranted an essay of its own:

Foreboding joy is Negative Sentiment Override to life.

Negative Sentiment Override (NSO), a term coined by John Gottman, speaks to the tendency toward viewing our partner and the history of our relationship through a darkened lens. It is a symptom as much as a state. Characterized by a loss of hope, our memories, once imbued with fondness, get recast in our mind’s eye and become concealed by gloom.

NSO is, in essence, a cumulative byproduct of missed opportunities for connection: sliding door moments, where we turn away (and against) junctures that necessitated our care and presence — we neglect to ask about the biopsy, forget to say we’ll be late, or dismiss the melancholy expression on our partner’s face — again and again.

What if every moment in life is a sliding door moment, and in turn, gifts us with opportunities to love or wither?

A child in utero will move towards its mother’s voice as surely as any day lily seeks out the sun. An infant’s heartbeat will synchronize to the rhythm of its primary caregiver by ticking in solidarity to the universal cadence of life: the crickets chirping, raindrops pattering and the rocking of the tide. We come into this world, turning toward — to love and to be loved. It is our birthright.

But what happens if, from the very beginning, life slaps us down and turns us away, meeting us with desynchronization or silence? If instead of a soft caress or a friendly smile, we encounter neglect, abuse, rejection, or ridicule by those we are wired to trust? What happens if we experience such assaults globally, as a result of factors beyond our control, such as our race, ethnicity, class, gender, or sexual orientation? The implications are staggering.

With each loss, we experience a growing intolerance to risk, and in turn, a subconscious aversion to joy. According to Brown, trauma’s greatest casualty is vulnerability. When we’re no longer able to discern what is safe, good, and life-giving, our compass is uncalibrated. So (understandably), we lose trust in life, dress-rehearse tragedy, and recoil or come out swinging.

Turning away from love is the hallmark of anguish. Our psyches and souls start to hurt when a growing sense of urgency complicates the ageless crucibles of mortality and transience. Have we reached a pinnacle where the cumulative legacy of humanity: intergenerational trauma, patriarchy, racism, genocide and negligent stewarding of our planet is compelling even the sanest among us to dive-bomb into the abyss by swallowing fistfuls of blue pills and disowning our vulnerability in turn?

In every waking millisecond, we sit on the cusp of delight and apprehension, informed by an infinite number of variables. What FBJ and NSO share in common, is a turning away from the potential of love, life and vulnerability — sometimes knowingly and sometimes not. In the belly of the whale lies loss and our relationship to it.

Over the summer, a momma fox and her two gangly adolescents took out every backyard chicken within five miles of our rural home. My daughter and I were standing at the door of a white transport van, in a Cumberland Farms parking lot, when the universe delivered a jumping bean of a rescue puppy into our arms and promptly scooped up seven chickens in exchange. We came home to silence and feathers.

A week later we brought home four new pullets, including a sweet black Australorp that honked instead of clucked. My daughter named her Midnight. We locked them safely away in the run. Several days later, while feeding the hens, I turned to the buzzing of flies and saw the starless shape of Midnight slumped lifeless on the stoop. Despite our diligence, we had lost another bird unexplainably, and I struggled with how to tell my child.

We cannot escape certain realities in life. The fox lives in the hen. What are we to do?

The Imperative to Delight

If joy is a portal to terror, it is simultaneously a gateway to delight — each shimmering moment invites us to embrace the paradox of our mortality. We awaken to myriad experiences: what is bitter may become sweet, what is sorrowful may become luminous. Delight, at its best, is the embodiment of gratitude, and I would argue that we are obliged to revel while together we weep — that in acknowledging we are ephemeral, there lies the potential for a sorely needed tenderness amongst humanity.

As poet Ross Gay so beautifully ponders in his essay: Joy Is Such a Human Madness, “What if we joined our sorrows — what if that is joy?” Such communing requires a willingness, courage, and most importantly, vulnerability. But, we can (and must) turn towards sorrow as surely as we turn towards delight — they are sisters and to embody both is grace at its finest.

Gay also takes it a step further, discerning between pleasure and delight. With pleasure being readily accessible and playing to our senses. Sitting with my ten-year-old over breakfast, sharing steamy black vanilla tea and a platter of smokey bacon and maple-cream frosted toast is a pleasure. It’s the first day of fifth grade. Looking at her face, her eyes the same river blue-green they were as a baby; the angle of her nose, familiar — yet not. Time bends, and I swell with tears and laughter — delight.

Sitting at the threshold of joy is both terrifying and magnificent. Angst is an understandable outgrowth. But when we reside here chronically and unknowingly, it is likely due to a multitude of injuries incurred over time. Trauma has crawled into our beds and slipped a worm inside our ear; it burrows deeply into our hearts and whispers that we are not lovable — the reclaiming of delight, and our worthiness of it, is therefore not a luxury but an imperative.

The Capacity for Awe

We must find a portkey — that magical touch-down object Harry Potter reaches for when circumstances necessitate that he transport himself from here to there — a portal to awe that is readily accessible and simultaneously grand: the first two verses of Cohen’s Hallelujah, a glint of light, a lush peony. Each of these can be gateways to joy because awe is non-discriminate.

By nurturing our capacity for wonderment, we nurture fondness and admiration for life. It’s a powerful antidote to negativism and hopelessness, flies smack in the face of nihilism, and is a courageous stance in response to hurt and fear. Furthermore, since awe does not require a shared theology, it is transcendent and is a balm that treats all wounds in a world where there are many.

As a couples therapist, I’ve witnessed my share of marriages ending. Having sat with partners whose love is metamorphosing or dying, I’ve observed the terror on people’s faces, heard the shouting and seen the tears that come from the inevitability of change. I’ve been struck by the palpable beauty and tenderness that can arise in the seemingly darkest of moments — a wife reaching for her husband’s hand while simultaneously weeping and saying goodbye.

Finding beauty and risking vulnerability through joy, is a monumental feat when in NSO to life. What awe is fantastically good at is taking that which rattles us, and instead calms, dazzles or assures us, thus morphing the full catastrophe of living into shimmering stardust. Even amidst suffering, life affords us ample opportunities to pause and take in the beauty, and when we can let our perspectives soften, things like our time-worn hands or the death of a relationship offer up potential in cultivating a gentleness.

I spent years eluding heartache, and in turn, the totality of joy. Despite my proclivity for sad memoirs and murder ballads, I did my best to keep loss at bay and maximize pleasure. On numerous occasions, I grasped when I should have let go, and with the steadfastness of Icarus, I burst into flames, then ash, then water. Loss has given me the gift of perspective and age (ironically) time. Grief is merciful that way.

When I was a child, my father kept honeybees. He’d lull them to sleep with smoke while we plundered their hives. In the space of an hour, I’d taste sweet nectar, get stung by a bee, and doze in the afternoon shade. It was all there: delight, pain, oblivion.

I don’t know much, only that the same force that created that honeycomb ravaged my father’s heart — that there is salvation to be found in mystery, tiny things, and being wrong, that foreboding joy and negative sentiment override are universal wounds of humanity which we must minister to tenderly and with care — and that in time, if we do not turn towards love, we turn towards nothing.

To learn more, click here.

#The Gottman Institute #Couples Therapist #Couples Retreats #Couples Counseling #Northampton Center for Couples Therapy

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genderrise3-blog · 6 years ago

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Thoughts about Mental Health and a call for community

Observations/ Reflections

by Jenn P. | on July 9th, 2018 |

So…how are you? You doing ok? Hanging in there?

Things are tough right now, aren’t they? Tense. Tiring. Overwhelming. Scary.

The American political climate is beyond divisive at this point; it’s hostile and turbulent. Even the 4th of July felt a little different this year, didn’t it? I look around and it feels like people are having a harder time than usual. I know it to be true because of my job.

Anyway, if you’re reading this– I hope you are doing okay and taking care of yourself.

****

I’m late to discuss it, but I’m still feeling sad about Anthony Bourdain’s death. He was more than a chef, a traveler, a reporter, a TV personality, an author– he was a cultural anthropologist–opening windows to worlds most of us will never see. He introduced us not to the fanciest places around the globe, but the authentic spots run by real working people, and he was always a joy and a wonder to watch. He seemed like the kind of person who didn’t waste a second of life, even in the midst of what we can only assume was immeasurable pain.

It’s been interesting how his and Kate Spade’s deaths by suicide have opened up a much-needed conversation about mental health. Anthony Bourdain certainly inspired me to be a bolder traveler, eater and cook, but it’s in my professional work where I’ve felt his greatest impact.

Anthony Bourdain demonstrated a lot of the qualities found in a really good therapist; he was extraordinarily open-minded, completely nonjudgmental, empathic, down-to-earth, respectful of cultural norms and practices, naturally curious and one hell of a good listener. He never pulled away from people who were different than him; he moved toward them, pulled up a stool at the table and said, “Teach me”.

Sharing a meal with someone is an intimate act; it’s a way we connect, bond and share with others. Food, to me, has always felt like a universal love language. No matter where we are or where we grew up, we all have memories associated with food and how it connects to our families, our cultures and ourselves. And that was always the take-away message I got from Bourdain’s programs. Watching him try exotic international cuisine was intriguing and seductive, but it always seemed like a metaphor for the real point he was trying to make.

We’re all connected.

Sorry if that’s a little woo-woo for ya, but after ten years of community-based social work, I know it in my bones to be true. Over the years I’ve had conversations with hundreds of people who are by nearly every measure different than myself, and the experience has changed my life. There have been people who walked in my office you’d think I’d have nothing in common with– people with cultural or educational or financial backgrounds that are completely opposite of mine, people with histories dealing drugs, or working in sex industries, or gang involvement– and yet–we always ALWAYS find similarities in the ways that we think or feel.

It’s not because I’m some enlightened, revolutionary person who can talk to anyone or just naturally get along with everyone. I’m not and I don’t. It’s because all people fundamentally want the same things out of life– something to do, someone to love, a sense of purpose, a feeling of safety. We’re all so much more similar than we are different. It’s been proven to me literally hundreds and hundreds of times.

In therapy, the connection doesn’t always happen right away. Some people are harder to engage in treatment than others, and like Bourdain, many times my way in has been with food. My friends and family all know I’m obsessed with food, and so do the majority of my clients at this point. If someone is having a particularly difficult time getting started in therapy, I’ll often ask my favorite back-pocket question: “How would you describe dinner at your house growing up?” because it opens up an entire world to discover. Who was at the table? Who was missing? Was there a table? What did your family eat? Who passed down the recipes? What is the culture that influenced the dishes? Who made the meal? Who served it? Was there enough?

Like Bourdain said (in his Parts Unknown episode on Queens)– when someone shows you what they eat, they’re showing you who they are, where they come from, what makes them happy.

Several of my clients shared their feelings about the two suicides in their sessions. One person scheduled an emergency visit because she found them so triggering. Recent violent events and the U.S.’s divisive political climate also have people anxious, disheartened and upset (myself included). One client very articulately expressed his worries for the future– that he’s disturbed by what he described as “a shift away from the community”, that people feel more isolated and alone, and aren’t engaging with one another kindly the way they should.

Then he said something that I think all the time: “People aren’t able to see how connected they really are, so they disconnect out of fear.”

Isn’t that so true?

***

I’m trying to find my voice in the bigger conversation about mental health. I’ve seen a ton of posts the last few weeks about reaching out for help, calling suicide-prevention hotlines, finding a psychiatrist or therapist, dropping the stigma and finding mental health services. This will likely not be a huge problem if you have private insurance, but if you don’t– if you have Medicaid or Medicare or will have to cover the costs on a sliding scale–pick up the phone and start dialing because let me tell you, these services are getting harder and harder for people to find, and it scares me. As a mental health professional, I don’t worry as much about stigma limiting people from finding treatment. I worry about the availability of services.

I work in a community mental health clinic and we are packed to the rafters. We have nearly 50 therapists on board, and need way more hands on deck. We do not have enough office space to accommodate our current patients; we often joke about needing to build another floor. The intake line never stops ringing. I have a roster of almost 65 people, frequently do ten sessions a day and am asked every week to squeeze in more. Plenty of clinics have closed (my previous counseling center closed down after 30 years when the building they were in went co-op). Many facilities have wait lists of two weeks, three weeks, a month. Our clinic finds space right away for everyone who calls for an appointment, but our staff is stretched tight. Most skilled therapists eventually go into private practice because you can determine your own pace and the pay is better. A month ago I stepped down from my role as a supervisor because keeping a watchful eye on my own clients while also being peripherally responsible for my seven supervisees’ massive caseloads was truly stressing me out.

We are in the midst of an enormous opioid crisis– people are literally dying trying to manage their pain–but just try to get someone into a detox. There is no “holding a bed” or “making a referral” for that process (not if they have Medicaid, anyway). You send them to the hospital at the crack of dawn because beds are first-come, first-served, and even then, there’s a good chance there isn’t one available. Try again tomorrow!

Hospitals are so full they sometimes release patients who are still manic. If clients relapse or decompensate, I say a prayer and amp up our session visits, knowing it could be months before I can effectively refer them to a higher level of treatment. Many times individuals who require intensive psychiatric care find themselves homeless or in prison. There are not enough long-term psychiatric treatment options available. The biggest psychiatric hospitals in this country are our jails.

And I’m talking about New York City. We have more mental health professionals and more resources than anyone. I cannot begin to fathom what it’s like to find services in small towns. It’s not nearly enough. It’s a very, very big problem.

Well, super!!! Thanks Jenn, for that uplifting message! Now what are we supposed to do?

Here are a few things:

ADVOCATE FOR REFORM: Admittedly, in social work school I was always more interested in clinical practice than policy, but now I see just how critical it is to see things from the macro perspective, not just the micro (I sound soooo social-worky right now)

*Join Mental Health America’s Advocacy Network to receive email alerts about upcoming national campaigns to protect America’s mental health through legislative advocacy.

* Connect with NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness, which provides mental health support to millions and leads important awareness campaigns like the #StigmaFree pledge and advocacy and lobbying efforts to help promote mental well-being across the nation.

GET INFORMED. There are so many amazing resources available on the internet providing coping tools and general information about mental illness.

*The Mighty: The Mighty is a terrific digital health community created to empower and connect people facing health challenges and disabilities. Their articles are informative and help decrease stigma around physical and mental illnesses.

*Mantherapy: Mantherapy uses a heavy dose of humor to help men learn skills for coping with trauma, depression, anxiety, anger and stress. This is a really wonderful resource.

*Jen_Wellness on Instagram: My grad school bestie has an amaaaaazing instagram account (that all my friends and family are now hooked on) where she shares insightful, helpful and beautifully written posts to help people gain important skills for grounding themselves and coping with life’s stressors. This is an account that should have a million followers.

*Resources when you can’t afford therapy

GET INVOLVED. Volunteer. Go to community-based events. So many people are so isolated. Volunteer at a senior center– especially one for LGBT seniors who are less likely to have children. Adopt a veteran, who might be isolated or in a hospital.

SEEK OUT COMMUNITY: The highlight of my week is Wednesday from 12-1pm, when I run a support group for isolated adults. Everyone started out feeling anxious and uncomfortable talking to one another and for months it felt awkward as hell. But nearly three years in, members frequently call the group their “second family”. I try to teach them coping skills, but nowadays they’re too busy telling each other dirty jokes, planning lunch outings and howling with laughter to listen to me. Things get real and completely raw in that room, and I can’t express how powerful it is to watch them support, encourage, amuse and empower one another. People need each other. Check in with your people, meet new people, engage with people.

There’s a new yoga studio in my neighborhood that I keep meaning to check out called the Happie House, where they host free community potluck dinners every Friday night. How cool is that? Wouldn’t it be great if more businesses or even individuals pulled together events like this?

Can’t find it locally? Try checking in with The Big White Wall to connect with others virtually.

BE KIND TO EACH OTHER: Give others the benefit of the doubt. Reach out. Call. Hug. Shake hands. Make eye contact. When you’re checking out at the grocery store, take out your headphones and get off your phone, for fuck’s sake. Seems like no big deal, but I think maybe it is. We’re not seeing one another anymore. We’re all here together; let’s act like it.

Wave to your neighbors. Learn the name of the person who sells you your daily coffee. Take care of yourself. Take care of others. Use your big strong heart to pour love on those around you and I’ll keep trying to do the same.

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

Source: http://muchtomydelight.com/2018/07/thoughts-about-mental-health-and-a-call-for-community.html

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parkspring4-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Thoughts about Mental Health and a call for community

Observations/ Reflections

by Jenn P. | on July 9th, 2018 |

So…how are you? You doing ok? Hanging in there?

Things are tough right now, aren’t they? Tense. Tiring. Overwhelming. Scary.

Anyway, if you’re reading this– I hope you are doing okay and taking care of yourself.

****

We’re all connected.

Like Bourdain said (in his Parts Unknown episode on Queens)– when someone shows you what they eat, they’re showing you who they are, where they come from, what makes them happy.

Then he said something that I think all the time: “People aren’t able to see how connected they really are, so they disconnect out of fear.”

Isn’t that so true?

***

Well, super!!! Thanks Jenn, for that uplifting message! Now what are we supposed to do?

Here are a few things:

*Join Mental Health America’s Advocacy Network to receive email alerts about upcoming national campaigns to protect America’s mental health through legislative advocacy.

GET INFORMED. There are so many amazing resources available on the internet providing coping tools and general information about mental illness.

*Mantherapy: Mantherapy uses a heavy dose of humor to help men learn skills for coping with trauma, depression, anxiety, anger and stress. This is a really wonderful resource.

*Resources when you can’t afford therapy

Can’t find it locally? Try checking in with The Big White Wall to connect with others virtually.

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

Source: http://muchtomydelight.com/2018/07/thoughts-about-mental-health-and-a-call-for-community.html

0 notes

fae-fucker · 7 years ago

Text

Zenith: Chapter 17

Andi enters Dark Matter and it’s all dingy and weird and there’s a bunch of unexplained aliens everywhere, prompting Andi to think that nobody would recognize her even if she wore a sign on her forehead.

Meaning that her bragging about how people would kill each other to capture her in the last chapter was useless.

Thanks for wasting my time, Shinsay.

The individuals in this pub are all war veterans and very fucked up and Andi angsts about it.

“This,” Dex said, spreading his tattooed arms wide and pulling Andi from her thoughts, “is the gem of the Olen System.”

“You haven’t seen very many gems, then.”

Oh no she di-unt!

Seriously, is this supposed to be the witty banter? I’m weeping.

Dex is having a great time in this place and Andi angsts about how she prefers "solitude and silence” over going outside, which is probably the most relatable thing that’s come out of this idiot’s inner monologue so far. We also find out that she’s used to attending fancy balls, because even when the story is about space pirates, Shinsay can’t stop sucking SJM’s crusty dick.

Andi also angsts about how nasty Dark Matter is.

Bitch, I thought you were a space pirate? The Bloody Baroness? This is where you should be at home. Why are you whining like a little baby?

Apparently they’re all in one big room, but they first have to find Dex’s informant, so Andi suggests that they split up. Did they not decide on a meeting spot? God, these people are so incompetent.

Also, Andi’s team are there as well. I don’t ... I don’t even ... Why were they all worried about leaving Andi with Dex in the previous chapter?

WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

“Soyina can be a little...off-putting,” Dex said. “The two of you have that in common.”

Andi gave him her trademark glare.

“I simply meant that you can both terrify any man with a single glance.”

She flashed him her teeth.

TrADeMarK glARe

God, this dialogue could kill a man to death.

Dex bribes the bartender for info about his informant (god, all of this is so fucking stupid and badly planned), though Andi was ready to beat the info out of her.

Subtle.

“There are other ways to get information, you know,” Andi said as Dex turned back to look at her.

He threw his head back and laughed so hard, she got a glimpse of a chipped tooth in the back of his mouth. Andi was pleased to see it. She’d broken it with her elbow long ago, and it was worth the tiny scar she still had as a trophy.That was the day she’d completely disarmed him during training for the first time. The day that led to their first kiss, which led to more kisses, and a night spent...

“Why are you laughing?” Andi growled.

Dex held out a hand for her to pass by, feigning courtesy she knew he didn’t possess. “There’s one thing you never did learn from me, Androma.”

“Loyalty?” Andi asked. “How to keep my mouth shut?”

“No.” Dex patted her on the cheek, then sidestepped her swing at his face. “How to have fun.”

I had to read that, and now so do you.

Also, that implies that Andi learned it from somebody else and that Dex doesn’t actually know how to have fun. Which the book seems to realize, based on Andi’s reply.

It also implies that Dex thinks bribing people is ... fun?

We switch to Dex’s POV.

The last time he’d seen Soyina, they’d shared three bottles of Griss and locked themselves in the bathroom of a wealthy Tenebran’ s mansion until morning.

The night had been glorious, but when he’d woken the next day, his Krevs were missing, and his pants along with them. He was tied to the golden toilet pipes, all his glory out for the poor servants to see.

HIS GLORY

I’M CACKLING

Can someone please take the word “glory” and “glorious” from Shinsay? To stop them from using them in quick succession if nothing else.

And of course, despite Dex being an alien, I guess he’s got universally compatible junk? How convenient.

Soyina has “migratory” tattoos, which change location constantly. Not really tattoos then, are they?

Soyina wants to take a proper look at Andi, but:

Andi didn’t move, a silent statue in the darkness.

As opposed to a ... very chatty statue, I suppose.

Dex is worried that his two hot, dangerous exes will team up and fuck shit up together. But we all know that’s far too cool for Shinsay.

Soyina demands to see Andi’s dumb face in exchange for help, because

Soyina had a passion for darkness, and Androma Racella’s soul was the darkest of them all.

I’m gonna piss my fucking pants.

Of course, both Soyina and Dex admire how hot Andi is, and Soyina (whom I’ll just call Soy from now on) reveals that she knows that Andi is the Bloody Baroness, which is apparently a secret because Andi acts surprised.

I’m ... I’m so fucking confused, y’all.

Turns out that Soy works for Nor as one of the torturers on Lunamere, and Soy asks Andi if she’s ever tortured anyone and how good she’d be at it because she carries all this DAAAHKNESS inside her.

I can’t believe two adult women wrote this in all seriousness. Are we sure they’re not taking the piss?

Soy waxes orgasmic about how fun torture is, and reveals that she’s also a Revivalist, which means that she can bring people back from the dead as long as no more than three minutes has passed since the time of death.

How does she do that? Uuuuuh “with science, dear girl!”

No, really. That’s exactly what we get for an explanation.

Ya didn’t even try there, huh.

Also, if Andi is young enough for Soy to call her “girl,” how old is Soy? Did she bone down a much younger man with Dex? Damn, Soy here is a cougar. Or a felon. I guess she for sure is the second, being a torturer for a dictator and all.

Dex’s head was beginning to spin, wondering how he’d ever taken an interest in a woman who was so clearly off her axis.

He glanced sideways at Andi.

Two women, then.

Shinsay, beating the reader with their 500-page book: THEY’RE BRUTAL AND EDGY!! DID YOU GET THAT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?! YOU WORTHLESS, SPINELESS SLUG?! ADMIRE THEM!! BE IN AWE!! SO BRUTAL AND EDGY!! BLOODTHIRST AND ANGER!! ARARARARARARARARAR!

Anywhoo, half of Soy’s payment for helping them has already been sent to her, but the other half is ... Well, this:

“I haven’t forgotten...” Dex felt heat sliding into his cheeks as he glanced sideways at Andi, then back at Soyina. “The other part of your payment, you’ll receive...”

“Now,” Soyina said, smiling like a predator. Her lips pressed together in a pout as she saw the look of horror on Dex’s face. “A deal’s a deal, bounty hunter. I’ll be waiting.” She stood up from the table, her chair scraping against the floor as she walked away.

Dex watched her slip into the bathroom, waggling a finger at him as she disappeared behind the closed door.

Who wouldn’t want to fuck this guy in the public bathroom of the most disgusting pub in the galaxy?

Imagine his face right next to yours. Innit a dream come true?

“You can’t be serious,” Andi said, her face aghast. “You’re actually paying her with...”

“I’m not paying her. I’m simply offering her memories,” Dex said. He stood up, mussing his hair with a hand as he backed away from the table. “You should know, Androma, how much fun five minutes with me can be.”

“Three minutes,” she said. “On a good day.”

1) Sounds a lot like Soy thinks you’re paying her.

2) Shinsay, if you’re not mature enough to let your characters say the word “sex,” then maybe don’t write about sex. When they constantly make references to their nights of passion but you won’t even let them say the word, it looks kind of childish, like you want the prestige of your characters being sexy and mature but can’t say the word because it’s too dirty. Just a thought.

We go back to Andi’s POV, and Soy, no joke, calls Andi “Dark Heart” while they discuss the Lunamere prison.

Shinsay ... bleapse ... stop this ...

There were no elevators to reach the seventeen floors of the prison, and each stairwell would only allow them to descend one level. Andi and Dex would have to traverse the entirety of each hall—and dispatch any guards they encountered—in order to reach the next stairwell down.

This sounds like incredibly dumb and inconvenient design but I guess Shinsay really want that cool action movie shot of their two faves fighting through SEVENTEEN corridors of guards, because I bet Valen will be on the lowest level.

Andi angsts.

In her mind, she saw herself four years ago, seated on a marble bench while hundreds of Arcardian soldiers stared back at her. Classmates, who now hissed her name like a curse. Teachers and trainers, whose bodies were rigid with hatred for her failure.

She saw a silver gavel gripped in an angry fist, the boom as it came down like a war hammer. The general’s twisted expression as he stared down at her, and Kalee’ s mother with tears in her eyes, a sadness burning so deep that it scalded like the still-fresh lacerations on Andi’s wrist.

Guilty, the judge had intoned. Guilty of treason.

So ... if a bodyguard and a general’s daughter get in an accident and the daughter dies ... Why is the bodyguard accused of treason?

It was an accident. Also, treason implies that the general is the leader of the country/planet, and that Andi tried to murder him. But that’s not what happened. Andi didn’t deliberately try to murder him, she was in an accident which killed his daughter, who was a dear friend of hers.

I doubt that Shinsay are trying to imply that Andi’s sentence is the work of some corrupted officials who wanted her dead for some reason (which would explain only some of the stupidity), so none of this makes any goddamn sense.

The plan involves Andi and Dex offering themselves up for the prison guards to just take them in, getting locked up in separate but conveniently close cells, and Soy getting them out of there so they can find Valen within an hour, before Soy sounds the alarm to save herself from Nor’s wrath and not look like an accomplice.

Now ... y’all don’t need me to explain how stupid this sounds, do you?

We’ll see if their plan really is this dumb before I start ranting for real.

The prison only has one entrance and one exit -- the former is for the prisoners, the latter for the corpses. Andi and Dex are supposed to exit, with Valen, through the latter.

“That, my dear friends, is my playground. My palace of pain. The prisoners come in, and I pick and choose the tools that will make them sing. And when they die? They go out that doorway on a transport ship. Up and away, out to float with the stars.”

God, Soy is so fucking edgy, we get it, Shinsay.

Andi hates that she’s so edgy, because Andi has a pure soul.

[Andi] killed to stay safe, to keep her crew alive when all the other options ran out. Afterward, she meditated and mourned the deaths. In sleep, the faces of the dead haunted her. But Soyina smiled about stealing lives, as if each death only upped her pride.

SHINSAY YOU CAN’T HAVE YOUR CAKE AND FUCK IT TOO.

IS SHE A RUTHLESS, BLOODTHIRSTY MURDERER OR IS SHE A SAD WOOBIE WHO HATES WHAT SHE DOES!? SHE CAN’T BE BOTH THE PROUD AND EPIC BLOODY BARONESS AND A SMOL BEAN WHO JUST WANTS TO MAKE IT ALL STOP.

YOU FUCKING HACKS.

Andi asks if Soy can smuggle in their weapons, and Soy is like “my mind is my weapon my good bitch,” which makes Andi think about how she’d totally beat her in a fistfight.

Alright, Andi, put your dick away.

“My cuffs,” Andi said, glancing down at them, “cannot be removed. You’ll see to it that they stay intact.”

Not a question. Rather, a demand.

If they can’t be removed, what does Soy have to do with them staying intact?

I swom to jon.

Andi thinks this is all too easy (you don’t say?) and asks Soy why she’s helping them. Soy and her family were apparently visiting the Olen system when the war began, and the Unified Systems refused them reentry in fear of them being spies, so they were forced to stay in the Olen system and join the war.

So uuuh ... how old is Soy? Cuz her fucking Dex is kinda gross now that I think about it.

“[...] Many would think my allegiance would still be to the Unified Systems, that I would hate the Olen System even more for forcing us to fight in a war against our own home planets. At first, I did hate Olen. But my allegiances changed when I saw what the Unified Systems put the people of Olen through for nearly a decade.” She sighed. “Ah, well. I guess I’m considering this job a chance to leave Olen behind, head back to what was once my home and rally for change in my own ways.”

Can someone please explain to me how this answers Andi’s question?

Cuz I still have no fucking idea what her motivation for helping them is, and I’ve read this paragraph at least five fucking times.

Does she want to return to the Unified Systems, which she hates, to rally for change to help the Olen system, which forced her to fight for them in a war she wasn’t a part of?

And how exactly will helping these people get Soy out of Olen, when she’s clearly planning to stay in Nor’s good graces and enjoys her work as a torturer?

What the fuck?

Soy makes a joke about how no matter what happens to Dex and Andi, they’ll be meeting her in the corpse pile one way or another.

Cold dread slithered its way up and down Andi’s spine.

Dead or alive. Andi hoped for the latter.

Uhh ... Thanks for ... clarifying?

She winked at Dex. Before she left, she leaned down and whispered into Andi’s ear.

“We didn’t, by the way. Earlier, I mean. Your comrade wanted to whine like a baby about his feelings for you.”

Oh my god. Are you telling me that this badass war veteran and torturer and necromancer accepted Dex’s whiny manpain as payment instead of a quick fuck?

Shinsay, you goddamn hacks. Are you too cowardly to make Dex fuck anyone else than Andi, to make him sell his body?

Cheap and garbage. That’s what your book is.

Goddamn cowards.

Soy leaves and then Dex asks Andi if she trusts him. Her heart flutters or whatever, but she says no, which Dex approves of. He tells her to play along with him and then this happens:

He grinned like he was holding on to a secret.

Then he lurched forward and, in one sweeping movement, mashed his lips up against hers.

Non-consensual kissing?

Happy Valentine’s Day, motherfuckers.

#eff reads: zenith #book rants

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memozing · 5 years ago

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#online learning

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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It was in 1886 that the German pharmacologist, Louis Lewin, published the first systematic study of the cactus, to which his own name was subsequently given. Anhalonium lewinii was new to science. To primitive religion and the Indians of Mexico and the American Southwest it was a friend of immemorially long standing. Indeed, it was much more than a friend. In the words of one of the early Spanish visitors to the New World, “they eat a root which they call peyote, and which they venerate as though it were a deity.”

Why they should have venerated it as a deity became apparent when such eminent psychologists as Jaensch, Havelock Ellis and Weir Mitchell began their experiments with mescalin, the active principle of peyote. True, they stopped short at a point well this side of idolatry; but all concurred in assigning to mescalin a position among drugs of unique distinction. Administered in suitable doses, it changes the quality of consciousness more profoundly and yet is less toxic than any other substance in the pharmacologist’s repertory.

Mescalin research has been going on sporadically ever since the days of Lewin and Havelock Ellis. Chemists have not merely isolated the alkaloid; they have learned how to synthesize it, so that the supply no longer depends on the sparse and intermittent crop of a desert cactus. Alienists have dosed themselves with mescalin in the hope thereby of coming to a better, a first-hand, understanding of their patients’ mental processes. Working unfortunately upon too few subjects within too narrow a range of circumstances, psychologists have observed and catalogued some of the drug’s more striking effects. Neurologists and physiologists have found out something about the mechanism of its action upon the central nervous system. And at least one Professional philosopher has taken mescalin for the light it may throw on such ancient, unsolved riddles as the place of mind in nature and the relationship between brain and consciousness.

There matters rested until, two or three years ago, a new and perhaps highly significant fact was observed.* Actually the fact had been staring everyone in the face for several decades; but nobody, as it happened, had noticed it until a Young English psychiatrist, at present working in Canada, was struck by the close similarity, in chemical composition, between mescalin and adrenalin. Further research revealed that lysergic acid, an extremely potent hallucinogen derived from ergot, has a structural biochemical relationship to the others. Then came the discovery that adrenochrome, which is a product of the decomposition of adrenalin, can produce many of the symptoms observed in mescalin intoxication. But adrenochrome probably occurs spontaneously in the human body. In other words, each one of us may be capable of manufacturing a chemical, minute doses of which are known to cause Profound changes in consciousness. Certain of these changes are similar to those which occur in that most characteristic plague of the twentieth century, schizophrenia. Is the mental disorder due to a chemical disorder? And is the chemical disorder due, in its turn, to psychological distresses affecting the adrenals? It would be rash and premature to affirm it. The most we can say is that some kind of a prima facie case has been made out. Meanwhile the clue is being systematically followed, the sleuths–biochemists , psychiatrists, psychologists–are on the trail.

By a series of, for me, extremely fortunate circumstances I found myself, in the spring of 1953, squarely athwart that trail. One of the sleuths had come on business to California. In spite of seventy years of mescalin research, the psychological material at his disposal was still absurdly inadequate, and he was anxious to add to it. I was on the spot and willing, indeed eager, to be a guinea pig. Thus it came about that, one bright May morning, I swallowed four-tenths of a gram of mescalin dissolved in half a glass of water and sat down to wait for the results.

We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies–all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.

Most island universes are sufficiently like one another to permit of inferential understanding or even of mutual empathy or “feeling into.” Thus, remembering our own bereavements and humiliations, we can condole with others in analogous circumstances, can put ourselves (always, of course, in a slightly Pickwickian sense) in their places. But in certain cases communication between universes is incomplete or even nonexistent. The mind is its own place, and the Places inhabited by the insane and the exceptionally gifted are so different from the places where ordinary men and women live, that there is little or no common ground of memory to serve as a basis for understanding or fellow feeling. Words are uttered, but fail to enlighten. The things and events to which the symbols refer belong to mutually exclusive realms of experience.

To see ourselves as others see us is a most salutary gift. Hardly less important is the capacity to see others as they see themselves. But what if these others belong to a different species and inhabit a radically alien universe? For example, how can the sane get to know what it actually feels like to be mad? Or, short of being born again as a visionary, a medium, or a musical genius, how can we ever visit the worlds which, to Blake, to Swedenborg, to Johann Sebastian Bach, were home? And how can a man at the extreme limits of ectomorphy and cerebrotonia ever put himself in the place of one at the limits of endomorphy and viscerotonia, or, except within certain circumscribed areas, share the feelings of one who stands at the limits of mesomorphy and somatotonia? To the unmitigated behaviorist such questions, I suppose, are meaningless. But for those who theoretically believe what in practice they know to be true–namely, that there is an inside to experience as well as an outside–the problems posed are real problems, all the more grave for being, some completely insoluble, some soluble only in exceptional circumstances and by methods not available to everyone. Thus, it seems virtually certain that I shall never know what it feels like to be Sir John Falstaff or Joe Louis. On the other hand, it had always seemed to me possible that, through hypnosis, for example, or autohypnosis, by means of systematic meditation, or else by taking the appropriate drug, I might so change my ordinary mode of consciousness as to be able to know, from the inside, what the visionary, the medium, even the mystic were talking about.

From what I had read of the mescalin experience I was convinced in advance that the drug would admit me, at least for a few hours, into the kind of inner world described by Blake and AE. But what I had expected did not happen. I had expected to lie with my eyes shut, looking at visions of many-colored geometries, of animated architectures, rich with gems and fabulously lovely, of landscapes with heroic figures, of symbolic dramas trembling perpetually on the verge of the ultimate revelation. But I had not reckoned, it was evident, with the idiosyncrasies of my mental make-up, the facts of my temperament, training and habits.

I am and, for as long as I can remember, I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. No hypnagogic visions greet me on the verge of sleep. When I recall something, the memory does not present itself to me as a vividly seen event or object. By an effort of the will, I can evoke a not very vivid image of what happened yesterday afternoon, of how the Lungarno used to look before the bridges were destroyed, of the Bayswater Road when the only buses were green and tiny and drawn by aged horses at three and a half miles an hour. But such images have little substance and absolutely no autonomous life of their own. They stand to real, perceived objects in the same relation as Homer’s ghosts stood to the men of flesh and blood, who came to visit them in the shades. Only when I have a high temperature do my mental images come to independent life. To those in whom the faculty of visualization is strong my inner world must seem curiously drab, limited and uninteresting. This was the world–a poor thing but my own–which I expected to see transformed into something completely unlike itself.

The change which actually took place in that world was in no sense revolutionary. Half an hour after swallowing the drug I became aware of a slow dance of golden lights. A little later there were sumptuous red surfaces swelling and expanding from bright nodes of energy that vibrated with a continuously changing, patterned life. At another time the closing of my eyes revealed a complex of gray structures, within which pale bluish spheres kept emerging into intense solidity and, having emerged, would slide noiselessly upwards, out of sight. But at no time were there faces or forms of men or animals. I saw no landscapes, no enormous spaces, no magical growth and metamorphosis of buildings, nothing remotely like a drama or a parable. The other world to which mescalin admitted me was not the world of visions; it existed out there, in what I could see with my eyes open. The great change was in the realm of objective fact. What had happened to my subjective universe was relatively unimportant.

I took my pill at eleven. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in my study, looking intently at a small glass vase. The vase contained only three flowers-a full-blown Belie of Portugal rose, shell pink with a hint at every petal’s base of a hotter, flamier hue; a large magenta and cream-colored carnation; and, pale purple at the end of its broken stalk, the bold heraldic blossom of an iris. Fortuitous and provisional, the little nosegay broke all the rules of traditional good taste. At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colors. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation-the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.

“Is it agreeable?” somebody asked. (During this Part of the experiment, all conversations were recorded on a dictating machine, and it has been possible for me to refresh my memory of what was said.)

“Neither agreeable nor disagreeable,” I answered. “it just is.”

Istigkeit–wasn’t that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? “Is-ness.” The Being of Platonic philosophy– except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the Idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were–a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.

I continued to look at the flowers, and in their living light I seemed to detect the qualitative equivalent of breathing–but of a breathing without returns to a starting point, with no recurrent ebbs but only a repeated flow from beauty to heightened beauty, from deeper to ever deeper meaning. Words like “grace” and “transfiguration” came to my mind, and this, of course, was what, among other things, they stood for. My eyes traveled from the rose to the carnation, and from that feathery incandescence to the smooth scrolls of sentient amethyst which were the iris. The Beatific Vision, Sat Chit Ananda, Being-Awareness-Bliss-for the first time I understood, not on the verbal level, not by inchoate hints or at a distance, but precisely and completely what those prodigious syllables referred to. And then I remembered a passage I had read in one of Suzuki’s essays. “What is the Dharma-Body of the Buddha?” (‘”the Dharma-Body of the Buddha” is another way of saying Mind, Suchness, the Void, the Godhead.) The question is asked in a Zen monastery by an earnest and bewildered novice. And with the prompt irrelevance of one of the Marx Brothers, the Master answers, “The hedge at the bottom of the garden.” “And the man who realizes this truth,” the novice dubiously inquires, ‘”what, may I ask, is he?” Groucho gives him a whack over the shoulders with his staff and answers, “A golden-haired lion.”

It had been, when I read it, only a vaguely pregnant piece of nonsense. Now it was all as clear as day, as evident as Euclid. Of course the Dharma-Body of the Buddha was the hedge at the bottom of the garden. At the same time, and no less obviously, it was these flowers, it was anything that I–or rather the blessed Not-I, released for a moment from my throttling embrace–cared to look at. The books, for example, with which my study walls were lined. Like the flowers, they glowed, when I looked at them, with brighter colors, a profounder significance. Red books, like rubies; emerald books; books bound in white jade; books of agate; of aquamarine, of yellow topaz; lapis lazuli books whose color was so intense, so intrinsically meaningful, that they seemed to be on the point of leaving the shelves to thrust themselves more insistently on my attention.

“What about spatial relationships?” the investigator inquired, as I was looking at the books.

It was difficult to answer. True, the perspective looked rather odd, and the walls of the room no longer seemed to meet in right angles. But these were not the really important facts. The really important facts were that spatial relationships had ceased to matter very much and that my mind was perceiving the world in terms of other than spatial categories. At ordinary times the eye concerns itself with such problems as Where?–How far? How situated in relation to what? In the mescalin experience the implied questions to which the eye responds are of another order. Place and distance cease to be of much interest. The mind does its Perceiving in terms of intensity of existence, profundity of significance, relationships within a pattern. I saw the books, but was not at all concerned with their positions in space. What I noticed, what impressed itself upon my mind was the fact that all of them glowed with living light and that in some the glory was more manifest than in others. In this context position and the three dimensions were beside the point. Not, of course, that the category of space had been abolished. When I got up and walked about, I could do so quite normally, without misjudging the whereabouts of objects. Space was still there; but it had lost its predominance. The mind was primarily concerned, not with measures and locations, but with being and meaning.

And along with indifference to space there went an even more complete indifference to time.

“There seems to be plenty of it,” was all I would answer, when the investigator asked me to say what I felt about time.

Plenty of it, but exactly how much was entirely irrelevant. I could, of course, have looked at my watch; but my watch, I knew, was in another universe. My actual experience had been, was still, of an indefinite duration or alternatively of a perpetual present made up of one continually changing apocalypse.

From the books the investigator directed my attention to the furniture. A small typing table stood in the center of the room; beyond it, from my point of view, was a wicker chair and beyond that a desk. The three pieces formed an intricate pattern of horizontals, uprights and diagonals–a pattern all the more interesting for not being interpreted in terms of spatial relationships. Table, chair and desk came together in a composition that was like something by Braque or Juan Gris, a still life recognizably related to the objective world, but rendered without depth, without any attempt at photographic realism. I was looking at my furniture, not as the utilitarian who has to sit on chairs, to write at desks and tables, and not as the cameraman or scientific recorder, but as the pure aesthete whose concern is only with forms and their relationships within the field of vision or the picture space. But as I looked, this purely aesthetic, Cubist’s-eye view gave place to what I can only describe as the sacramental vision of reality. I was back where I had been when I was looking at the flowers-back in a world where everything shone with the Inner Light, and was infinite in its significance. The legs, for example, of that chair–how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their poilished smoothness! I spent several minutes–or was it several centuries?–not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them—or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for “I” was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were “they”) being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.

+ See the following papers: “Schizophrenia. A New Approach.” By Humphry Osmond and John Smythies. Journal of Mental Science. Vol. XCVIII. April, 1952.

“On Being Mad.” By Humphry Osmond. Saskarchewan Psychiatric Services Journal. Vol. I. No. 2. September. 1952.

“The Mescalin Phenomena.” By John Smythies. The British Journal of the Philosophy of Science. Vol. III. February, 1953.

“Schizophrenia: A New Approach.” By Abeam Hoffer, Humphry Osmond and John Smythies. journal of Mental Science. Vol. C. No. 418. January, 1954.

Numerous other papers on the biochemistry, pharmacology, psychology and neurophysiology of schizophrenia sad the mescalin phenomena are in preparation.

#DoorsofPerception

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