#the sun gaslighting me into believing life is worth living

[bad-hobbit]

i might be depressed, suicidal and anxious but at least i was born in the south. i do believe the sun saves my life everyday.

[darlingpwease]

Oh dear just trying find some more Yandere Xie lian

... words are modest enough to work, but we can work with it /pos

the flower and the butterfly

you're too stunning; how did someone like me get you?

𔓘 unhealthy behaviour (mutual dependency, gaslighting, clinginess, obsessiveness, possessiveness, manipulation), mild religious themes (worshipping, allusions), abandonment issues, touch starvation, domestic routine, forced relationship / kidnapping if you squint [?]

𔓘 heavy petting, rough sex, hypersexuality, role playing, CNC, mild primal kink, body worship (r.), praise (r.), hyperstimulation (g.), fingering (g.), breeding (g.), mild cum inflation (g.)

Xie Lian was mind-blowing. Not only in his appearance or behavior, which made him look like a timid coquette or a charming maiden, but also in the fact that you definitely do not want to test either his patience or his nerves, especially if you know him from the time when he was His Highness the 'eccentric' Crown Prince, who loves bright clothes and funny conversations, in which his warm hands were always reaching out to you, as if you were a continuation of his own body, — and you must admit that little has changed since that time, at least for you.

Xie Lian was still as charming and full of life, it's just that his temperament and disposition became colder and easier — for anyone but you, however. He still loved physical activities and delicious food, he still loved to emotionally warm and take care of you, he still allowed you to guide him and relied on you to solve logical problems, trusting your advice and words — and did not forget to wrap around you like a vine around another firmly standing plant, and the fact that his figure was just as flexible and slender, while soft palms could rest on your shoulders or chest, only made you feel even more as if you were hugging the first beauty of the Celestial Empire.

... Xie Lian did not like solitude or mundane things, the 'earth' that could pollute, — rather, he was that social aerial butterfly who loved to fly from flower to flower, despite how down-to-earth and firmly standing he was. At least not before.

Previously, he valued his status highly, worried about people's opinions, was afraid of public discussion and was more like the very flower that wanted to attract attention to itself, blooming stronger and stronger than a butterfly. Rather, you were the butterfly — the one who was able to attract the attention of a beautiful and alluring, but unable to move flower, only trying to grab you and lock you in, so that you would not go anywhere else. But for you, he has always been a fragile but luxurious flower, which you took care of as the apple of your eye, taking care that no one plucked and turned him over — after all, you have been with him since childhood, his most faithful companion, so it was natural that you were especially deep and intense related to him; so much so that no one even understood how you manage to be so synchronized and mutually supportive at the same time, as if it is worth separating you, you both will die even at dawn if cannot be sure that will meet again soon, but if you believe, you will never die before see each other again.

You couldn't deny that you spoiled Xie Lian with your determination mixed with almost imperiousness, while Xie Lian gave you too much of this unconditional acceptance and warmth for you to just give it up. He was everything, your everything, but it was nothing strange — nothing more than the relationship of a butterfly and the sun.

You only found out that your 'sun' was a flycatcher when the petals closed over you, leaving you inside forever.

Xie Lian valued social status most of all, always cared highly about people's opinions, was always afraid of 'what people would think', he lived for people. But when he was really bad, only you stayed and didn't go anywhere, even if the scratches from his nails still sometimes hurt like a phantom on your skin, — you will never dare to blame him, seeing with your own eyes how something breaks that you swore to protect your whole life, and that you won't give up no matter what. Because that's your goal. You will never give up, even if it means dying.

Xie Lian also knows that it is he who will protect all the time that he will have, no matter how little or much.

You have always affectionately almost teased him for how driven he is and easily obeys your will, like a duckling following a parent duck, but he also learned a lot during the time you guarded his back from attacks and shielded him from words. You were always in front so that he could follow you, keeping and guarding. You've always told him that as long as you breathe, nothing and no one can hurt him unless you die.

Butterflies are not meant for a harsh life. Butterflies should fly, eat nectar and dance in the air. Xie Lian loved butterflies and he loved you. And he never hid any of this, even if the second fact definitely confused you and made you brush it off when he brought you flowers or peeled fruit with a playful smile, 'as if you couldn't do it yourself' or 'as if you were a person of royal status'. Xie Lian never denied it, even though he knew it wasn't true.

You were his Deity.

His Everything.

And when the petals close, plunging you into eternal darkness, he knows what he's doing. After all, a sun like you is able to hold and shine even in the deepest nights, and it promises that you will not go out.

Never

You are the most precious thing he has left

𔓘 Xie Lian is very clingy — from the day you first met, bumping into the burning gaze of beautiful eyes, and until the very last day, which is never destined to come, he is always by your side just as you are by his side. Xie Lian hates to separate — never — and is always looking for reasons why you should stay together. Contrary to his gentle introversion, he feels really good only when he holds you in his arms or when your hand rests on his waist — and never in other cases. His pure adoring gaze never leaves your figure, fearing that one day you will leave him or leave him, no matter whether by your own will or someone else's, and he will never allow this — and the fact that there is no one in the world who could be his competitor or rival, given his strength, only makes the situation even worse for any of your attempts to leave his side at least for a moment.

When his slender elegant fingers take you by the shoulders, entwine around your waist, gently take your arm, wrap your fingers, or when his nose burrows into your neck, buries itself in your thigh, finds peace on your lap or hides rosy cheeks in your chest, — you know that you have no chance to get out of his sticky, strong embrace, as if your body was first his and then yours, “just like my heart...”

Xie Lian never allows you to leave him even for a moment — if there is a need for you to be disconnected, then he will rather give up everything than let you go. Not you. So many people have already left him — he won't survive if you leave too. Please. You're the only thing he needs. He feels so good. Isn't he good enough? Why do you want to leave? Isn't your cute little house perfect? Isn't the backyard garden laid out for you delightful? Isn't the way you live an ideal for you too? No, you can't. You have to be there.

Always.

You both gave up everything you had to stay together.

You promised that you would follow him in life and in death, for better or for worse. You are his and he is yours. And the fact that his hands never leave you, and his gaze never comes down from you, only confirms this. After all, can you refuse him? You swore — officially and unofficially; you followed him on sunny days and rainy days, through rivers of blood and deadly storms, when he was loved and when he was hated, but your will, mind and heart were adamant, despite fleeting thoughts and desires that could disturb you. And now you want to leave him?

It's your responsibility. It's your duty. You can never leave him.

... This is an order.

𔓘 Even if Xie Lian can sometimes fall into capriciously childish, desperate attempts to keep you, if he sees that you are trying to brush him off or want to leave him, no matter under what pretext, using his authority as the 'crown prince' and having a chance to make childish tantrums if you are too overwhelming and he knows that it will be effective — but otherwise, if Xie Lian is not subordinate, he is, at most, democratic and ready to share responsibility with you. Otherwise, he prefers to follow you in an almost 'sacrificial' manner and go wherever you tell him or wherever you go. If you say go west, he won't even look east; if you say sugar is black, he won't even think about saying it's white.

Despite his emotional playfulness and slight eccentricity associated with the desire to get emotional feedback, Xie Lian never seeks to take away power or responsibility from you, entrusting himself into your hands like a fluffy fragile cat who is sure that you will take care of him exactly as he deserves, and knowing perfectly well that even if your treatment will be 'unfair', then it will mean that he was bad and must improve.

Undoubtedly, he will be offended and will try to get fair treatment, but if you insist, he will only nod and obey. He is not someone who is interested in a power struggle or a change of power dynamics in a relationship — being behind you and with you is much better than against you or ahead of you. Xie Lian has never had any difficulties helping you and presenting things, even if it is clearly morally wrong or aggressive actions, — despite his peacefulness, there are things that are above the norms of morality or understanding of ordinary realities.

And there is nothing special that you are this 'thing'.

The flower never condemns the butterfly for what it does before it gets on the flower, or what it did while it was on the flower.

You are caring and affectionate enough, giving him small gifts (especially things that remind you of the past, like familiar flowers or small hairpins that he would definitely have worn in the past, even if he now mostly keeps them as his most precious things) and taking care of those household chores that he cannot, trying to preserve the memory of his beloved mother through the absence of such 'ordinary' skills, and you accept him as he is — while he accepts you as you are, without objections and questions.

You've been together for more than eight hundred years — doesn't that mean you've already had a diamond wedding eight times, even if you're still not married?

“It doesn't matter,” Xie Lian purrs softly when you point this out, hiding his face in your chest, wrapping his strong thin arms around your waist like a warmed cat. “If you want, we can officially get married. But we're not going anywhere from each other anyway.”

You have nothing to say to him. Having given up everything that was, following your impulse, entrusting everything to him when Xie Lian gave you everything he had in despair, so that you would not abandon him — you could no longer imagine your life without him, you did not know how to live without him. Just like he is without you.

You yourself do not notice when you become as close as a married couple; when it becomes natural for you to stroke his head on your lap, braid his hair and weave flowers and ribbons there, when you let him take care of your hairstyle and clothes, when you absentmindedly adjust the bandages on your hands — the same as at him — or look at him, leaning your shoulder against the door jamb, while he happily hums, doing his thing, although you are sure that out of the corner of your eye he is still watching you. When he hugs you on the back while cooking, takes care of your house and garden, watches you mend clothes or sweep while he fixes doors and windows; when Xie Lian hugs you in a dream, nervously enthusiastically huddles with a shy giggle while he thinks you are asleep, or briefly kisses your cheek before going to bed, and you are sure that he thinks that you are asleep, but you do not have the courage to try to even gently stop him.

In the end, there is no need for this — he has already become like a husband to you for a long time anyway, giving you his body, heart and mind, and you can only accept and give in return, taking care that Xie Lian knows that you love him and take care of him, no matter what.

𔓘 It doesn't matter to him what your sexual preferences are. Do you like dick? Do you like pussy? Are you top? Are you bottom? It doesn't matter — Xie Lian is always ready to meet you in any position and in any form, as long as he feels that you are as excited as he is, even if at first you can be sure that he is 'innocent' and 'pure', given his external and internal manifestation and attitude. But even if you are the first for him in every sense, he knows what he is doing and what he should do — more as an instinct than as a theory or, moreover, practice, although he is not above eavesdropping or fleetingly asking even when he was Crown Prince.

He is in a strong connection with his body and knows what can excite him or how to please even a lying log — especially if you are less sexually active or need a long warm-up — and even if the violent blush does not leave his cheeks while he nervously touches your body, openly admiring, Xie Lian gives his best until he feels that you seize the initiative and get involved in the process, digging your fingers into his hips while his stomach takes your shape and gives you a view of you inside him, feeling how wet and tight he is even if he can't help but hiding face behind hands, whining and moaning your name, mumbling something like 'deeper' and 'stronger' mixed with 'yes yes like that' and 'please please please' when you press his face into the pillow while fucking him.

His body is more than responsive and sensitive to you, and even if you pull his hair, spit in his mouth, spank and leave bites and hickeys all over his body, Xie Lian looks at you with adoration and worship, constantly thanking and admiring, as if unable to shut up from euphoria and delight, screaming your name and 'how good it feels' for him even while he is drooling and almost crying, trembling all over, but unable to stop squeezing and wrapping strong legs around your hips, locking you inside his supple heat.

No matter what, Xie Lian will never stop worshipping you, and during sex it gets even worse, as if the way his pussy or dick drips and practically makes a puddle even on the sheets is not enough — but when you just push inside once and he immediately comes, writhing on you, gasping for air, digging his fingers into your skin while his body tries to recover, and begs you not to stop, even though you see how sensitive Xie Lian is still, you try to be gentle to him, massaging his body until you drive inside at a confident but gradual pace, letting his wet tight walls get used to you inside and stop squeezing and massaging you so convulsively, as if he worships you, shamelessly begging you to never leave him and stay forever in this position, is not enough.

At first you try not to be too passionate and persistent, but by the end you are more likely someone who needs careful care and rest than he is — it's hard to exhaust someone so enduring and enthusiastic about the fact that he is with you like Xie Lian, even if you try to keep up with him, giving all of yourself, but in the end you are almost always on the more vulnerable side than him if you let him be on you before you spent enough time to prepare and his exhaustion, kissing and licking, stretching his wet squelching walls until you make sure that at least at about the same level after a couple of orgasms, watching as he tries obsessively trying to snuggle up to you and take you in — but can only stay under you, feeling how your fingers fuck him while you try to satisfy him with your tongue, assuring that you are only 'preparing him', although you both know that this is only an attempt to superficially satisfy him even before the beginning.

And the way Xie Lian jumps on you, impulsively kissing mixed with bites and purring about how good it is for him and that you are both perfect for each other, you are exactly one, only further assures you that you can just lean back and enjoy seeing how his juices and sperm flow down your skin until his body can't stop moving, as if his life depends on it — and how sweetly painfully he whines when you abruptly turn him over and take control of the rhythm, driving into his supple soft body, looking for any intimacy and connection with you.

Damn it, you are sure that one day you will become just one with him if he continues to squeeze you just as adoringly and as if trying to suck you inside while you stretch him with squelching wet sounds, hearing only encouragement and delight no matter what.

𔓘 Xie Lian can spend hours biting, kissing, licking and playing with your body.

In general, the prospect of staying in bed with you all day does not bother him at all — perhaps even thousands of years will not be enough for him to show and tell you how perfect and amazing you are, and how enthusiastic and hot he is does not help too much when his soft hands explore your body, rubbing and 'warming' in every sense, he is much less shy and ruddy than before, — which makes you wonder how much sincerity or games were in all his words to excite you, — especially when he almost shamelessly bares his body, as if proud of your love marks, even if just a few hours ago Xie Lian was blushing crimson, hiding face behind by hand, shyly taking your hand while you were rubbing between his thighs, stimulating yourself rather than him, since it is always wet and slippery between his soft thighs, as if even your palm between them is enough to make him aroused and ready, without needing any other simulation at all.

There's nothing awkward (or at least not awkward enough for him to refuse) for him to show you his body; even if Xie Lian doesn't think he's the most attractive, his body is what always turns you on, and he knows it, even if he can't figure it out. If you adored your body, it would make more sense to him than your strange passion for his own, but Xie Lian does not complain at all, secretly enjoying the fact that you find his imperfect body so exciting, even if he still turns to things like beautiful erotic underwear and devices like a collar or role-playing games to to excite you.

Some of these games excite and stimulate even more than sex itself — especially when you senselessly breed him outside your house, giving yourself to confirm your right to his beautiful tender body, biting and pressing into the ground until his knees weaken, becoming nothing more than prey in your hands, even if he is in any moment can get out, it doesn't matter whether using force or a safe word, — the sensations are too pleasant and intense to even think about it, letting you drive in and use it, it doesn't matter if he is a 'prey' or a 'capricious prince'.

When his clothes show a lot more skin, or when you see a blush on his beautiful cheeks after hard work, or when he clings to you trustingly hotly after a hard day, looking with innocent, darkened eyes into yours, you really don't know whether you should admire or be embarrassed, knowing how subtly and frankly he pulls you by the strings — and knowing that you just need to show a little skin or interest so that he immediately responds, more than interested in everything that you are ready to give him.

You don't know of any couple where at least one member was as obsessively adoring and enthusiastic as Xie Lian, who is always on a 'low start' regarding everything that concerns you, but when he squeezes you tightly while you gently press on his stomach, lovingly teasing that he is still 'soft', Xie Lian, blushing shyly and biting his scarlet lip, only complains coquettishly in a weak voice, looking away, that you just don't 'care' enough about him — and you really have nothing left but to take care of him.

Take care of him very carefully.

[sheasshovel]

HEAR ME OUT

Scar as Apollo and Gem as Artemis…

Starting with Gem;

-HER ANTLERS!! Deer are sacred animals to Artemis and she is also the goddess of the moon and thats so shiny duo crumbs (pearl as the moon).

-Pearl could also work as a follower of Artemis though because of her disastrous double life relationship with Scott. Followers of Artemis swore off love and lived a life of chaste, which aligns well with Pearl having forgiven Scott after she won but never having the same relationship with him that she had in Last Life.

-Artemis herself also swore off love of any kind.. and guess who wasn’t there for Double life for a soul bound?

-Her only Allies in sl, besides the moon herself, were Scott and Impulse. Both of which could work as devout followers of Artemis because of their rejection of their own respective soulmates. Scott acknowledges his past lovers as his exes and never (to my knowledge) expresses wanting to get back with them. Impulse, too, never hesitated to attack the mounders even if they had Bdubs on their side. Impulse and Bdubs had a great relationship in Double Life but I like to think that, for this theory to work, they’ve just decided to keep that relationship in Dl.

-Besides the moon, Artemis is also a symbol of the hunt which is exactly what she did in sl sessions 7-8; hunt people down with the aid of the moon. Imagine moonlight illuminating her path as she stalks her prey….

Scars turn;

-Now, Apollo isn’t the god of the Sun (that would be Helios… or Grian in this case) but rather of sunlight, but the sun is still a huge symbol of him. Not to go all desert duo on you but the crumbs are there. Scar also covers himself in sunflowers in sl, a flower known to always be facing the sun, basking in its light. It’s worth mentioning that Scar was only close to winning when he and the Sun were inseparable in 3rd life, and he actually won when he was faced with the symbol of the moon and the moon herself.

-This is more silly but Apollo is highly connected with musical arts (specifically the lyre) and could you imagine if that scene where Grian and Scar were singing together wasn’t just Scar being oblivious but instead Apollo using any chance he can get to showcase his musical talent to the Sun?

-Apollo’s gift of Prophecy… Scar “we all die in the end” would be more prophetic if we all collectively gaslight ourselves into believing that he died after hitting succeed on his task. But in these death games, everyone knows by now how it ends. I think Scar acknowledging this is somehow foreshadowing how he wins though; by murdering everyone who stands in his way, not accepting sacrifices and turning on his temporary allies the second its clear that it would benefit him. When he said everyone would die he truly meant EVERYONE would die, and a majority will die to him or his twin (Artemis).

-Apollo and Artemis are both known for using Archery, but Scar is literally Hotguy come on now. His last kill was an arrow to Pearl that knocked her off of a cliff, an ARROW at the MOON. Scar is an incredibly skilled bow user and I would include this in Gem’s part too but I’m pretty sure she’s gotten more kills on sl by sword.

-Lastly, the Muses. Apollo, being the god of arts and music, was the choir leader of the 9 muses on Olympus. Now, Scar was never friends with more than 2 people at a time in the life series but lets look at his kills instead. In session 9 alone, he got 6 Permakills and 2 assists (Big B and Skizz) which brings us up to 8. Not enough but he lasted for 9 sessions, which is pretty cool if you interpret every session as a muse. Each session’s task being a huge influence on how Scar acts, even if he fails the task.

I think the 9 muses, Gem’s preferred weapon, and Apollo’s connection to medicine and Scar’s lack thereof are the weakest parts of this delusional rant but I still love the idea of the final battle in sl featuring the moon rejecting Artemis and a battle between the Twins. Apollo winning only after destroying the moon herself, who lost her will to win after the events of Dl. Apollo having once been allied with the Sun, and the Moon once having her win handed to her by her soulmate. Anyways Shinyduo Desertduo and Scar/Pearl narrative foils real and true.

[aurora-daily]

Runaway with AURORA: we meet the songwriting sprite to talk about music old + new

'We simply have to survive. And that is enough'

Interview by Blossom Caldarone for gigwise (July 8th, 2021). 

A textbook empath and considerate soul, Norway’s AURORA has an endearing air of childlike sensitivity. Comfortably seated in her mother’s French dress, we caught up over Zoom amid the frenzied #runawayaurora trend and the singer’s monumental TikTok rise.

AURORA’s 2016 single ‘Runaway’ is now the dainty accompaniament to millions of short videos on the increasingly influential TikTok. Predominantly featuring suburban teenagers, the trend has encouraged people to find the charm in their otherwise mundane corners of the world. “Seeing the beauty in the small things is something we all lost on the way” she says. Whether users film lakeside days out, pose elegantly or capture early morning sun beams, the trend's theme is strikingly on brand for AURORA: “It’s nice that people have created a wholesome vibe to it - you never know with the trends! I’m happy it’s not anything horrible.”

Momentarily gazing at the mountains outside her Bergen window, it’s clear to see AURORA isn’t fazed by the numbers that currently skirt her name. “It’s a very abstract thing for me and therefore I don’t spend time trying to understand it. I’ve just been home, doing my normal things, cooking my dinner, reading my books and being in the studio. I’m very grateful that people are letting my song into their hearts” she softly explains.

Written when she was only 11, the song platforms a prematurely advanced AURORA grapple with the concept of running away from the people we love when we are in pain. “Just like a dog that goes out and dies alone in the forest, we do the same. We struggle so much in talking about these very mutual, normal feelings but can’t deal with them when we are going through them ourselves.”

It’s a universal reality that stumps any age or decade, and her philosophy on the song’s ability to resonate is profound: “Music, unlike us, has no age. If it’s good or relatable, or if it has nerve, it will never die and it will always make sense to someone.”

She’s embarked on a week of interviews, and I’m her last before the weekend. Conscious she may not want to wax lyrical about Runaway any longer, I turn the discussion to the things that make AURORA tick. “My biggest muse is Mother Earth and nature. It always has been and always will be” she gushes. “It grounds me, it opens me up. It humbles and strengthens me.”

Her Nordic roots affording her the luxury of stunning outdoor access, she talks effusively of its importance, and how life’s increasingly high tempo is detrimental. Astutely describing being human as an “extreme sport”, she accredits success to ending up in her own bed at the end of the day. “The world is way too demanding in every area. It’s almost impossible” she laments. Her approach to living is one of simplicity; where surviving is the only necessity and anything else a mere plus. “It’s a matter of life or death, we simply have to survive. And that is enough.”

With last year’s lockdown allowing her to fully immerse herself in her artistry, AURORA found herself revelling in the desolate streets and empty shops, whilst finding ultimate inspiration in the silence. Her introverted intentions thrived whilst she empathised with the struggling extroverts in the world: “Silence is so rare and I love it. I try to be in silence as much as I can”. AURORA famously doesn’t listen to much music apart from fellow celestial Enya: “I’m afraid I’ll miss out on an idea if I’m listening to something else. And I don’t want to be effected by other melodies. It contaminates me” she explains. A theory shared with anything but pretence, AURORA evidently has an ability to hone in on the nuances within the quiet; a skill that requires patience and devotion to creative processes.  

Her timely mid-pandemic single ‘Exist For Love’ is a song that prioritises the fundamental importance of love. A delicate step away from previous AURORA releases, its traditional tendencies embody the timeless essence of a '50s love song, a trait only enhanced by its cinematic Isabel Waller-Bridge arranged strings: “I just felt like we needed a divine love song. I truly believe that when we understand love - unselfish pure love - we understand why we exist” she plainly explains, again finding a way to strip down concepts that feel hard to define.

“When I write, I think a lot about what the world will need. I wish to make something that will be good for people.” Often writing selflessly, boundaries are key; being an empath can be exhausting. “I can’t really read the newspapers. I have to learn things through discussion, and then dive into matters if I want to educate myself more. I spend little time on social media because it makes us sad, but it also makes me sad to see so many sad people on social media.” Surrounding herself with others who also tend to give more than they receive, AURORA ensures her good intentions are not misplaced.

As for her fans, they are at the forefront: “I think a lot about them. It’s all for them.” But it will come as no surprise to learn that she doesn’t like the more vacuous side of the industry, and finds getting recognised slightly unsettling. “It’s good to know it’s all worth it. As long as you can say something that means something, you can use the music as a tool to support people out there” she justifies.

Her new single ‘Cure For Me’, out now, is another example of AURORA’s altruistic approach to songwriting. A playful tune that will surprise fans with its cheekiness, it debunks the idea that humans should ever need to be cured, and that anything other than who we are is abnormal. “People are very self-critical and it doesn’t take much for us to assume that something is wrong because we look different, or act different, instead of just accepting that we are different. We are all biologically designed to be unique” she explains. We go on to discuss how we’re led to believe that we’re crazy for being emotional or sensitive: “That’s what inspired me to make this song, as an anti-gaslighting song where you just celebrate that it’s fine, and you’re going to be fine, and I don’t need a ‘Cure For Me' because I’m perfectly ok as I am.”

The song’s juxtaposed setup is a peek into what’s to come: “It’s fun for me to be less serious about things. It’s very new for me. I am often very serious in all my music. I really feel like we need a bit of light right now, everything has been so intense.”

Heading into a newfound artistic side, AURORA is considering how the new sound should be consumed too. With her mystical ability to sonify nature and art, AURORA’s eclectic and ethereal world has always captured feeling in a visual way. “I love to be able to shape how people see my music, even if just a little bit. For many people, it’s easier to understand the whole thing when they can see it as well.” She is currently painting an “intimidating” canvas and studying Egyptian history, alongside Greek and Roman mythology. Finding inspiration in their bohemian attitudes towards female roles, AURORA is focussing on the old, the new and repeated behaviours in between: “Everything we’ve done in history, both good and horrible, has sometimes taught us to be better and sometimes not. Our patterns of behaviour are very interesting.”

So with ‘Cure For Me’ here and a well-researched new artistic process in full flow, AURORA is peacefully going about her business and prioritising the small things that make her feel truly content. Currently, she's filling her home with flowers: “It makes me more happy every day than I could ever imagine.” Her intentions are in the most authentic place; a space that prioritises connection and understanding, and one that prioritises the heart in a world where its complexities are so often dismissed. “As long as we remember to take care of the mind and the heart, we’ll have the capacity to care for others as well” she finally assures me.

[notanotherlovepage]

We met when we were fourteen. We were kids. I was a worm, an invertebrate piece of nothing, an amoeba, and you were a star, you shined everywhere you stepped foot on, you were the sun. So, how could i have not fallen in love with you the moment i met you? You were my savior, you illuminated the path i had no idea i was looking for.

Years passed, and i was not a worm anymore. I was growing wings, i was growing petite paws to test the ground, i was trying. And you were still the light, always the light, even when you were not really light. Sometimes you were darkness; you had the right to be.

We hit eighteen. We took our distance; your light dazzled me with admiration, but it turned to envy so easly, i couldn’t tell them apart. I was dragging you down. You were finishing the race and i was still dragging my fresh new feet on the rocky, stumbling floor. I was still a worm to you.

Twenty two. I was evolving, i was reaching my everest, but you were done. You were trying to find a new path, you had finished yours, what was there to do now? You had lived your best years already, what now?

Twenty three. I’m happy. I’m fully grown now. I’m a fucking mess, but i’m not a worm anymore (didn’t i say that already?). I was a person, a woman, a human. I was alive, ready to live. I was self destructive, curious, impulsive, loving, intense. I was everything. I finally felt like i was like you. What a horrible feeling.

At twenty four, things changed. After all these years, all this admiration, this resentment, this affection, this love, you laid eyes on me. How? Is this a joke? How could you, my muse, take interest in a worm? Wait, am i still a worm?

A year goes by. It’s intense, in a way i never felt intensity before. It’s close to insanity. It’s fights, and sex, and hugs, and kisses. And i’m so, so happy. I still believe this is a dream.

And it’s today. And i’m fucking miserable. Because i was never a worm, you know. I was light too. I was my sun. But you took that from me. You decided to adopt me as your pet, but i was never put for adoption. I was never less than you. So, why do you have to make me feel like i am? Why do you make me feel like all the positivity in my life comes from you? Why is it that i can’t take credit? Am i not good enough if it isn’t with you? Do you think you shaped me? You made me a woman? You made me a human?

I was never a worm. I was always worth the love, the care, the admiration i gave to you. I never deserved the gaslight, the manipulation. I was never your charity case. I am me. I am lovable, even without my wings.

I am not a worm.

[between-two-fandoms]

Thunder In His Mind

Another Franken Fic for your reading pleasure, brought to you by @thesevenumbrellas and @random-nerd-3, sponsored by the JatP 18 + Discord.

Ao3 link here

cw: past-gaslighting, trauma, ptsd

Summary:

There's more to Willie than what meets the eye and Alex has to find out in one of the worst ways possible. It's all Willie can do to not fall apart in his arms during a thunderstorm.

The worst part about being a ghost Willie thinks, is - that he knows - is that you can’t really check the weather. There are plus sides to it sure, skateboarding wherever he wants - but not whenever because that’s something Caleb controls - an extremely cute Hot Dog ghost boyfriend? Also a plus to being undead. The weather is an issue though, it had been for years. Ever since the day he died in that car accident. Being dead meant you can’t feel anything physically; you can’t feel the heat of the sun against your skin or the wetness of the rain when it fell from the sky.

The issue at hand is the thunder.

It’s the thunder because the loud echoing booming claps of the storm reminds him of the ear shattering crack that cut through the air when he died. When he skated into the road to save the life of a little girl who forgot to look both ways. “My name is Rose,” she whispered, tightly squeezing Willie’s hand between her tiny fingers. He can remember struggling to breathe - he found out later in the medical report that his ribs were shattered. Another boom of thunder sounded over head and Willie couldn’t help but wince slightly at the sound of it.

“Roses are strong flowers,” Willie managed to say between his hyperventilation. “You need to be strong,” he can remember saying. The shadow touch of the blood caked to the side of his head made him reach up to place his hand against it as he began to scratch at the side of his head.

“Willie?” Alex asked the question as he gently pulled Willie’s hand away from his face. Willie wasn’t dying all over again. He was here in the present with Alex, his amazingly awesome boyfriend who made him question whatever cosmic being ran the universe because in no possible world did he deserve someone as amazing as the drummer. “You okay?” Alex asked again, snuggling closer into him, wrapping his arms around Willie like he was a koala. They’re curled up in the dark corners of a Pride art exhibition together, broke in after it closed early because of the storm. The walls are painted with rainbows, filled with bright colors and Willie could feel hope sneaking through the pain he locked away long ago when he first signed onto the club. It was after hours so they spent time walking through the exhibits acting as each other’s tour guides only to end up snuggling together on the floor once the storm started to get more serious.

He wants to say no I’m not. He wants to say help me Alex, please. He doesn’t though because like Caleb always says, outside of skating he’s a coward through and through. Willie exhales slowly and when he spoke he tried to make it sound like he wasn’t lying to the only person who loved him back. “I’m fine,” Willie says, his voice dry and cracking and he knows Alex won’t believe him in a thousand years. Another clash of thunder sounds overhead and Willie couldn’t help but flinch again, he pointedly avoided looking Alex in the eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” Alex says softly. They were lying so close to each other that Willie could feel the vibrations in Alex’s chest when he spoke. The low timbre of the beat of his heart reminding Willie that he was safe . Reminding Willie that he was loved outside of whatever relationship he had with Caleb. Then Alex presses a soft kiss to the top of his head and whispers, “it’s okay not to be though. You know that right?”

Willie wants to be okay, he wants to keep pretending. That he hasn’t been . He's been dead the longest between the two of them after all, Alex needed him to be his grounding force and he couldn't be that for him if he was weak. But Willie was tired, he was so tired of being a ghost. He was tired because Caleb had been breathing down his neck recently, working everyone in the club to the bone after Alex and his friends escaped. Not that Willie blamed Alex because Alex was kind and Alex was good and he didn't deserve him . But apparently Alex had other plans in mind because suddenly Alex wrapped his arm around Willie and held him close, like he was something cherished, like he was precious . It wasn’t at all like Caleb’s cold shoulder pats after a long night of entertaining the guests or Caleb’s short worded compliments. Alex was warm.

“I’m sorry,” Willie whispers, turning to bury his face into Alex’s sweatshirt like they were a secret meant only for Alex to hear. He lets himself curl into his boyfriend, legs tucked in as close as possible, fingers clinging to the warm familiarity of the pink sweatshirt. He can hear Alex’s heart beating a gentle rhythm over the thunder. Just rest for a moment, Willie thinks to himself, still keeping up his guard. Caleb is going to want him back to the club after the storm ends. He doesn’t want to show up with bloodshot eyes and a tear streaked face - it would be hard for the makeup girls to get him ready for tonight’s performance. Willie waits, his shoulders tense in anticipation but Alex doesn’t speak. Instead he presses his lips firmly to the top of his head, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. For the next few minutes they stay like that, curled into each other with Alex wrapped around him protecting him from the harm of the outside world.

Then lightning flashes and Willie braces himself for the clap of angry clouds over their heads but it doesn't come. Which didn't make any sense because thunder always comes after lightening. Willie’s conditioned to it, anxiety building up in his chest as he waits for the tell tale sound of a car cracking his helmet in two. Willie fools himself, letting Alex's low hum wash over the eerie silence of the museum and then - and then... right when Willie let himself relax completely the loudest fucking thunderclap in the whole world cracks over head and Willie jumps, poofing out of Alex's arms and somehow manages to solidify across the exhibit, knees pulled into himself tightly, his fingernails digging into his skin; a welcome pain to distract him from the onslaught of memories and pressing his hands against his ears in a weak attempt to block out the memories flashing through his eyelids.

In times like these, times where he’s stuck and he’s trapped and he can’t find a way out are the worst. He has to remember though, to remind himself that he isn’t alone anymore and that even though he felt like his world was crumbling around him that it actually wasn’t. That Alex was there and Alex was solid and Alex was - well, he wasn’t alive but he was warm. “Shh, I’m here,” Alex murmured, his voice a blessing in the chaos of Willie’s mind.

“I’m sorry,” Willie whispers again, this time voicing his apology louder. He lets Alex hold him, wrapping his arms around him like he’s a child being comforted. “It’s so stupid I -” Willie starts before Alex cuts him off with a light tsk.

“It’s not.”

“It is ,” Willie insists, unsure of how Alex couldn’t see how foolish it was that he, a grown ass man, was afraid of a little storm. Alex wraps his arms around Willie, rocking him gently to the rhythm of the rain hitting the roof above them.

“You help me when I freak out,” Alex points out and well… yeah he does but that’s different. It’s different because he’s Willie and Alex is Alex. Alex, who never deserved to die just as his dream had become tangible. Alex, who Willie had betrayed and hurt. Alex who he almost lost because like Caleb says… Willie’s selfish and stupid and desperate for anything remotely beautiful in his life. Alex is so beautiful. He knows that to be true even now, as the thunder rolls overhead and the lighting falls around them. He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him sometimes. His smile is so earnest, his concern so genuine. He holds Willie like he’s worth protecting, like he’s the only thing that matters in the world. Like… like he’s something precious meant to be treasured and protected and kept safe.

Willie’s not anything Alex thinks he is. He knows how much pain the world can give, how much more pain he’ll have to live through. As terrifying as knowing the pain is, it's even more terrifying because he knows the second he leaves here - the second he leaves the warmth and the safety of Alex and goes back to Caleb - the second he goes back home he'll lose this. He'll lose the safety net he built for himself because Alex doesn't like Caleb for some reason well no. Not for no reason. Alex has a very perfectly logical reason to hate the man who Willie saw as his surrogate father - even if their relationship seems a little too one sided at times- and he can't fathom a reason why Alex didn't hate him too because he had played a huge fucking role in getting the boys to the club and convincing them to sign their fucking souls over for the soul purpose of his selfishness. For thinking Alex would run the first chance he gets the second he realizes just how messed up he really is.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Alex says, finally breaking the silence between them. The sentence is said so matter of factly, Willie almost laughs. Almost being the key word in that sentence. Despite feeling like the world is crashing around him Willie lets a smirk cross his face as his eyes sparkle mysteriously.

“You can read my mind?” Willie asks, wincing at how intense it sounded, no sense of playfulness in the words at all. Alex doesn’t seem to mind the cutthroat question. He just hummed thoughtfully as he considered.

“It’s part of my ghost powers,” Alex answered back, Willie felt his smile against his shoulder.

The answer makes Willie snort which in turn makes Alex laugh and maybe Willie can finally let him have something nice and keep it . Alex’s giggles echo throughout the exhibit and Willie let the sound wrap around him, a blanket of warmth surrounding him in his cold.

“Oh yeah?” Willie manages to ask, the words sticky and dry. He swallowed thickly to hide the surge of panic in his throat. “What am I thinking of?” He asked, letting Alex press a kiss against the back of his head, his fingers starting to comb through his hair . Alex’s whispered suggestively into his ear, his throat ghosting against his neck when he placed a kiss against the exposed skin. Willie couldn’t help but let out a laugh, his heart beating a little faster. He didn’t deserve any of this, to be comforted during a storm when hiding in his HGC bedroom had worked just fine in the past. “That new trick you still haven’t shown me? The picture you laughed at because it looked like an upside down dog head?” Alex asked. The compulsion to look up overpowers his fear of the dark and when he finally does shift his head. Alex is almost shining in the light of the storm, his smile stretching across his face. In the midst of the storm he’s still shining brighter than Willie could ever shine himself. Alex smiles at him, his eyes twinkling in the reflection of a flash of lightning. “I’m thinking about how beautiful you are,” and there’s another clap of thunder but it isn’t as bad this time. Here, snuggled on the floor of a museum tucked between Alex’s strong arms was starting to help him relax more, keep his focus off the storm.

Suddenly, the shadows disappear and Willie's mind is cleared more than it's ever been before. There aren’t any expectations for Willie here. Alex isn’t Caleb. He doesn’t order Willie around or tell him to shush because he sounds like a whiny little boy when he complains about complicated choreography that was hard to nail down and the exhaustive rehearsal schedule that sometimes ended in Willie passing out in his room for over twelve hours straight before poofing into the middle of rehearsal to watch Alex kill it on his drums.

His world is once again centered on his gravity, his world, his boy in a pink sweatshirt.

Willie turned around, sitting so he was criss crossed on the floor and his fingers were intertwined with. Their noses brush together. He can feel the tickle of blond hair against his forehead where it’s escaped from the cap. “You good?” Alex asks, leaning forward slightly so their foreheads touch. Willie knows what he means the second he asks it. Sometimes it’s hard to forget that not everyone is like Caleb. That not everyone hides their intentions behind carefully crafted spiderwebs of lies. So at the next thunder crash Willie nods in response, his stomach still twisted in his gut but he was able to ignore it this time; ignore the pain he felt in his mind in exchange for Alex’s presence.

“Yeah, I’m good...” Willie says, nodding his head. They were close enough for their noses to brush against themselves. He’s surprised to discover how much he believed it even though he thought it was a lie. He’s good here with Alex. He’s good with a body protecting him from the thunder outside. He’s good to curl up here and dot kisses down his boyfriend’s jaw until he’s a blushing mess.

Because this is what home is, this is what he remembers his home being. He remembers the warmth and the kind eyes and the strong hugs and the pitter patter rabbit-like beat of his heart. Alex pulls him close again, Alex will always pull him close. And he's breathing. He's breathing. And Willie turns to smile into the nape of Alex's neck, letting the drummer tie off the braid with a spare hair tie and the drumming of his heart overpowering the sound of the clapping thunder echoing overhead. "Her name was Rose," Willie said suddenly, intertwining their fingers together, placing them over his heart.

"Rose?" Alex asks, his confusion masked by a hint of recognition in his voice. Willie nods as he plays with Alex's fingers, distracting himself from the distancing storm around them. She was so young , Willie could remember the flash of her smile, brighter than the sun had ever been. Ten years old was too young.

"The girl I saved when I died, when I raced into traffic? She was just standing there in the middle of the road alone and I - holy shit, Alex I died, " he said, the realization actually settling into his chest and he suddenly felt the weight of the car crush into his chest again.

Alex looks at him and for a split second, Willie can’t read his expression. “C’mere baby,” Alex whispers, pulling him in again. Willie collapsed into his chest, wrapping his arms around Alex’s back to twist his sweatshirt into his fists. For half a second the brief fear of pulling away flashes in his mind and Alex tightens his grip. Willie would never think about trying to pull away. “Willie you’re so brave, you know that? You’re so amazing. I mean me? I died eating a hot dog. You died saving someone, Willie. You’re incredible ,” Alex whispers and Willie can’t help but tense because baby.

Willie can't help the shudder that runs through his body hearing the pet name escape through Alex's lips. "Don’t - Don’t call me that," Willie said, starting to feel like he’s losing control again. He flickered and fell through Alex’s body landing on the floor in a heap. Caleb's warped whispers snaked into his ears, wrapping around his mind like a vice. William baby don’t you want to make me proud tonight? Caleb asks as he straightens Willie’s suit for him. Baby those steps were a little behind tonight. You need to pick up more rehearsal hours baby. I don’t need my best performer slacking off. What would my clients think? Caleb asked, his voice coiling around Willie’s thoughts and snaking through the cracks his fears left behind.

"Willie I'm sorry I -" Alex started, only for Willie to cut him off with a shake of his head. His hair fell in front of his face so Alex used his hand to hesitantly tuck it behind his ear.

"It’s fine. Pet names I mean just…” He trails off, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. Thunder crashes again and Willie jumps before finishing his thought. “Just not that one okay?” Willie asks, hoping Alex wouldn’t pry. Hoping Alex would never have to see how horribly rotten he really is from the inside out. Alex’s forehead wrinkles in confusion but like Willie hoped he didn’t pry, but he knew the conversation was just getting tabled for a later date. “You got it,” Alex promised, leaning forward to seal it with a kiss to Willie’s forehead. Willie feels himself flicker and his hand passes through Alex’s. Thunder claps at the same time Willie flinches and he has to hope Alex thought he flinched because of the storm and not his touch. It wasn’t fair how deep Caleb has his claws into Willie, using him to hurt the people he loves.

Willie hates how hard he has to fight the tremble in his limbs as he clings to Alex like a lifeline. He inhales deeply, breathing in the perfume Alex somehow managed to get his hands on. Alex smelled like peaches and summertime and everything Willie used to love when he was alive. The smell helped ground his mind, keep him in the present instead of spiraling into worst case scenarios. Think, Willie thought to himself, one again breathing in the smell of peaches off the nape of Alex’s neck. His eyes are diamonds, his skin feels like silk, his heart beats to it’s own rhythm and you’re the one who gets to hear it. Willie thinks, trying to calm the twisting panic and rise of bile stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry,” Alex says, the words whispered quietly between thunder cracks. When he peels his eyes from the ground and finally looks his boyfriend in the eyes again he’s met with hard pressed diamonds reflecting in concern.

“Don’t be,” Willie says back and Alex’s concern warps into something akin to festering anger.

“I am . I -”

“ - I know.”

“ I’m sorry ,” Alex says again, like if he heard it enough he’d actually end up believing it. Willie just shook his head - another clap of thunder sounded so loudly it shook the walls of the museum. Willie tensed, his shoulders tightening despite knowing that he was safe here.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Willie points out. If anything he should be apologizing to Alex. He should be groveling at Alex’s feet begging for forgiveness because he was selfish and almost had him sell his soul over to Caleb.

Something reflects in Alex's eyes that Willie can’t quite place. It isn’t just confusion or concern or anger. It looks like Alex is feeling a mix of all three, with a twist of cold understanding layered on top of it. "You know you can trust me right? This relationship works both ways," Alex says softly, his voice starting to tremble. Willie didn’t understand why he was acting so... so sad. Willie let them fall into a comfortable sort of silence, tense but easy at the same time. The sound of the thunderstorm filling the museum in their quiet.

"I should... I should get going. Caleb lets me out during storms cause he knows about uh... but he'll be wanting me back." Willie says, pulling himself out of Alex's soft sweatshirt covered arms and away from the beating of his heart. Alex's eyes furrowed in confusion. He always did look cute when he was confused, like a puppy dog. The storm’s far enough away that the soft dribble of light rain is the only thing left behind in it’s wake, which means Caleb would send someone after him if he doesn’t show up in a few minutes.

"What do you mean? Willie, if I said something wrong I -'' Alex stammered out before Willie leans forward to press a chaste kiss against his lips, lingering for a few minutes when he finally pulls away. Alex knew about the car crash now, the real reason he was really dead. He knew he was afraid of storms - William not even children are afraid of storms. It's about time you grow up - Caleb's voice whispers in the back of his mind, cutting into his spiraling thoughts.

Willie stumbles to his feet. He’s still shaky, but he can walk. He doesn’t want to risk angering Caleb more than he has to. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. The words feel flat even to him. Alex knows it all now - well not all of it, but enough - and that knowledge is almost too much to take. His boyfriend stares at him, big green eyes confused and sincere... and so unlike anything Willie has seen in a long, long time.

“I can help,” Alex insists, refusing to let go of Willie’s hand. It pains him, but he has to leave. Caleb might be evil, he might be the cause of all of their problems… but after everything the ghost club was still the only thing Willie had left to call his home.

“Sometimes there’s nothing you can do Alex,” Willie whispers, gently placing his hand against Alex’s neck. Alex leans into his touch as he wraps his own hand around his.

“Willie-“ Alex starts again but before he hears Alex ask him to stay again because he knows he would. He’d do anything Alex asked him too if it made him happy but he owes Caleb his life and that’s not a debt he forgets easily. But Willie resorts back to his instincts because well, they haven’t led him astray yet and he keeps Alex at arms length when the familiar tug in his gut pulled him back to the Hollywood Ghost Club in time to get ready for Caleb’s opening act.

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

You messed with my heart too long

A/N: I posted this anonymously on ao3, but I’m really proud of writing this so decided to post it on here as well. Please, please let me know what you think, it would mean the world to me. 

Summary: When Richie accidentally burns his food right at the same time as Eddie arrives home, he fears he's in for a verbal beat down. He's used to that thank to his ex-boyfriend, who mentally and emotionally abused him before Richie realized what he was doing to him. Once Eddie works out what is happening, he is quick to assure Richie he would never treat him in the same manner.

Warnings!: mental abuse, mentions of physical abuse and Bev’s abusive ex, Richie thinks Eddie going to react badly (he doesn’t but he still thinks about it) 

read on AO3

Richie, in all fairness, has never had any confidence in any way, shape or form. He’s not sure why that is. His mom and dad were good, loving parents that indulged into his secret little hobby’s, and when Richie at age 24, a fresh college drop-out, told his parents he was going to take a gamble and try to make it as a comedian, they supported him wholeheartedly. Of course, they were a little disappointed that he never got a degree in case things in the comedy field didn’t work out, but they were convinced of Richie’s talent. They were truly the best parents anyone could ever wish for, at least in Richie’s mind.

The losers were also nothing if not supportive towards him, though they had been long gone before Richie turned 24. They made fun of him sometimes, on the occasions where a joke ran too far or failed miserably, but they also made sure that Richie knew how much they adored him in reality.

Beside from getting scolded at every now and again by Eddie or Stan, about his hygiene or lack of self-awareness, they also never tried to change him to fit their wants. For some unknown, nonsensical reason, they liked Richie with his flaws and all.

Truly, Richie has no inkling as to where his insecurities came from, but he does know that he never let them stop him from doing anything when he was still friends with the losers. Quite the opposite even, if he got nervous about performing in front of his class, he would loudly ask to go first, laughing boisterously and slouching against the teachers desks, pretending like the activity wasn’t even a blip on his radar. When Henry’s taunt would hit a particular soft spot, and Richie felt the urge to sulk or mope, he’d double down on the thing Henry found annoying, and get a bloody nose for his troubles.

He fought hard to be ready to perform in front of people that weren’t the losers or his parents, and the losers departing from Derry just made that worse. With the losers, he felt confident enough to try and be himself, without them, he saw himself as useless in every sense. His very first live performance sucked, and in retrospect he’s really glad none of the losers were present because within five minutes of walking on the stage, he had forgotten his lines and threw up in full sight of the audience.

If his mother hadn’t persuaded him into trying again a few months later, and that one actually working out, Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier would have been buried before it began.

But that was before all the progress Richie made in all the years he’s been doing comedy. Despite having the occasional setback, he mostly outgrew throwing up before an act, and he could objectively look at himself in the mirror and conclude that he wasn’t the most hideous person the world had ever had the displeasure of seeing.

In fact, according to people on his twitter page, he was being described as hot and possessing a form of appeal that drew people in. He didn’t find himself good looking by any means, but there was a huge difference between hating everything about himself, and accepting that he was not as hideous as the beast from the Disney fairy tales he was a big fan of as a kid.

And then, in the prime of his mental health, he had met David, and every ounce of self-worth faltered like snow under the burning scorch of the sun. It only took five weeks for David to absolutely destroy the very thing Richie had toiled at for over twenty years.

David was his first boyfriend, who he met just shortly before his thirtieth birthday, and he took more than advantage of that. The first night they first laid eyes on each other, after one of Richie’s shows, David had walked up to him at a bar and promptly declared his show was absolute shit.

Normally Richie would feel hurt by these comments and would pretend to brush them off as if they were never uttered, but something about the way he said it caused Richie to laugh so hard he snorted part of his beer through his nose. It wasn’t until he saw Eddie with Bill and Mike at Jade the Orient ten years later, that his quarter fell. In the beginning, David had reminded him of Eddie. It wasn’t until much later that it became clear David’s intentions were not as innocents as Eddie’s.

Richie assumed the guy was pulling his pants, because who would dedicate their time to flat out insult someone they had never met, and so he had greeted him and bought him another beer. David wasn’t particularly funny, and he never laughed at Richie’s jokes throughout the night either, but he was very eloquent and could keep up with Richie’s conversation topics, though he always seemed to be able to turn and twist the subject so that it gave away another one of his qualities.

By the end of the night Richie never expected to hear from him again, and he was okay with that. His conversation partner had been interesting, but not to the point where Richie wanted to know everything about him or see him again.

David felt otherwise, as thanks to a mutual friend of theirs, he’d found Richie’s number, and when he texted him to ask him on a date, Richie had been too thrilled that someone was interested in him to containplat if he even wanted to go.

That same day the date took place, David had granted himself the title of boyfriend, and Richie went right along with him. They never officially verbally agreed to date, but they held hands and David slept over most nights then not, and his mother got so happy that she saw him with someone that things progressed naturally.

At first, Richie didn’t notice that David was influencing him in a negative way. He only had one close friend, Steve, who was simultaneously also his manager, and he constantly praised David for making Richie a changed man. Because Steve saw it as something positive, so did Richie.

His voice got progressively stiller, as David would ream at him multiple times a day that he was annoying everyone around them with his booming voice, and that he was an attention-seeker who would do anything to get the limelight on him. Richie practiced his voices less and less when David started to critic every aspect of them every time he would overhear him. It got worse once they started living together full time.

‘Hey Rich, no voices? Come on I want to know if you’ve improved over the years, let us hear it.’

He cut off all fatty foods when David glanced at his plate and grimaced, asking if he was really going to eat everything on the plate. He didn’t say it in so many words, but Richie could connect the dots that led him to believe David found him too fat. Lying became a sort of second nature to Richie, as he dared to eat a small pack of chips when David was away, and deluded him the next day by stating he hadn’t eaten any. Sometimes, at times where David thought Richie was away, he would observe him going through their trash to catch Richie in the lie. He’d fight tooth and nail to deny the accusation, and never admitted to it.

David complained just about everything Richie did, including the way he held his towel whilst drying the dishes, ‘For god sake Richie don’t rumple up, hold it in your palm and open it up so you can get to the surface more.’ When Richie tried to joke that David’s way didn’t necessarily mean the best way, he’d yelled that Richie was an ungrateful bastard and that if he had to do it his way because the way he was doing it was useless.

Useless, that was a word Richie learned to associate with himself as whatever he did would get dragged down by David, until there was barely any Richie left. Once again Richie began getting stage fright, worse than when he was a child, and on one evening David witnessed his total bomb of a show, and told Richie he had pretended he didn’t know him to the people watching. That hit so hard, the fact that someone was disgusted to be linked to him, that he stopped writing his own comedy and hired someone to do it for him.

There was so much negativity surrounding him and David, but when Richie tried to address his problems, David would make him seem like he was the one that was crazy. Like he was seeing things that were not there. David rolled his eyes and waved off any of Richie’s attempts to defend himself, but then denied doing it after the fact.

‘You’re a loser Richie, I can’t believe you’d be so stupid to take my ribs seriously. Aren’t you supposed to be a ‘comedian’? You’d think you’d know what’s a joke and what isn’t.’

A can of coke being set down too hard on their dinner table was enough to get David off of the couch, where he’d been watching football and ordering him around, and into the kitchen, striking a tirade that Richie was ruining their furniture with his fumbling. Richie was constantly on edge that he was doing something wrong - and he was according to David -. He avoided David as much as he could, but the latter would find something to fault him on regardless. Life had transformed into a prison cell.

Later Richie would scold himself for not leaving, but how could he? David manipulated him to the point Richie truly believed he was doing all of those things wrong, to the point where he was the one crying and begging for David’s forgiveness. He was gaslighted, manipulated and blackmailed at the same time, with gifts that weren’t a one-off after Dacid crossed a line too far, and they often contained a very expensive item that Richie had eagerly awaited for a long time. Richie felt like he owed it to David to stay, if only for all the money he had spent on him.

There were days Richie would get so furious he was prepared to scream back at David, to let his anger be set free and unleashed upon the one person who deserved it, but then David would show up with a gift out of the blue, or would grant him a loving caress, and Richie was gone for him again.

Not to mention that Richie’s self-esteem had sunk so low, he wasn’t ready to face a world without having David there to guide him along with things.

Barely five months before Mike’s earth shattering phone call, Richie ran out of all mental capacity to deal with the torment a moment longer, and packed his things, disappearing on a cold blistering night. David called him, of course, but Richie was a coward, and never answered the phone.

He only sent David one text to tell him it was over, and then promptly blocked his number without waiting for a response. He heard from gossip that David spread lies about him, and told other people about how much of a terrible boyfriend he had been, but Richie never objected to the claims. He agreed with him anyway.

Mike’s call had been, for a large proportion anyway, a saving grace. Reconnecting with his best friends and destroying the thing that loomed over him for so long was liberating, and Richie viciously wished that Pennywise had come back sooner, so that his tortures road would have been that much shorter.

There was no lingering bitterness inside of Richie because of this though, not when his life was finally in the best possible place it could be. Eddie and him got their heads out of their asses, or more like Eddie got out of his and decided to yet again be the brave one out of the two of them, and they started dating almost immediately after defeating Pennywise. In only a week's time, Eddie made the move from New York to Los Angeles, and with him he had brought the happiness Richie had long forgotten he could ever possess.

His marriage with Myra had been just as much a scam as the relationship between Richie and David, and his divorce was swift - no surprise there with the way Eddie always prepared for every possible scenario-, but Eddie almost always avoided talking about it. In a way, Richie was disheartened by that.

It was no secret Eddie married a woman that was basically a mirror image of his mom, and at times Richie caught himself wondering if Eddie had realized how smothering she was or if he had been so hunkering for the normality of life as a straight, married man that he never paid her enough attention too. He wonders if he was the only one stupid enough to not realize the gravity of what was happening to him.

Richie has debated on flat out asking Eddie about it, but, and there’s always a but, that would mean he would have to tell Eddie about David, and he is overcome with a rare form of anxiety, something deeply ashamed nestling in the place where his trust is supposed to be at the mere idea.

Swearing on the holy turtle god that managed to save them from Pennywise’s claws, Richie was originally planning on confessing the whole thing to Eddie on day one of their relationship. He truly was, and he had even conjured up humorous escape alternatives to duck his way under a fire load of questions Eddie was surely about to ask him after.

He even prepared himself to tell Eddie in Derry, right after overhearing Eddie’s phone call to his wife, feeling empowered that Eddie would come to understand. Bev interrupted before he could, perhaps a blessing in disguise. Before Eddie fully put down his phone, Bev had sweeped in the room, requesting a meeting downstairs to talk. Richie had been helpless to follow and listen intently, and if he was being honest with himself – he wasn’t – he felt a tiny bit of relief that he wouldn’t be subjected to any negative attention. Until Bev started to confess how her life had been before Mike called them.

All at once, a sickening hatred from himself overwhelmed Richie. He was so angry that he had dared to feel sorry about himself, and here Bev was, with a situation that was incomparably worse. The more details Bev entrusted them with – Richie may have promised to never kill anyone again, but he an exception could be made - the more Richie’s food from a few hours before threatened to choke him, and not even Eddie’s cream smoothed hand holding his distracted him.

Near the end, after they’d progressed from such an melancholically topic and began drinking away the booze in their hotel, Richie had drawn Bev’s attention with a call of her name, to either make her smile or to assure her that she wasn’t alone, Stan send him a withering look, as if to warn him not to open his mouth. Stan’s assumption was fair, it was in Richie’s nature to find humor in places there shouldn’t be, and he had no idea about Richie’s past to think otherwise. Still, every time Richie considered telling Eddie, the look flashed in his mind and sewed his mouth shut.

Not telling Eddie hasn’t impacted things the way Richie had predicted it would. Really, Richie was doing fine. Eddie chastised Richie on certain things, but Richie didn’t freak out or experience any sort of flashback. He would be given a peck on his forehead, or a hand running through his hair, and he’d know that Eddie was never mad at him. It was the littlest details that had Richie out of his mind with love, that highlighted just how different Eddie and David were.

By now, Richie had decided he was fine with not telling Eddie anything about David, and the extra weight of keeping something a secret was his boyfriend was just another fee to carry around with him. But life always throws a curveball Richie Tozier’s way when he has finally made plans.

This curve ball comes in the form of soup. A horrendous chicken soup that Eddie cooked up two days in advance, an experiment of different herbs that clashed into a symphony of flavors all competing to be the primary flavor. There are two things to know about Eddie as a cook. Number one is that he is not an impressive cook – and it’s not for the lack of trying - but Richie doesn’t mind. Eating food that doesn’t please his taste buds but getting Eddie in return for it is a fair deal in Richie’s books.

The second thing to note is that Eddie is a lazy cook. He turns the kitchen into a battlefield of different sauces, with jars a million different pots and pans skewed across the stove and no more room to place anything else left. It’s gotten to the point that whenever Eddie is in charge of cooking, they will not even put their dinner on a plate anymore, but instead leave it in whatever it’s made in, because it eliminates dishes to wash. That’s what starts the mess that day in first place.

Richie isn’t an idiot. Yes, he can be dense at times, and when it comes to loving Eddie he’s more than a bit moronic, but he’s not stupid. He’s had to survive on his own – and with someone who didn’t lift a finger - for a long time, thus there was no other way. He’s aware of the danger of putting a metal bowl in the microwave, and how it can cause the metal to heat up and start a fire, and therefor has never been stupid enough to try it. But today, Richie is stressed.

Steve has been calling him all day to try and persuade him into doing an interview for a magazine, and no matter how many times, how loud or agitated Richie says no, Steve still insists. Richie paces annoyed towards his fridge phone locked between his shoulder and ear, so he can take out the metal bowl of soup with his hands, and place it in their microwave without a second thought.

‘Steve I don’t care how much publicity you think it will get me, I don’t want to do it,’ Richie mutters, turning around with his back towards the warming soup. The consistent arguing with Steve has his teeth grinding, his shoulders tense and his anxiety sparked.

Eddie is still out for work, but it’s closing at five pm, the time he ensures he’s at home, and Richie thinks he can hear his car driving up into the gravel parking lot. The absence of his boyfriend is about to be filled, and Steve is yapping away in his ear, not content to admit defeat just yet, it’s maddening.

‘Steve… Steve listen to me, don’t get your panties up in a twist, I have to go. Don’t book the interview. I won’t take any part in it.’ His denial doesn’t put a stop to Steve’s yapping, but at that point Richie is over his nagging. He pinches the bridge of his nose and utters; ’Okay nice chat’, and hangs up without waiting for a response back.

He lets the phone clatter on top of their kitchen surface and says that Steve got the message, if only for the rest of the day. His phone doesn’t vibrate again, leading Richie to assume he has won this round. He can’t help but lean forward so far his head rests against the cold tiles of the kitchen counter, just sighing for one long, extended breath. A night in on the couch with Eddie spooning him has never allured him so much. His back cracks with a satisfying pop as he readjusts his body, and he groans in gratifications.

Their alarm dings loudly in the open concept kitchen, a warning that someone has just entered their driveway. Richie doesn’t need to go look to know that it’s Eddie and his large, black suv, but he wants to anyway. He’s about to walk towards the front door to greet Eddie like he’s a pet that has been waiting anxiously for its owners return – and some would describe him in the same manner - when the air fills with smoke and a rancid smell. It’s barely detectable at first, nothing more but an insentient odor that is unpleasant but not resolute and easy to ignore. But then actual smoke begins to wash it’s way around Richie, and he has a split second of blissful unknowingness left, until the problem dawns on him.

Richie follows the smoke trail, and is shocked to find their microwave steaming and actually crackling, like it’s on the verge of exploding. It probably is. Still, it’s nothing compared to the cluster bomb of fumes that spread throughout the room when Richie actually opens the microwave door and gets slapped in the face with the enormity. It’s a surprise that their smoke detector has yet to erupt.

Instantly, his airways fill up smoke, prickling his cough reflection so tremendously he doubles over in extortion. The coughs rattle his body in a painful manner, his chest and back start to hurt from the brutal movements and the fact that he can’t grasp fresh air no matter how wide he opens his mouth. Objectively, Richie should understand it can get a lot worse - their smoke detector hasn’t gone off, and there are no flames to accompany the smoke and therefore turn their house into a major safety hazard - but a panic he hasn’t felt since David has shut down his logical thinking skills.

A key is slotted into their keyhole, and it turns a first time to leave. Eddie is about to open the door, in give or take in about a minute – it always drags out because despite living here for give or take two years, Eddie still can’t remember this lock unlatches via the left side and not the right – and walk in on an absolute shit show that Richie’s engendered.

So far there was indication, no sign that hinted to Richie he still had leftover, undealt trauma left from his time hanging around David, but now, his only thought revolving around how mad Eddie is going to be, how much trouble he’ll be in once Eddie sees everything, he starting to realize he might not be as over things as he originally believed.

He ignores the way his lung burn, and reaches forward to grab the pot – with fogged over glasses rendering him blind - protection less, not even grabbing the oven mitts to provide some shelter for the warmth. He can’t comprehend how dangerous that is, can only focus on the red lights blaring in his mind, telling him he needs to get rid of the evidence before Eddie gets here and unleashes hell upon him.

Unfortunately, he’s too late. A door unlocks and Eddie enters the house. His feet pad on their wooden floor, brazen and fast, like he’s been waiting for a shot at grilling Richie and he can sense his opportunity to do so has arrived – the motion is so un-Eddie Richie dismissed it as absurd then and there, but a seed of doubt remains -.

With time, Richie comes to learn how to listen to the different footsteps, and he can now recognize who’s walking towards him and in what kind of mood they find themselves in, without taking one look at the person's face.

Eddie’s footsteps, after every work day, drag across their floor, as if a thousand pound weight has been added to his back. The bottom of his shoes wear out a lot faster than Richie’s do, and it drives Eddie nuts because out of the two of them, he’s the one that treats his material objects neater than Richie.

Richie’s always delighted to notice how light his footsteps get after just a few minutes spent with him or the losers.

Now, he is too scared to pick up on such little details. His palms tingle unpleasantly, the boiling liquid burning them more with each second he hangs on. He stands in the middle of their kitchen like a fool, turning his body every which way and letting his eyes dart out an escape plan. The smoke is nowhere near gone, and there’s too much of it for Richie to open a window and it to be blown away. Eddie’s going to notice, there’s no way he can’t.

‘Richie, you won’t believe what this imbecile Josh did at work today. I swear, I don’t understand how some people can get fucking hired sometimes.’

Eddie trudges into the kitchen, his suit wrinkled from a long day of frantically working on a report that should have been finished by some other incompetent coworker. The groves in his face are more prominent today, acquired by the years of unhappiness he experienced with Myra, the ages of his life cut off by the shock of Pennywise's return and the occasional busy work day his job supplies him with.

A nausea craters in Richie's stomach, filled with guilt for turning Eddie’s night off into a stressful event that requires a ton of clean up. Eddie stops dead in his tracks when he notices the mess, his mouth slips shut, the word dying on his tongue.

He’s waiting for Eddie’s frown to deepen, for his lips to cresting into a fury. He’s waiting for the waterfall of insults that will be hurled at his head, each one meaner than the last, honing in on his deepest insecurities and having them exploited because Eddie’s so angry he’ll do anything to strike a verbal blow. And it’ll be worse now, because it’s Eddie. It’s the love of his life doing it now, the one’s approval he seeks most.

Eddie’s the person that knows him inside and out and knows exactly what boundaries to push and prod out to crack Richie open from head to toe. He waits for all that, with his hand still clamped around the bowl of burning hot soup, scorching his palms – by this point, Richie is sure there will be blisters by the time he finally unclasps his grip.

Eddie’s frown does deepen, but it’s not out of anger. ‘Rich, be careful you’ll hurt yourself.’ Richie doesn’t let go, but holds onto the sides of the bowl tighter. Part of him wants him to experience the pain, to let what he did sink in like David’s words always did.

‘Richie’, Eddie says startlingly firm. He’s not trying to approach Richie or the bowl, but he’s capturing Richie’s attention just by his firm voice. ‘Put it down.’

Richie drops the bowl of soup, watching helplessly as it splatters all over their freshly painted walls and the ground. Out of the corner of his eye a flat glob of liquid drips down the wall, dirtying a whole line down to the floor. Richie cringes, his heart beating so fast he could swear it’s about to jump out of his chest, and his mind a mantra of ‘look what you did, look what you did, look what you did.’

‘Fuck Richie, did you burn it?’

And Richie knows he’s caught. He was, up to two seconds ago, holding the evidence right in his hands, but he’s so petrified logic is not operating in his brain at the moment. The only thing he can focus on with great clarity, is that he’s willing to try anything to get him out of a verbal tear down.

‘No..’, he tapers off at the end, leaving his statement much more alike a question than he would have preferred. Eddie raises one eyebrow suspiciously, pointily averting his gaze towards the smoke floating around them.

‘No?’ He asks back equally confused, head tilted to the side. Richie can feel his throat closing up in panic, bracing himself for an onslaught. He doesn’t foresee Eddie’s nurturing and concerned approach. ‘Let me take a look at your hands’, Eddie murmurs tenderly.

It’s technically nothing new, the way Eddie treats him. After Neibolt and Richie’s big coming out, Eddie commenced all his vacation days and flew Richie all the way to Hawaii, for the pure intention of getting him away from any and all consequences. He’d allowed Richie to eat what he desired - within reason of course, there was no way Eddie was allowing Richie to eat pizza at 8 am-, waisted their days sitting by the pool and indulged in Richie unchancy pranks - one of which ended up with Eddie scrubbing out blue glitter out of his hair. Eddie had been kind then, so it shouldn’t be surprising he is in this situation.

It doesn’t take away the fear Richie is left with. David had good days too, days that he was the perfect boyfriend, but that would never last long, and Richie is left to speculate if it’ll be the same thing with Eddie.

Maybe it’ll be hidden in a secret message, maybe Eddie is busy hatching a plan that will utterly deploy Richie from the inside out. Eddie’s hands are gently skimming over Richie’s palms, inspecting the damage without irritating the skin even more. ‘It doesn’t seem like it’s bad. It hurts right?’

‘Yeah’, Richie croaks when he figures out the question isn’t rhetorical. He isn’t sure at the moment why that’s supposed to be good.

Eddie tips forward, stretching up higher so he can kiss Richie’s forehead tenderly. Against his skin he explains. ‘That means the burn isn’t too deep, but hold it under the water still.’

‘No but you know what does go deep?’

‘Nothing if you don’t treat your burns,’ Eddie teases with a smirk. He gently ushers Richie closer to their faucet, and holds his own palm under the stream of water, twiddling with the different temperature taps until he finds one that he deems just lukewarm enough to allow Richie’s hand under it.

The smoke in the air remains unspoken about. It’s almost as if Richie is more important than a potential house fire to Eddie, but that’s absurd. Not only because this is the house that both of them felt was the right one, and subsequently paid a lot of money for, but also because Richie isn’t that special. He’s not even trying to be condensing towards himself, because he truly believes that.

‘How did you manage to do this huh? Idiot.’ Eddie jokes while guiding his hand under the water at the correct angle, his salutation gets smoothed over by a hand ruffling his hair. Coincidentally, or perhaps the exact opposite, a part of the stress Richie accumulated falls away when Eddie calls him an idiot. It helps to underline why exactly Eddie will never be like David, why the two aren’t in the same league of each other even.

When Eddie says idiot, it’s a nickname, it’s a middle school jab when Richie runs too fast and trips over his own feet, it’s the symbolic soothing pat on the back he receives after he can get all of the losers to laugh at his humor. It’s their love langue no one understands, It’s Eddie’s way of hiding how deep his adoration goes with a job that’s unusual to others.

David’s condescending tone alone tipped Richie into the deep end, into a cave that echoed his deepest flaws and slammed it into the cavity in his chest every time something didn’t go according to plan. Idiot for David did not mean the same things. For David, idiot was shoving aside Richie’s concerns, it was disinterested in all his quirks and his passive attitude. He meant what he said without sarcasm.

A first tear tracks down Richie’s cheek. ‘Rich?’ Eddie inquires startled. His hand previously stroking Richie’s curls slides towards his elbow in a smooth motion.

Richie tries to tell him it’s okay, that he needs a minute to regroup but that he’s fine, but instead of that he sobs, more tears spilling over with no regards to him uneasy Richie is to cry in front of someone.

‘Richie shit I’m sorry. Does it hurt that bad? Do we need to go to a hospital? We’ll go right now.’

‘No, no hospital,’ Richie waves him off with his injured hands. Eddie leads his hand back without response, tracking his face to see if he gives away anything. Richie had forgotten his hand hurted in the first place, so he definitely didn’t require any treatment beyond what he was doing already. His tears are the result of being overwhelmed by his emotions, and his default response to that is to cry.

‘If you don’t want me to do that, that’s okay you know?’

Because his hand is incapacitated, he wipes his nose on the corner of his shirt, watching as Eddie’s wrinkles his nose at that. Still, even with the disgusting move on Richie’s part, Eddie leans in closer, molding Richie so he fits in the fold between Eddie’s neck and shoulder. There, he resumes his path of caressing Richie’s hair, and kissing his temple. Richie fists one of his hands in the back of Eddie’s shirt, pressing them as intimate as he can.

‘Hey sweetheart, it’s okay. What’s wrong?’

Richie sobs harder, not particularly keen on telling Eddie why he’s this upset. It’s a difficult topic to talk to anyone about, Eddie and the losers included. There were days that Richie twisted his mind to convince himself that it was all in his head. That David was the best boyfriend anyone could ever wish for, and that the tirades he had to endure was just the cost of that. He was afraid he added things in his mind that hadn’t actually taken place and he created his own narrative.

Apprehension held Richie back, dreading what Eddie’s response might be. He could exclaim Richie to be a complainer that should have praised himself lucky to get the abuse he got, or he could say that Richie was a sourpuss, turning a fly into an elephant.

‘Shouldn’t we get rid of the smoke first?’, Richie questions to stall.

‘Later’, Eddie soothes with another kiss to his temple. ‘Talk to me. Please Rich.’

‘There was this guy I used to date, David.’

Eddie’s head shoots up in bewilderment, his brow furrowed. ‘You never told me about him.’

‘Yeah well we never talk about your wife either and I thought that would mean we wouldn’t disclose our previous hang ups.’

‘Ex-wife. Remember Rich? She’s my ex-wife. There’s nobody in the world I would rather be with then with you.’

‘Stop it you bastard,’ Richie sniffles pathetically. ‘You know I can’t deny you anything when you sweet talk me.’

‘That’s the plan.’

Eddie thumbs underneath Richie’s eye socket, brushing in a hypnotic rhythm that ankers him to reality. If Richie nuzzles into Eddie’s palm, then no one else but then needs to know.

Talking about something that brings forth a lot of anxiety goes smoother with closed eyes, Richie’s come to find, so he does that before revealing what he should have revealed a long time ago.

‘He was.. not so kind’, he chuckles humorless. ‘He really thrived when he pointed out everything I did wrong, liked yelling too.’

‘Rich?’

‘Wait let me finish. If I don’t say it now I’ll never get the courage to again.’ He opens his eyes only to see Eddie nod in agreement, and his face starting to tang a bit red.

‘Sometimes I couldn’t even walk right without him being all up in my ass about it. At parties he would gladly tell everyone embarrassing things I did, or he would pretend like he did all the work at home while really he was the one that did nothing. And the way he spoke to me.. like I was a child and he was a teacher or something. And he had this way of saying things so I’d know I was a breath away from being yelled at, but so that he could still claim he never once raised his voice at me. I guess I was scared you were going to do the same thing after seeing what a major fuck up I am. . He kept insisting I didn’t do things good enough, but I was really trying my best. I fucking swear Eds. I can’t help that my best isn’t good enough.’

The repetitive motion that Eddie kept up during his long monologue abruptly ends, and Eddie instead balls his hands up into two fist, pulling away from Richie to lean on the counter. He bounces on his heels, unable to stand still any longer as he is now the one to squeeze his eyes shut.

‘Eddie?’ Richie implores, the panic from before quickly flooding through his bloodstream and entering every part of his body.

Eddie opens his eyes, and something on Richie’s face must give away what he’s experiencing, because he’s quick to assure Richie did nothing wrong. ‘No, shit Richie it’s not you sweetheart. I love you, you did nothing, nothing wrong.’

He pecks Richie on the lips twice, very softly and barely noticeable, almost a goad to get Richie to cram their lips together tighter. For a long moment, they don’t move. Their lips stay hovering just out of reach, and one of Eddie’s palms slide down Richie’s chest down to his belly and up again. It’s an effort for Eddie to try and generate as much love towards Richie as he possibly can, before his resolve breaks and he has to let his resentment for David out in some way.

‘I’m going to kill him.’ Eddie turns away from Richie, but his hand remains on Richie’s stomach, a connection so they don’t separate. His chest puffs up, almost like he’s gearing up to go fight David right now. He would if he got the chance.

‘Spagheddie you don’t have to do that for me. I don’t even own his number anymore.’

‘I don’t care Rich,’ Eddie’s voice trembles but is laced with a deadly amount of venom. ‘He should have never done those things to you. If I ever see him I’ll fucking strangle him with my bare hands.’

‘It’s fine Eds, it wasn’t that bad.’ The denial burns in his chest. He wondered for a long time if he could qualify what he went through as abuse, not because he was actively hoping to label himself as an abuse victim, but because he questioned if what happened to him was worth being this upset over. In conclusion, Richie decreed it wasn’t. Eddie's eyes snap up, burning behind a sheen layer of glass.

‘He never hit me like Bev’s husband did to her.’

‘That doesn’t fucking matter. What happened to Bev is terrible, but that doesn’t make what happened to you any less dire. Both of you were victims of abuse, save for a different kind.’

Are they comparable? If they were talking about another person Richie would say yes, that both leave lasting scars, but because he’s the subject of the question, he can’t say for sure. He’s not lenient enough with himself to allow such a statement to be made. Bev can suffer from the consequences of her abuse, but from Richie’s perspective, he should be over it by now.

‘Oh fuck,’ Eddie curses explicitly, ‘and I called you an idiot. Richie I’m so sorry.’

Eddie’s little crease that only appears when he’s discontent about something appears again, and he avoids eye contact with Richie. There’s no need for any of that. Richie hadn’t even taken that big of a notice about the word. He was reassured Eddie would never use it as a true insult, and even if he wasn’t convinced of that, the tender way Eddie reacts towards him otherwise would be enough to convince him.

‘No Eddie. I don’t mind, really. I don’t want things to change between us because I told you this. I like our banter.’

He finally takes his hand from under the lukewarm water stream, and dries it on his pants -the water, come Eddie’s prediction, has eased the aflame skin -. With both hands now free, Richie cuddles up closer to Eddie, using his arms to tug him closer. Eddie is still dressed in his suit from work - and it might deem handsome, but it is not very comfortable - but has not mentioned getting changed once, too enraptured with taking care of Richie.

‘They won’t if you don’t want to, but we’re making a deal. If I do something that hurts you, you need to tell me, so I can apologize and tell you I didn’t mean any of it. Are we clear?’

‘Aye aye captain. Shall we pinky promise on it?’

‘No, I’d rather kiss on it.’

They do, and this time the kiss progresses further than just a simple peck. Eddie cups Richie’s face in between his palms, a soft, sentimental smile ruining it a little. It doesn’t matter, Richie still greedily savors the moment as it comes.

‘All those times that you went on stage and rocked that whole performance I was already infinitely proud, but shit Richie, now that you’ve told me I’m even prouder. He tore you down but you spit in his face and said fuck no, I’m still going to be my own person. I’ll never let him treat you badly again. More importantly, you’ll never let him do it again. You’re so strong sweetheart.’

Richie sniffs, ‘why the hell are you still being so sappy? I told you everything already, there’s no need to spawn me further.’ He giggles, and Eddie can’t help but chuckle at the sight too, then he turns serious again.

‘Okay, now let me take care of you. I’m going to clean up, hush I am and you’re not going to lift a single finger, and then we’ll order in, watch tv from the bed and cuddle. That sounds good? We can talk about the heavy things in the morning.’ Richie has been through enough for one day.

‘That sounds perfect Eds.’

They let go of each other, but not before Eddie sneaks in a kiss on his forehead, cheek and jaw.

While dating David, Richie never used the word love. He knew, with manipulated affection and all, that he did not love David. Love isn’t supposed to change us, it’s supposed to accept us, makes us laugh and cry at appropriate times, and cocoon us in her warmth. Love doesn’t change us, but it adds something more to the previous person we were yesterday. Eddie adds something more to Richie every single day, be it by teaching him or standing by his side when he messes up. Richie loves Eddie, and he gets loved back equally as fierce.

[rantshemlock]

Midsommar

this contains spoilers for Midsommar 

so like, the cult is bad, right? you realise that? like you guys know cults are bad? like i know they were nice to her but you know this is a white supremacist cult thats manipulating mentally ill people to indoctrinate them? like you guys see that right?

i think maybe the scariest experience of Midsommar was seeing how much people completely accepted and justified everything the cult did in order to project into the fantasy of getting that ultimate catharsis; of completely breaking free from your terrible abusive boyfriend and doing so in a way that empowers you. but it’s a joke to pretend that Dani is empowered at all, or that she really wanted this.

Midsommar is about Dani, who suffers a personal tragedy and then travels with her horrible boyfriend and his awful friends (not you josh) to a cult in sweden for their nine-day midsummer festival. the longer they stay, the more dangerous and frightening the rituals become.

it’s kind of impossible to condense this movie to a short description without it sounding insanely stupid; there’s not a quick paragraph that really condenses the scope of this when so much of the movie is dedicated to crafting an incredibly specific mood. the visuals of the film are incredibly detailed and trying to describe them is almost pointless; its a movie that does need to be watched if you want to understand how Aster cultivates tone and pace. 

the utilisation of the incredibly limited colour; the way images are blended into pictures so subtly they are almost there only to create a subconscious understanding; the way sound is used to tell the story; the mood the permanent sunny day and clear skies sets in a world where the sun barely ever sets. it all adds something to Midsommar, makes it even more of an anxiety-inducing nightmare of the worst thing that could happen when left alone at a friend’s house.

i think one of the greatest skills in Midsommar’s toolkit is the dialogue; while i wouldn’t call it improv or naturalism, the dialogue is very natural and not-stagey, but laced with double meanings and subtext. i think this kind of incredibly believable dialogue is one of Aster’s strongest talents, and definitely one of the things i enjoy most about his movies.

i didnt really get as much out of Midsommar as i did out of my beloved Hereditary, but it’s hard to say exactly why that is outside of my own personal relationship to Hereditary. something about the scope and scale of Midsommar, the removal from the domestic, makes it a touch less personally evocative to me. 

Midsommar is a movie about gaslighting and abusive relationships, but there’s a pretty clear pattern in people recognising that with Dani’s horrible boyfriend and neglecting to see it in the cult. it’s very easy to get wrapped up in the cult’s apparent empathy and understanding of her trauma, but what we’re watching isn’t a genuine love and care for Dani. it’s an indoctrination tactic used to manipulate and brainwash her. all through the movie the cult imitates and pretends to share people’s pain, but they don’t truly experience Dani’s any more than they do that of the old man who survives a suicide attempt, only to be subsequently killed by the cult. they are merely reflecting what she was going through, utilising her pain to guide her to their own ends. 

the intention is stated clear as day during the exact same “does he make you feel held? does he feel like home to you?” conversation Pelle and Dani have that people love to reference so much as the heartwarming moment of the movie. Pelle tells Dani that his parents also died, but he never had to be sad because the cult was there for him, and then says that he’s glad Dani came on the trip to sweden because she’s the one he wanted there the most. later, we find out that it was the mission of Pelle and others to bring outsiders to the cult.

the meaning of this is clear; Pelle recognised that Dani was vulnerable, and took it upon himself to recruit her. this is a frequent favourite tactic of cults. the idea he was doing this trip out of the kindness of his heart is absurd; the cult deals in human sacrifice. he knew that he could more easily lead Dani to her death. 

pretending Dani is happy at the end of the film is a vast stretch, and pretending that any brief spell of happiness would justify what happened is even more so. right up until the very end she is either terrified or has been drugged, often without her knowledge or consent. she doesn’t know the extent to which innocent people have been murdered. she doesn’t know what the cult have planned, what their history is, what their future is. she can’t even communicate with the vast majority of the cult’s members. to pretend that she has any autonomy in this situation is to ignore how guided and controlled her actions are throughout the movie; she accepts the death of her boyfriend when she is drugged and almost catatonic from trauma, and is that really enough to say that she is happy? that she is docile and compliant?

throughout the film Dani is constantly trying to set up boundaries, to make tiny requests of people for her own wellbeing. time and time again they are ignored and overruled and her attempts to stand up for herself are flattened in the wake of other peoples desires. the cult is no different; none of her actions are borne of her own choices. no one has ever really cared what Dani wants. 

i think what is most prominent is that when Dani is becoming the may queen, an image of her sister committing suicide can be seen mixed into the trees in the background. drawing a direct parallel between death and Dani’s adoption as the May Queen feels like a very transparents statement of intent. 

what also should be mentioned is the white supremacist nature of the cult; of the victims, the first to die are all people of colour. white supremacist literature is seen around the camp. the cultists talk about how their children are born from specially chosen couples, in what is the most brushed over description of selected breeding and eugenics ive ever heard. every living person is white. it is not accidental or subtle. apparently the directors cut goes into much deeper detail on this idea; i couldnt say myself, i havent seen it. but its obvious in this film that this cult stands for the benefit only of themselves and the preservation of their rituals and past.

in the end the question to me is: was it all worth it? was all the suffering and pain the loss of life worth it, just for Dani to have a smile that expresses nothing but how far she has fallen into her trauma? 

one of the things that weighed on me watching the movie was that it was specified that the ritual lasts nine days -- we see maybe five. the other thing is that throughout the movie we are repeatedly shown dozens of photos of past May Queens, but never does a character ever introduce themselves as a past May Queen, never does a character reference other May Queens. after their need is abated, they just seem to vanish. it makes me wonder what happens in the other four days. 

[kaitiesnacks]

So, my cousin got married

I got on a plane in the midsts of a pandemic, rode with an uncle and cousin I don’t trust to have maintained distancing, and spent three days surrounded by her fiancés family whom I had never met. Non of which wore a mask.

They had hired help come in with no masks, no sanitizing, no concern. When my anxiety began to bubble over, despite my best efforts, I felt I could confide to the sister of the bride. Someone I considered to be on of my closest confidants. Choosing a very specific moment when the bride was no where in ear shot, I ask the sister why no one was enforcing masks. At the very least, for the complete strangers coming in. Who, I might add, were charging 25% more due to risk of losing their licenses for providing their nail tech services when it’s specifically not allowed IN A PANDEMIC. And yet... not even the most basic sanitation procedures were being followed.

Was I wrong for expressing my concern?

The question was “How do you feel about those women coming in with no masks?”

While, at first, the response came with thought out wording and attempted empathy, the sister quickly became defensive and began to shout at me. Questioning why I even bothered to attend. (I thought these were my very best friends) I calmly asked to not be yelled at. There should be no need to bring attention to what was supposed to be a private moment and no need to yell in general. Unfortunately, as most know, when someone is on the defense and told to bring their heightened emotions down, the reaction can become even more explosive.

The sister slams the counter shoving beauty products into a bag and rushes out the room. I remain sitting, thinking “let her go”. Alas, I hear her heavy steps rush down the stairs paired with her heaving and abrupt sobs. I know she’s running for their mother. Nearly 30 and still reminiscent of our childhood days. My new concern, the bride. Not for fear of her, but for fear of adding a stain to such an important day for her.

Predicting what was to come next, I walk myself down the steps. Just over half way down, the mother of the bride trudges towards me until she’s 6 inches from my face (No mask)

Tears welling in my eyes, I hold my ground and say “Yell at me.” The sister pushes past me back up the stairs hissing as she goes by “Just get out.” The words sting and tears begin to fall. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I trusted you. I went to you for comfort. Her mother then spits “When you called [the bride] last week, I told her she should have kicked you out then and there.”

-For reference, I called the bride two weeks prior to my flight to get some final details such as, will there be masks? How many people will be there? What precautions are being taken to keep everyone safe? Not accusatory, not judging, just inquiring. The final month to the wedding I was assured all precautions were being taken. While I was never given a number, I was told it would be a small attending. I repeated my concerns but ensured my cousin I would be there as long as she wanted me there. It was a day we’ve dreamed of our whole lives after all. She eased my worries. Told me I could wear my mask the entire time if I so pleased, and that no one would judge me. What bullshit that was. -

Now my head is racing. Am I really being kicked out of my best friends wedding right now? I begin shaking uncontrollably and I can’t catch my breath. The brides voice comes from a room above us “What’s going on?” I pray we can just play it off and she can pay no mind to what’s happening. Before I know it she’s by my side. Shouting at her mom and sister to leave me alone. “She’s just scared”

A different aunt, pulls me into a private room. The tears and sweat running down my face is rampant and I know I shouldn’t even be wiping it of because “don’t touch your face”. She essentially tells me I’m over reacting but that I am also completely right in my worries and she too doesn’t understand the hosts’ lack of safety. She asks if I’d feel better if she’d put a mask on in solidarity with me. I say yes, but she never does. The bride entire the room. Her mother tries to follow but the bride scowls at her and tells her to let her handle it. I immediately am apologizing for breaking down. I tell her I don’t want her to worry about me. Please just continue like nothing’s wrong, I promise I’ll collect myself. She asks me if I want to leave. I so desperately do, but I made a commitment to her as one of the most important people in my life. I apologize over and over, she assured me it’s fine and I’m “valid”. She reminds me I cannot control others and I can’t be upset that no one (and I mean no one) is wearing masks.

The moment has passed, the bride and myself take deep breaths. She asks that I speak with her sister upstairs. People are arriving.

Grateful to have my mask hiding my reddened face, I slink back upstairs. The sister and mother are closed up in the bathroom where I can clearly hear them mocking me. I tune it out. I have to calm down. For the bride. A voice in my head says “you are not wrong. Do not feel bad for standing up for your safety” but the guilt feels like a ragged tear in my chest. I repeat to myself “Protect yourself. You can’t worry about others. I’ve made it this far, I have to follow through”.

Another bridesmaid comes up half joking that she was gone for a second and missed all the commotion. I now know word is spreading and I will feel more secluded than ever. I have to put it aside.

The rest of the evening moves so slowly. It’s 109 outside, people crowd in the air conditioned home. The bride asks as we rehearse walking down the aisle that no one links arms. A few pairs defiantly link arms anyways. The sister, being one of them, flashes her eyes towards me as a warning. Out of six pairings, mine is the only one to not be touching. It’s undeniably awkward. I don’t mean for it to come off as rude.

That night alone in my hotel I cry harder than I have all awful year. I’m so torn between what’s right and wrong. The guilt of upsetting the bride, the pain of betrayal from the sister. The loneliness and now questioning my own sanity. Should I really be THIS scared? No one else seems to care at all. I remind myself of an imagined vision of someone I love alone in hospital. No. I will not regret my words. But I do regret attending this wedding. Even still, thinking that feels cruel. It’s not supposed to be like this.

The following day is the wedding. I spend the night wrestling my thoughts. I could just go home. They did try to kick me out after all. Then again, the bride came to my defense as her mother roared in my face. She has my loyalty.

Mere hours before the ceremony, the bride asks that no one wears masks down the isle. Fuck. Did she plan this? I was told I could wear my mask as long as I wanted. Did she know I wouldn’t be able to deny her request? How do you refuse when everyone else obliges?

I stand in the hot sun, thankful that maybe the rays are helping protect us from the virus. The ceremony proceeds and, to my dismay, they follow through with an Irish tradition where all the groomsmen sip beer from the same pint, passing it to the reverend and then to the bride and groom to drink from. That’s nine mouths on one glass in a matter of seconds. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m no longer focused on the joy for the bride and groom, but on my fear. I look into seats filled with 100 people. I count four masks on all together.

It’s not that I’m not happy for the bride. I’m elated for her actually... but to put myself and therefore mine and my boyfriends family at risk is not worth one day of celebrating someone else’s love.

I don’t think I was wrong for being scared or for reaching out to who I thought was a friend. I think I was wrong to follow through and be in the wedding though. I thought I was doing the right thing by supporting my now previous best friend. She said she wanted me there and I wanted to show her my love went beyond all fear. I regret it now.

Now she passively posts on Facebook, about anonymous family members who are “toxic” and are not in support of her. My heart is broken. I tried so hard to find and do the right thing. Now I’ve lost what I considered to be some of my core community. I’ve been betrayed and gaslighted. I feel duped and stupid.

Reflecting now, I shouldn’t be surprised. These patterns have happened through my entire life. This is not the first nor the second time I’ve had my heart crushed by each one of the three women. Hard times reveal true colors and I don’t think things will be the same.

[iheardarumorxxx]

Midnight Sun, Chapter 3 - Phenomenon

Back at it, and the chapter literally starts with Weirdo and Carlisle having Daddy/Son bonding time. Gross.

 I really, really can’t stand the stiff and affected way that Ed and Carlisle talk to one another. It’s SM’s attempt at making them sound ‘old-fashioned’, but it comes off really ham-fisted and fake, like the kids at your high school doing a performance of Twelfth Night for extra credit.

Also, it really pisses me off that Eddie keeps calling Bella ‘the girl’ when he absolutely knows what her name is and could, in fact, just fucking use it. Again, I kinda get what SM was going for, here. She wants to make it seem like Weirdo is trying to distance himself from Bella by refusing to use her name, but we have four books worth of canon to show him being a stuck up, pompous, holier than thou shit-head, so it just comes off as Eddie thinking he’s too good to use her name.

He also does this thing, and Bella did it too in the Twilight books, where he will go on and on and on and on about how he shouldn’t be doing something, acknowledging that the thing he’s doing is bad or selfish, and then just... fucking do it anyway. Right now, he’s doing it to justify why he isn’t leaving Forks to get away from Bella, who he has the very real potential of hurting if he sticks around, and it just goes to show how fucking selfish our protags actually are in this series. 

(PS, prime example of Bella doing it was when she kept going on and on about how much she was hurting poor Jacob by staying around him even though she knew there was no way she was ever gonna be with him, but she just couldn’t live without him.)

She stuck her tiny tongue out at me.

This is absolutely a nitpick, but why the hell do we need to know that Alice has a tiny tongue? What purpose does that serve the story? It’s Checkov’s tongue, and it’s never coming off the shelf. And it’s something so ridiculously small to point out and nitpick, but it was written into the book, meaning that SM cared enough to mention it. 

my whole existence centered around the girl, rather than around myself anymore.

Considering the, eheh, heavy handed way that SM tried to shove the Romeo and Juliet parallel at us in New Moon, up to and including the end where the two idiots made an extremely foolish and impulsive decision, this.... gives me the creeps.

she was a serious person, a responsible person.

Friends, please direct your attention to.... literally everything that Bella ever did in canon and tell me how she is a responsible or serious person, and not a rash, impulsive teenage girl who does stupid shit and whines when she doesn’t get her way. 

Eddie’s doing that thing again where he talks about how much time it took him to do something, down to the tenth of a second or whatever. Bella did that a lot after her vampening in BD and it’s actually really jarring. Yet another one of those little things that SM tries to do to make her Pires seem Better Than You(tm) that just makes it feel more unrealistic. Like, just say something like ‘In a flash’ or ‘quicker than anyone could blink’ or something.

Anyway, the car crash scene. I’m actually gonna say something nice about this book for once with the car crash scene. 

In Twilight, when the car crash scene happened, it didn’t really have any tension. The movie did this a lot better, because we weren’t trapped only in Bella’s head as it was happening. But in the book, there’s just an entire page worth of Bella hearing the car coming and seeing the car coming and literally standing and watching the car coming right toward her without moving out of the way. I didn’t believe that she didn’t have time to get out of the way because her inner monologue was extremely dry and flat, didn’t feel at all like a terrified girl about to be smushed like a van. In Midnight Sun, for once, SM improved on this scene. Not by much, mind you. I do think that Eddie’s inner monologue still goes on for a bit too long, but it genuinely does feel like Bella didn’t have time to get out of the way on her own based on how this was written. It captured that too fast to move, wild and chaotic energy that I think SM wanted in the original.

That is probably going to be the only (or one of the only) nice things I have to say about this book. 

I knew from experience that if I was very confident as I lied, it made any questioner less sure of the truth.

Edward Cullen could teach a master class on how to gaslight the people around you, and this is one of the many fucking reasons why I hate him so damn much.

Weirdo and Bella are both extremely petulant children and try to pass it off as being ‘stubborn’. But there’s a big difference between ‘I feel very strongly about this and am going to stick to my point of view’ and ‘i didn’t get my way, so I’m going to stomp my feet and pout and be a brat.’ The latter is where our supposed heros fall.

Weirdo insulting Charlie pisses me off so gd much that I can’t even begin to describe it. Leave Mustache Dad the fuck alone, beige turtleneck.

he had one simple oil painting - a favorite of his, an undiscovered Hassam.

These assholes with their fucking THINGS to show just how filthy fucking rich they are pisses me off. That’s it, that’s the comment.

Also the constant mentions of Eddie getting Daddy’s approval just... eck. 

The end of the chapter is that conversation in the hall about how Eddie did some magical thing to save Bella’s life and all of the dialogue is surprisingly consistent between Twilight to here. As in, I’m ps SM just copy and pasted it and then wrote around it for Eddie’s inner monologue. Either way, it’s just dull. And there’s no mystery to solve, and Eddie going on about how he’s gonna lie to her and gaslight her makes me mad.

One thing stood out. Weirdo calling Bella an ‘angry kitten’ or w/e. Fuck u Weirdo.

[delicateunraveling]

Dear Taylor,  

A version of this has been in my drafts since the week Lover came out, and I’ve been alternating between too shy and too overwhelmed to post it, but I wanted to try and say something in honor of your 30th birthday, the astonishing year you’ve had, and the impact you’ve made on my life. (The photo is of things I received in a package from a fellow Swiftie, who sent me the deluxe version of the album - and the extra surprises! - because I couldn’t afford it myself, and that itself was remarkably kind and a testament to you - you’ve inspired so much goodness and generosity in others.)

Even if you’re, understandably, never able to see this, it’s honestly a blessing to think I can send this out into the universe. That's enough. Somehow I never knew that I could reach out on Tumblr until recently, or I likely would have said something to you many years ago (despite that overwhelming shyness). I wish I could be eloquent or imaginative in writing it (if I could be complex, if I could be cool!) instead of...an overemotional mess? I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you, for everything you've given to us in your music, everything you've given of yourself no matter how hard it's been, everything you've represented in your honesty, your displays of compassion and strength.

Music is the deepest passion and love of mine, it's the gossamer thread that's held me together in the worst times, the safe place where I could pour my heart and be myself. I'm a couple of years older than you are, though I generally feel behind these days because I've been chronically ill and mostly housebound since I was 19, and that halted my life and dreams in their tracks. The dream of truly honing my voice and my musical self was the most difficult to put away in the midst of all the others. It's often felt like being trapped in amber while the world keeps spinning, or like being a ghost, ostensibly drifting in the world, but nearly invisible to it, only occasionally peeking out of the windows to see the sun.

Ten years ago, I fell for a boy (still the only person I've ever felt that way about), and everything he was ended up being a lie and devolving into him gaslighting me and threatening my safety directly, along with breaking my heart. It took such a toll that I had to pull myself out of a harmful darkness, and he was a musician himself, so I had some terror that the experience with him had stolen or tainted that dearest part of my being. It hadn't, but the recovery took a while. One of the very first things that got me through it, that woke me up again, was being able to hold close to your first two albums. Those songs quite literally helped keep my heart beating, and then Speak Now helped it to heal. I’ve unfortunately never had the chance to see you live (the concert films are spectacular, though!), but your music became a part of the tapestry of my life from those first moments on. I've loved your work ever since then, but often quietly and tenderly, because it's near to such a delicate part of my spirit. It's vulnerable and personal, it's romantic and devastating, it’s starshine salvation when the world feels cold and clouded, and saying that is strange since those expressed emotions are fundamentally yours, but the way they transform into something both universal and specific is truly magical.

This year has been the worst and the darkest I've felt since that heartbreak ten years ago, though for very different reasons. My health took a serious turn for the worse. My beloved dog, who was my constant companion and my emotional support through every day of my illness for almost 13 years, succumbed to cancer. She was my sweet baby (I'm sure you understand this feeling with your precious kitties), and I still struggle with her absence daily. My mom and I are in the most precarious position we've ever been in financially, and we're looking at losing our condo with nowhere else to go. I've felt like everything is terrifying and tenuous and slipping away from me, including time itself. I apologize for even putting those burdens down in words, but if I don't, the weight of my thanks to you isn't as real. "Me!" came out only a couple of weeks after she passed away, and the pure happiness of it was the first bit of joy I'd even felt since she had relapsed. Then when you released “The Archer,” it moved me to the point that tears were streaming down my face when I first played it, feeling like I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost was transcribed from a cathartic place in my own thoughts. Knowing a new album was coming from you once again gave me something to look forward to, a reason to want to keep going, even when it hurt to breathe from missing her, even on days when my illness has been flaring too severely and painfully for me to get out of bed, I kept thinking...make it through to August, you have to hear Taylor's next album. Making it there felt like a minor miracle, and even though I’m scared and don’t know what’s ahead or what’s going to happen now, I am unbelievably glad that I was here to listen to your music, and then to witness your continued bravery, over the past few months. Laying that out in words on a screen sounds too small, but it's tremendous to me.

There are connections to each of your album releases that I could ramble about (Red would take several chapters of its own in my hypothetical novel, My Melodic Inclinations and Inspirations: An Autobiography), in their meaning to me and how much they represent in the pages of these passing years, but I realize how special Lover is to you specifically, and that's why now, more than ever, I wanted to be able to say how grateful I am for your poetic words, for your sweeping and intimate melodies, for your works of art. Hidden away in my room, I've sung-screamed your songs in delight at the top of my lungs, I've curled up under covers and cried to them, I've twirled around in pajamas with them. This is the first time I won't have my fluffy girl to hold on my lap and sing them to, but somehow that has made having new songs all the more treasured and cathartic. Lover is an absolutely exquisite, sparkling gift of an album. I cherish it as I do each of your albums, each for their own special reasons, and I will forever be thankful for all of your work.

I respect and admire you so much for the way you've stood your ground, the way you've championed what you believe in and spoken for equality and for artists’ rights, the grace with which you've approached everything you've been dealt in such a harsh spotlight. I can't fathom what that's like, but I am constantly proud of how you respond, your ability to both grow and remain authentic in expressing your views and truths. Exceptional artistry is worth celebrating (your Artist of the Decade and every other accolade is earned and deserved!), but being an exceptional person is even more worthwhile, and I believe you're both. When we say we stand with you, when we rally around you, I hope you remember that it’s out of not only that admiration and pride, but also rooted in genuine care and connected humanity. Our society needs bright, bold women, making changes and supporting one another. The world is lucky to have your beautiful songs, and your individual voice.

Thank you for creating such incredible things. Thank you for giving a valuable perspective to such a breadth of emotions. Thank you for giving your dazzling art so wholly. I hope you remember how much it means, how deeply it resonates, to so many people. I hope you remember that so many of us are in your corner with the brightest wishes, for your happiness and your freedom to be yourself, with prayers for you and your family and loved ones. I hope you know that your words have given some of us life rafts in swirling currents that threaten to drag us under, that your music has the ability to break through shadows with powerful light. There is a sacredness which exists in art that knits us together. Wherever I go, I'll carry your songs in my heart and soul.

Happy, happy Birthday!!! 🍰 🎈✨ It truly is the end of the decade, but the start of an age. May 30 be the beginning of brand new creativity and experiences, and even more wonder and daylight, golden on the horizon.

Love always,

Jess 💖💖💖

@taylorswift  @taylornation 😘

[calliecat93]

Top 5 Things I Liked About RWBY Volume 4

(Top 5 Dislikes)

This is going out later than I was hoping, but hey better now that never. Anyways, I honestly think that V4 is a pretty underrated Volume. There’s a lot that I really enjoy about it and after the insanity of V3, I’m glad that we got a more lowkey season that let everyone begin to heal. I’m hoping that RvB18 will follow that path tbh, but that’s not important here. There’s a lot to like, so let’s talk about the Top 5 Things I Liked About RWBY Volume 4!

#5. The Switch to Maya/Improved Animation

For Volumes 1-3, animaiton was primarily done in a program called Poser. This was mainly because it was what Monty liked to use, especially for fight animation. Poer isn’t an animation program, it is a modeling program that Monty was able to work for what he needed, but again it is not a proper animation program. V3 looks amazing, but I think that it was clear that they had reached their limit on how much they could push it. Add that with now having a larger animation staff, and it was time for a change. As such, they shifted to Maya, a common animaiton program in the field, and I am going to say it… it was 100% the right choice.

The animaiton in the Poser Era wasn’t bad, but… there were plenty of times where it felt like expressions and casual movements were very stiff. V4 changed that massively. There is so much more facial expression, but not just that. Take Blake’s cat ears for example. They are SO expressive in every scene that she’s in. Sure it might be because she threw out the bow, but still! I really don’t think that they could have done that in Poser. Animaiton models improved, like Sun’s abs no longer being glued to him for example and his little necklace sometimes daggling about. Environments look more vibrant. Environments have improved. Things like shading look better. And while the fight scenes aren’t Monty-like anymore, they are still really good! Seriously, Qrow vs Tyrian is still awesome~

I know that the shift wasn’t something liked by everyone, though I think that the vast majority have come around since V4. The animaiton has only kept improving after this, and it’s crazy going back to V1 and seeing the difference. But they sold me the second that they released the Ruby Trailer in the lead-up to the volume. Maya has allowed for a lot of improvement and new opportunities, and I believe that RT made the right choice in transitioning over to it. V4 looked so good, especially with how many new locations that it introduced us to, and I freakin’ love it~

#4. Expansion On The World

Volume 4, above all, is a world-building volume. We spent all of our time in the first three volumes primarily in Beacon and the city fo Vale. The only locations that we got a substantial amount of time in otherwise were Mountain Glenn and the Amity Arena for the Vytal Festival. Otherwise, we’ve been stuck in one place despite knowing that there is a much larger world out there. Thankfully though, this volume takes us outside the Kingdom of Vale and finally allowed us to explore the rest of Remnant… well, parts of it. Still, more than the other volumes had.

This was an advantage of using the multiple plotlines.. We got a really good amount of new locations. RNJR was in Anima, which had a lot of Asian-inspired scenery and naming. Yeah, we mostly spend the time on trails and villages, but you can still see the difference between the villages and Vale. Which we got to see what it’s like outside of Vale. Some villages like Higanbana are nice, while others like Shion or Kuroyuri… well… it emphasizes just how bleak the world truly is. Vale was an overall safe place, and even that wasn’t safe. If you don’t live within a kingdom though? Hope that luck is on your side.

We also get to see Menagerie for the first time. Sadly we don’t get to see as much here or in V5, but we do get to see how cramped it is and it overall looks nice. You can see that, as Blake said, they tried to make it a welcoming place for Faunus. We get to see Weiss’ home, which is as empty and cold as you would have imagined it being. It looks grand, but it’s just… empty and quiet with Weiss, more or less, alone aside from Klein. Patch is nice, you can certainly see why Tai would raise his kids there and in contrast to Weiss’ home, it’s small but the peaceful and comforting environment that Yang needed. Salem’s realm is eerie. Oscar’s farm is… a farm. And Mistral? Amazing.

What I’m getting at here is that we learn so much more about the world. Even outside exploring new locations, we learn about the Relics and the God Brothers. We start to get an understanding of the war between Oz and Salem, though of course, we learn the true scale in V6. The volume does a lot to make Remnant feel more like an actual world full of stories, problems, and history. It took us out of the hub that we were used to with Volumes 1-3, and I think that they did so very well. Very much appreciate it~

#3. Yang Plotline

While Yang got the least amount of focus, I… don’t view that as a bad thing. A story can’t be dictated by screentime alone. You have to look at how well they executed what they needed to do in the amount of time that they had. For example, they didn’t do very well with Ruby in V5 with the time that they had, but we’ll save that for the V5 posts. For V4, as I said, Oscar didn’t get the proper development and they didn’t utilize the amount fo time that they had for him well. But Yang though? I thought that they did her very well here.

Yang’s plot is, of course, recovering after losing her arm and getting back into fighting condition so that she can go after Ruby. We see that she has PTSD, having flashbacks and nightmares and her emotional state is… not in the bright place that we’re used to. Chapter 4, the chapter mainly focused on her, shows how concerned she is about taking the first steps of recovery, though we do see her start to laugh and joke around again. With Tai’s encouragement and support, Yang ut son the new arm, trains again and Tai helps her see the disadvantages of her fighting style/Semblance reliance, and opens up to her about Raven. In the end, Yang’s ready to go after her sister. She’s not 100% healed, but she’s got her drive back and is ready to move ahead.

Now again, Yang gets the least amount of focus. She only gets one chapter dedicated to her, and otherwise, her’s appears the least out of the four RWBY girls. But they utilized that time very well. They don’t drag it out or rush through it. They set up Yang’s mental state, show us signs of her PTSD, have Tai give her the proper encouragement, and have her start to get back on her feet. I’m glad that they were just straightforward with it, there was no need to drag it out especially since V5 and 6 show that there are still things that she has to work through. The point for this volume though was to get Yang well enough mentally for her to get back out onto the field, and they did that very well. She was in a positive environment as well, and that probably helped her.

So yeah, when I look back at the Yang plot, I have no issues with it. I think that it was given the amount of attention that it needed. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t dragged out either. Yang didn’t fully recover, but she got well enough to move forward. That was the ultimate goal for everyone’s plotline, and they achieved it here. But I’m gonna leave it at 3 since it is a bit of a bummer that she got limited screentime. But for what it’s worth, they used that time properly and I am happy with the final result.

#2. Weiss Plotline

Out of all the plots, Weiss’ is my favorite and imo, the best one done. This is because this is the conclusion to her three volumes worth of character development. As I said n the V3 Likes post, her plot had her decide to finally cut herself away from her father for good and move ahead with the life that she wanted. Sadly, due to the Fall, Jaques had the perfect excuse to got o Vale and force her to return to Atlas with him. So just as quickly a she was able to embrace her freedom and the choice to never turn back, fate dealt her a bad hand and she was her father’s prisoner once more. Which she literally becomes a prisoner after her outburst at the charity event and gets stripped of her title. It’s just… horrible to watch that scene. Really, any scene with her and Jaques is uncomfortable, especially when he slaps her.

This is when we truly get to see Jaques abuse first hand, and it is as horrible as the previous hints indicated. He’s condescending and passive-aggressive to Weiss. He treats her like she’s a child and an employee more than as a parent. Compare it to Tai or Ghira with Yang and Blake, where they are nothing but caring and supportive to their daughters. Ghira especially welcomed Blake back with open arms despite how she called them cowards in the past and was just glad that she found her way again and was safe. Jaques only cares about Weiss for his image and to use her when it suits his needs, whether Weiss is willing to do it or not. He makes her sing rather than ask her. He refuses to let her out fo his sight during the charity gala. He talks down to her. He tries to gaslight her into everything being her fault and like her outburst was wrong.

Weiss did NOTHING wrong. She, and maybe Ironwood, were the only ones at that charity who gave a damn about Vale. Seeing her in that environment, where people were snobby, argumentative, and only cared about their own petty problems makes you really, really appreciate how much she had grown. She had broken out of that mindset after V1 and when the Trophy Wife claims that Vale deserved what it got, she rightfully calls her and everyone else out on their bullshit and refuses to let Jaques shut her up. Yeah, it ends badly with Weiss losing her title and Whitley rubbing it in. Weiss had no one aside form Klein, who is an actual good person who showed Weiss kindness and care moreso than her own family ever did. When Weiss breaks down, ti just… hurts. But luckily, at her lowest point, Weiss decides that enough is enough. She gets back out Myrtenaster, perfects her Summoning Glyph, and decides to break free once and for all. Klein helps her escape, and she manages to get onto a plane heading for Mistral. Which leads to… more problems, but that’s for the next volume.

Weiss’ plotline was very well done. It gets you to see how far that she’s come since Volume 1. She wanted to break free and become better, and she did. Jaques tries to lock her away again, but he failed. Weiss had gotten a taste of freedom, and she was going to reclaim it. She was going to redeem her family name her way by being a Huntress and no one was going to stop her. As This Life is Mine stated, “I won’t be possessed/burdened by your royal test/I will not surrender, this life is mine.” Yes Weiss, it is indeed.

Weiss was great, but there is one character whose focus I appreciated not just because it was good, but because it saved that character in my eyes.

#1. Ren Becoming a Character

I haven’t talked much about Ren and Nora, and that was because up until now… there wasn’t much to talk about. While I liked them fine enough, in V1-3 they’re just… there. It felt like they existed just because Jaune and Pyrrha had to be part of a four-man team because they’re nothing more than supporting characters there. Nora at least was funny and bubbly so she was at least fun, but Ren? He was just… quiet and the straight-man to Nora’s antics. That was it. He didn’t feel like a character, he just felt like a necessity needed to fill in a spot. My biggest hope with V4 was, now with JNR traveling with RWBYt hey would do something, anything to flesh out Ren and Nora. At least for one of them.

Fortunately, I got my wish.

To be fair, RWBY Chibi had gotten me to warm up to Ren since they got a lot out of him in several of the skits. More than I thought that they could. But I also like Chibi!Neo FAR more than I like Canon!Neo, so that wasn’t saying much. But fortunately, Volume 4 came around! Ren was really great in this volume! He’s still the quiet one, though he gets more here than any other volume. Which is something to note real quick. Neath has done a fantastic job as Ren. I can’t imagine how it had to have felt since he was taking over Monty’s spot. His brother’s spot. But he has done a perfect job since Day One, and I can’t imagine anyone else int he role at this point. He especially shows his range in this volume, and for a guy who had never voice acted until he started doing Ren, he pulls it off perfectly. I love Neath.

Ren is from Anima, but outside Mistral, so he’s of course the most knowledgeable of the area. We get to see more of his tracking and fighting skills, which is as fun to see as it was in Volume 1 which was the last time he got to showcase his fighting style. We get to see him interact with not only Nora, which was really nice especially with Jaune. But most of all, we get to see how Ren’s past affected him. His reaction to the destruction fo Shion perfectly fits due to what happened to Kuroyuri. His refusal to go back there makes sense since… well, no one likes to revisit the source of their trauma. He tells us about Oniyuri, and through him we see just how difficult it is to live outside the Kingdoms. We saw that with what happened to Shion, but Ren is a character that we’ve known for years and we get to see and hear about it through him. Which makes it hit us harder because it affects a character that we’ve known for so long. And when we get to the flashback and see how happy Ren’s life was and how it all went to Hell in just one night? It breaks your heart. We also finally learn his Semblance, which fits him perfectly so that was also appreciated.

But most of all, we get to Kuroyuri, and it’s the first time that we see Ren lose it. He’s always been a very calm, very tranquil person but when the Nucklavee attacks, he is understandably terrified… and then just lose it. We’ve NEVER seen him get angry before, but seeing the monster that ruined his life, killed his family, and destroyed his home? Yeah, that’ll make anyone snap. But thankfully, Nora snaps him out of it and this is when we see just how strong their relationship is. When Ren lost everything, he found Nora who had absolutely no one, and befriended her. They fought together. They survived together. They went through everything together, both good and bad. So fo course Nora could see that Ren was losing it, and she was the only one who could pull him back and stop him before he lost himself I’d still like them to be more clear on if Renora is canon or not cause I still really don’t know. But at least we get to see that their dynamic isn’t just the ‘hyper girl, calm guy’ dynamic. There is a true bond there, and it’s just beautiful.

It ends with Ren suing his father’s knife, the only thing of his family that he still has, to kill the Nuclavee. For his parents. For all the lives stolen. And, of course, for himself. This was him confronting his trauma, and finally putting it to rest and moving forward. That’s the biggest theme of this volume honestly, taking what brought you down, and moving forward. Yang began to stand up again after her trauma. Blake decided to quit running and to rise up against the White Fang once and for all. Weiss broke free of her father despite him trying to pull her back. Ruby saw just how bad the world truly was along with the Fall of Beacon still haunting her, but took ti and strengthened her resolve to be a Huntress and make things better as much as possible. And Ren? He chose to go back to Kurroyuri to save his friends and destroyed the monster that made so many suffer but without giving in to his sorrow. 

The volume just made me love Ren and see him more as a character than I had before. He’s one of my absolute favorites no. I’m hoping that V7 is going to do the same with Nora since at this point, I feel that she’s the most under-developed of the main cast. But we’ll just have to wait and see. Regardless, V4 changed my opinion of Ren completely and his story was done very well. As such, it my favorite thing about RWBY Volume 4.

And another volume done! So… next we get to Volume 5. Ho boy, I haven’t revisited it since it ended and not for the reasons that you think. But we’ll talk more on those posts. For now, thanks for reading everyone~!

[momma-mogai-sphinx]

hi! i’m a 15 y/o lesbian who’s really struggling with her identity. my dad and siblings both disagree with the idea of gay marriage and i feel pretty rejected. i keep wondering if i’m just faking my sexuality for attention, even though i know i’m not. i feel weird and abnormal, and worst of all, my friends think it’s trendy and funny to be apart of the lgbtqia community when it comes with a lot of struggles. could i possibly get some positivity or kind words? or a way to feel better? ty. 💞

I have a few things I could share, actually…

I definitely understand how it is you might be feeling right now, so let me tell you—as someone who grew up in quite the inhospitable home, in a wildly homophobic town, who continues to live happily in said town despite all the odds—it can get better.

I know that can be hard to believe sometimes. I know there are things in your life which are far out of your control; systems that you might not understand, but which have a powerful effect, not only on how much you’re allowed to do and say before your identity is called into question, but also on the very course and structure of life itself. I know it can be suffocating and feel like there’s no escape. I know following the axiom “work hard and have good morals” to a t will never be enough to grant you your personhood in the face of blind bigotry.

But let me tell you why holding on is worth it.

It can be exhausting to be endlessly scrutinized by “normal” society. A single slip up could have you mercilessly questioned on the basis of whichever marginalized identity they decide is going to be society’s downfall today (one that could be and often is largely irrelevant to whatever situation led you to such a discussion to begin with). One false move might see you kicked to the curb (or worse) by your so-called “allies,” your friends and family when they deem you too low in the social hierarchy to risk their image. When you try to argue for or against something, they will see you as nothing more than your marginalized identity, see you as a spokesperson for others who share this identity. And they will use this not only as a way to dismiss you as foolish and “backwards,” but as a means to bully and harass you into complete silence.

It can be frustrating to be erased. When you find a character in a work of fiction that you see a lot of yourself in and headcanon them as sharing an identity with you, they’ll ask, “Why does everything have to be about you?” “Why do you have to make it political?” “Quit sexualizing them, they’re a child!” They ignore the fact that your group has gotten next to no representation in the past (and that you can’t influence the text just by having a headcanon); they fail to see the problem in politicizing someone else’s identity when they’re just trying to be; while they get to flaunt their sexuality around and have it catered to wherever they go, you can’t even mention the fact that you’re of a marginalized orientation without being demonized for it. And when you try to bring any of these things up and discuss how and why they should be changed to give people of all marginalized orientations and gender identities a fair share of the “privilege?” They say, “You have marriage equality and can identify as whatever gender you claim to be. What more could you possibly want? Why are you asking for all these special privileges?”

And, because of all of this, it can be infuriating to be right. It can be maddening to know that, no matter where you go, there will be people with their “hot takes,” prepared to tell you (or, rather, other bigots who already share their opinion of you) why your identity is “a phase”; why it’s sinful or perverse; or even why it can be reasonably commodified for the consumption of another group that doesn’t understand your struggle one bit (and largely doesn’t care to). And their audience will nod along, taking notes on how to “debate” those nasty SJWs and secretly feeling validated in their sheer contempt for those fellow human beings who don’t fit their preconceived notions of what is good and natural. They’ll be told that, when you speak up and point out how there are many examples of people happily identifying as non-straight and/or non-cis for most of their lives (and that it really shouldn’t matter to them whether or not some teen they’ve never met is questioning their identity), they can make leaps in logic to show how “gay marriage is just a ploy to destroy the family and western ideals! We have to stamp the gay out of these kids before they get indoctrinated!” and then show you some bunk statistics about cis people who detransitioned or something (something that really doesn’t matter, given the fact that plenty of trans people are much happier living as their actual gender). When you explain that they shouldn’t be using their religion to justify hatred of an entire group of people, and that calling someone’s identity sinful isn’t much of an argument since you (likely) don’t share the same principles of morality, they’ll gaslight you and say you’re against freedom of speech and freedom of religion (ignoring how such notions have historically been used to enact physical violence against groups whose very existence they disagree with, without ever asking, “Who’s silencing whom?”). When you try to explain how homosexuality is perfectly normal and the existence of trans and nonbinary people is just a side effect of building a complex society that puts value in both emphasizing personal identity and categorizing patterns… When you try to explain why consuming queer media without having at least a semblance of understanding of queer struggles… When you try to explain why all of this can make being queer dreadful at times–not because of anything inherently wrong with us, but because of the way society alienates, silences, and enables violence toward us–and that our “pride” comes from a place of resistance against it all and not because being queer is “cool” and fun… They will not listen.

But there is relief. From all of this.

There is solace in knowledge, comfort in history. When you find yourself in times of despair; when you wonder whether or not it’s worth it pressing onward, knowing how much suffering there is to come…

Remember where you are. You are a young branch atop an oak tree that is both vast and timeless. The tree needs you to survive. As you stretch your wanting leaves toward sun, you may forget that, far below you, there are roots, ever-boring their way deeper into the earth. For as long as this tree has tasted the sunlight, it has been anchoring itself into the soils of time. The roots refuse to be forgotten. When the sun feels like a lifetime away, remember the roots. Remember where you came from.

You come from fire, an untamable flood. You’re descended of wild spirits, unrelenting.

Their Excellence is in you.

Before you is a legacy of roaring lions. After you? That’s for you to decide.

Let your exhaustion be a name. When society tries to dictate who you’re allowed to be, be uncompromising. Refuse to be silent about who you really are.

Let your frustration be a voice. Make art, make music. Tell your story. Refuse to have your struggles erased.

As fury entwines itself with passion, you will become unbreakable as you are unsilenceable.

Emboldened. Empassioned. Empowered.

And when you tire, come to the fountain of knowledge and drink. Know their names, know their stories. Know your roots.

Know Marsha P. Johnson.

Know Silvia Rivera.

Know Harvey Milk.

Know Gilbert Baker.

Know Karl Heinrich Ulrichs.

Know Michael Dillon.

Know Lili Elbe.

Know Lucy Hicks Anderson.

Know Christine Jorgensen.

Know Bayard Rustin.

Know Magnus Hirschfeld.

Know Simon Nkoli.

Know Ifti Nasim.

Know Jason Jones.

Know Barbara Gittings.

Know Audre Lorde.

Know Angelica Ross.

Know Emil Wilbekin.

Know Frida Kahlo.

Know Nancy Cárdenas.

Know Your History. Know how Far we’ve Come.

-

And, look. No one expects you to be passionate at every stage of the game. You don’t have to be the paradigm of the perfect activist every second of the day. You’re allowed to just be exhausted and need a break to recharge. You’re allowed to just be frustrated when people treat you like you’re a representative of the entire LGBTQ community and expect you to know everything about our history and be able to recite all of our “policies.” Never forget that just being you is powerful enough.

Hell, you’re even allowed to feel sometimes that it’s hopeless and wonder if there’s even a point to all this work we’ve done if bigotry still prevails. But what’s important to understand is that is that how you feel and what is true—while both very real and very important to your lived experience and absolutely worth taking seriously—are not one in the same. You may feel that there is no purpose in continuing on with what seems to be a never-ending fight; but know that there is a community, all around you. There are ears to listen, hearts to sympathize, words to encourage, and hands to guide. It may get dark, may become hard to see the way forward. But it’s okay to cry out into the darkness and watch it illuminate with love and compassion and understanding. We are here.

-

There’s a GSA at the school at which I work, and one thing I always try to tell the students who attend about is (what I like to call) “The Breath of Absolute Clarity.” Unlearning the lies we’ve been taught from birth and learning ourselves is a long and arduous process, one that may take even a lifetime. But in every story I’ve ever heard about a queer person accepting themselves (including my own), there is always described this moment; this one instance (or perhaps several) of perfect understanding of oneself. For some, it can be a spiritual experience, tied to their religious beliefs. For others, it can be seen as a moment of self-actualization—where the turmoil of human existence ceases its chaotic chorus, if only for a second, leaving nothing but the sound of a beating heart. Whenever and wherever this moment comes to you, whatever you see, however it must happen… You will know. In this moment, you will know, beyond any feasible shadow of a doubt, Who You Are.

This moment will not last. It is not unquestionable. You may forget it in your darkest times. But if you really try to hold onto it, it will come back to you. Like a towering tsunami, it will invade your senses so completely, you will know as intimately and as viscerally as the human mind can comprehend anything what it is to be unapologetically you.

This moment is not the be-all-end-all of understanding yourself, but it is a start. It’s the moment where questioning and certainty are no longer mutually exclusive; where not having all the answers doesn’t equate to a dizzying network of what-ifs; where you understand just being is enough. Maybe you’ll wake up one morning, years in the future, and your partner will be laying in bed next to you, and you’ll think to yourself, “They know me.” And in a single breath, you will feel absolute clarity.

-

So, with all of that said, I hope your takeaway here can be this:

You are more than the lies and the misunderstandings about your identity.

More than a cog in a monstrous machine.

More than the exhaustion and frustration you feel in the face of unyielding bigotry.

More than the questions you have about yourself.

More than even the history and the legacies that precede you.

You are a human being

You are not broken

You are not worthless

You are not a disappointment just for being you.

But above all this, the one thing I want you to know is that

***TL;DR***

You Are Not Alone.

Just keep holding on. Things can change if you just keep holding on.

[atqh16]

Set Precedents

Matt Murdock & Franklin “Foggy” Nelson

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-it, Also me screwing it up, two parter.

AO3

Foggy came into the world with all intents and purposes, to be the best version of himself that he could be. He didn't always have the self confidence or unwavering faith in himself to take the risks that he needed to to get there. And in a way that was what Matt was to him. Inspiring, confident, boundless, almost flighty in how he always flew too close to the sun, always trusting that he could be near enough to never get burned. Always trusting that his wings would take him as high as he wanted and never thinking for a second about how much it would hurt to fall. And he fell and it had hurt and Foggy hurt with him because why had he not tried harder to warn him? Why he he not tried harder to call him back? Why had he not tried harder to ground him when he saw the sun beginning to peak behind the clouds. But Matt had fallen and even worse was that no one had caught him and Foggy had to watch him beat back at every helping hand that came to close and somehow that hurt worst because a grounded Matt was one Foggy had never known. Had never earned the apprehension to meet. And Foggy had tried his best to help him fly again. To help him from making decisions that would ground him for the rest of his life.

"Did you tell Brett that I was planning to kill Fisk?" Foggy chokes on his beer, placing it back on the coffee table with his pizza slice and tries really hard not to look and feel guilty. "I may have hinted that a mutual friend might do something he would regret" He waits for the outburst. The bridled anger behind curled fists and stiff shoulders. The indignation that Foggy had the audacity to meddle in his life, his choices, his integrity. As if Foggy hadn't thrown his chips in with the lot the second Matt had turned up to their dorm room and fate decided they would be best friends for the next half of a decade through all the bad career decisions, homicidal life choices and grief over assumed deaths. Foggy holds his breath in anticipation for the next tense argument that might have Matt be the one to storm out of the apartment this time. Because just because he was back or they had worked together again and were planning to in the future didn't mean that Matt would start to understand why Foggy felt the way he did about the Masked Man being his best friend. Even if Foggy himself had made it clear that he would try to understand why he did it in the first place. In all honesty it wasn't that Foggy didn't understand his best friends motives or that Matt wasn't trying to understand his. It's that Foggy still couldn't accept that Matt might get himself hurt. Would probably get himself caught or killed and that Hell's Kitchen didn't have a right to demand Matt take the risks he did to make it a better place. But instead he understood and accepted that Matt wanted to take the risks in the first place. That he wanted to be what the city needed and that it was already too much a part of him for Matt to let go without clamping his teeth down and keep on flying ever closer to the sun because that's where he truly felt alive. Where he truly felt like he was what he had been born to be.   But was it really so hard to understand that it was difficult for Foggy to bear the fear or seeing his best friend fall again? To sleep nights where Matt visited him bloody and broken and possibly wake up mornings where Matt was six feet under and rotting. Was it so hard to understand that Foggy didn't want to lose Matt not only to deaths waiting hands but also to the abyss that was the mask should it swallow him with its rage and cynicism and utter lost of faith that the laws they've worked so hard to uphold truly mattered as little as flimsy wet parchment. Was it so hard to understand that Foggy didn't want to lost his best friend? So he waits with a thumping beat in his chest only to be surprised when Matt turns to him with a sigh instead of a huff. "I'm not mad at you Foggy", he says. Swirling the almost empty content of his beer bottle in his hand in absent minded swirls. "To be honest I'm sort of grateful you did" There's a beat of silence and..... "Jesus Christ Matt, the next time you wanna express your gratitude can you not make it look and sound like you're about to bite my head off?!" That has Matt letting out a chuckle. It's easy, relaxed. In a way it hasn't been between them for a while now. "Well with all the head biting you've done on my part I figured you deserved a little bit of suspense" "Ha.Ha. You're hilarious. I think stand up might be a calling for you", Foggy takes a swig from his beer, his own mildly frailed nerves starting to calm. "So what changed?" He prompts. The atmosphere between them familiar enough now that he knows this is territory he's allowed to walk on. That this was more of an invitation from Matt than he'll ever get. Matt lets out an amused hum, "After what happened- with Electra, midland circle, Fisk, you and Karen coming back despite everything", the last part he adds in a gentle quiet tone, "I think it sort of hit me how much you've always grounded me. How you've Always sort of made sure I never went too far. I know I've always... I'm not...", He hesitates. Foggy wonders if Matt is trying to hold back the urge to look away. This is strange grounds he knows, for Matt to bring up his flaws unprompted and without prodding. It has nothing to do with ego but instead a sense of self preservation. Of being gaslighted your whole life into believing that showing weakness meant that you weren't worth being cared for. To be noticed and seen. It was bad enough that his blindness was something he could never hide and instead had to manoeuvre around in order to live his life. But it was worse when people tended to realise that the whole charming duckling and confident facade was in fact a facade. A way for him to feel like he has something over others that they could never take. A sense of assurance over who he is and what he was, stupid decisions be damned. He owns up to them. Doesn't let them tear him down. He can't. But foggy has never gawked at his flaws or treated him differently for it. Has never even seen his blindness as a handicap that made Matt difficult, just different. To him it was simply having a friend who had to live in the world a little differently but ultimately it didn't make him a hindrance, merely something to be understood and treated as a person undefined by it. Foggy has always tried to see him for who he is. He realised in the past few weeks that he had never appreciated that enough. So he looks Foggy straight in the eyes -or tries his best to- and takes a deep breath "I know I haven't been the most reliable friend lately. That I've been taking risks and decisions that i didn't think through about how it would effect you and the firm. Especially after you trusted me enough to be your partner and be daredevil at the same time. I just wanted you to know that I do appreciate it. That you trust me but you still hold out a net anyway because you still can't take the chance the I might get hurt. I get it. And I'm grateful" The urge to duck his head after that speech somehow intensifies but the need melts away when he feels Foggy life his arm to clasp his shoulder in a reassuring grip. As if he could somehow tell Matt in that simple touch how much he did it not only because he cared - because Foggy always cared so much for his friends even if they didn't deserve it- but also how Matt was worth caring for regardless of what he thought. "Thank's buddy. But no need to thank me. It's what family's for" And that right there is what makes Foggy so dear. That even when he's angry or upset. Even when he disagrees with Mats decisions he's still there. Still willing to embrace Matt with all his might and reassure him that he still belonged. That he still had a home no matter what. Because if Matts a bird and the sun is what he chases, then Foggy is the air and wind that lifts him ever higher. Pushing him even when his wings tire and pulling him down when the flares burn to harshly and most importantly always pushing him forward. And then Foggy dies and suddenly there's nothing left to keep him afloat.

[marypsue]

end{ur}ing

the world belongs to us.

...

She wears names lightly, now. Once she chose them for cleverness, little puzzles in foreign tongues, little veils to hide her true face. Once she chose them for beauty, for the way they trilled or hissed or lilted. Once she chose them for meaning, little talismans, little charms for grace, serenity, patience, wisdom. 

Now she chooses them quickly, and sheds them every mile.

...

What once were seen as flaws, quickly become signatures. The hiss of a record on an old Victrola; the grain of film or the silvery shadows of a tintype; the wear of painted wood. The patina of age-darkened glaze obscuring a portrait's enigmatic smile.

She lives in apartments in houses where once she attended parties clad in taffeta and lace, voile and crêpe. (No - never crêpe - the longer the memory, the more it blurs. Crêpe was for mourning, never for parties. She can still feel the ghostly scratch of it against her skin.) Air conditioners hum on the other side of wafer-thin walls, walls stripped of their arsenic paper and wired for electricity. The murmuring buzz is distinct from and yet somehow kin to the long-gone gaslights' hiss, a white noise like the passing flood of history made sound. The tall, narrow windows of warped glass admit little cool air, had there been any to admit. The world is burning. She will watch it burn itself alive. She always has.

The world is lightning in a bottle and the slowness of wheat waving in a lazy summer breeze. She trips down cobbled streets in sandals she might have worn when those cobbles were new, following the paths of so many countless feet before her. The streetlights blur in a haze of whatever she's drunk on, alcohol or melancholy or love, turning to tiny yellow suns. She dances through a night lit by artificial stars, a night close and warm like a secret shared, like a transgression forgiven. The night has not been truly dark for a long, long time.

...

There are stories. About girls like her, about how cold eternity must be. But eternity comes, like life, like stories, in little slices. A rooftop here, an attic there. Sweat on the back and bass in the lungs. A thousand twinkling lights, exploding in the distant sky. The sun, sinking over the desert and painting it in colours from some psychedelic dream. A cold night in a car. Rain on a bathroom window. Eternity comes in moments, like images in a song, each one a feeling. Each one unique. Each one irreplaceable.

Eternity falls in drops, like the patter of rain on the rooftop at dusk, and she lets it lull her into dreaming.

...

There are wind chimes on the porch and a line of scavenged feathers and quartz on the fraying painted windowsill above the sink. There is a garden down the hill waving with corn taller than she is and sunflowers taller than the corn, tall enough to catch clouds down out of the eggshell sky. Smoke lies like a smothering film over everything. The tic-tac-toe squares of light that fall across the faded carpet are red and dull.

She will be leaving, soon. In a month this place may be ash. The woods that ring it surely will. Cathedrals of redwoods, silent holy spaces that have not much changed through long centuries, plundered at last like the coastal monasteries of old, their laboriously-crafted artwork destroyed for the sake of its gilding. She has long retreated here, to this place with a heart of silence and a true-dark sky, this place it seems that time does not touch. The loss of it, visible on the horizon as an angry reddish glare thrown on the smokescreen of the sky, stings like vinegar in a wound. Sits on her tongue with the choking, bitter taste of the smoke.

She will not miss the house, dear as it has been. Or, perhaps, 'miss' is not the word. She will remember fondly the time she spent here, think wistfully of the smell of resin and dust and vanillin, wish she could spend another day reading on the threadbare cushions of the window seat. But she will not mourn these things. 

There is something to cherish about the ephemerality of beauty, of quiet joy, of all things which inevitably must end. There is beauty in finality, too, in the vividness of each brief moment, in the purity of it before it vanishes into the next, to live on only in long and hazy memory. There is beauty and bittersweetness in a world that never ceases, in a world that, itself never ceasing, forces all things within it to cease in its stead. Even the word 'enduring' contains the word 'ending' within itself.

And yet, always, the things she loses are returned to her. Nothing dies, nothing is destroyed, only transformed. All things return, always a surprise. Time makes all things strange and new.

No, she will not feel the loss of the house. She will feel the loss of the woods. But they, too, like all things that end, will regrow. Everything that dies someday comes back, Springsteen croons from the battered radio. The wind chimes jangle counterpoint. The melody, recorded and replayed, captive, unchanging, is nevertheless made new.

...

Once, long ago, Armageddon was a place.

...

They talk about the end of the world like it is a thing, delineated. Clear and simple, bounded with the stark black lines of a cartoon. Before, a world. And then, no world at all.

But there is always world. There is always sky, somewhere. There are always familiar parts of childhood vanishing. Once, there was an eternal Roman empire. Once, there was a divine right of kings. Worlds that return, with new and surprising forms. Worlds that ended lifetimes ago.

There is still world. There is still laughter on clear days and bright, defiant dandelion blooms and little toys in the likeness of animals with wheels that children can tow along behind them. There is still invention and obsolescence, there is still fear and hope. The world ends every night and makes itself anew every morning. The world ends in little ways every day until a decade has passed and one finds the world unrecognisable.

She does not believe in cataclysm, not really. Not anymore.

...

There is nothing to believe in, and everything, in this world without end, in this world that only ever ends. Some of the things she has believed in over the long, long span of her life have included absinthe and angels; music and melancholy; forget-me-nots. Candles in windows and waves on shores. Locks of hair. Sea-glass. Oil, and salt, and wine. The past. The future. Daybreak. Dusk.

One day, even these things will pass out of living memory. One day - perhaps sooner than she thinks - there will be nothing left of the crisp, cold, dying brightness of autumn and the sharp sweet taste of glacial air. 

But there is dancing, now, and there will be dancing for as long as there are feet, as long as there is music. Perhaps that's worth dancing for.

[violetsystems]

#personal

I had an epiphany last week during the break from writing. Having a space where you can go to where people understand you is paramount in life. Not many people have the luxury of being understood without question. Some people have it harder than others in mainstream society. There are complex reasons for this. But most of my young adulthood was spent finding spaces out on the fringe that just didn't waste time caring about any of it. Nobody likes people telling them what to do or what to be. It's such a simple feeling to fathom. I live in a country where freedom is supposed to be our secret sauce. Where everyone could be free if we just left it at that. And yet we're too busy arguing our little lines in the sand. Some people have more of it. Some people cross the line with it. And some of us are left creating some sort of metaphysical bulwark to seal up the gaps where other people sink into our own rights to be. I'm a bit of a scientist when it comes to the socials I'm adrift in. So I believe in quantitative results. I always think the problem is me. And this Is why as a writer I internalize so much. I am literally thinking aloud about how to socially engineer a situation to be less encroaching. I ask myself from the beginning of when I wake up where the points of failure might lie. If writing on the internet really were the cause of everything then I'd follow my mom's advice she gave me in college. I used to dress weird according to some people. I challenged the social norms because this is what I liked to do particularly with punk fashion at the time. Some jocks at the college called me any number of slurs. She told me simply to face it or change. No matter how rude people were. I dressed that way for some time. And went on to be known for many things that eventually went nowhere. But the knowledge never left me. There are some things worth fighting for and others a Sisyphean task. Last week I stopped going out somewhat altogether. I ordered groceries for the week. I made coffee and cooked chicken in my sunny kitchen. I cleaned dead mice with severed heads off the property before the sun rose and woke my neighbors. I paid my rent electronically for the first time from my bank and not my credit union. Serves them right for that James Webb shit. I focused on the things I couldn't escape. The times I left were to fly a drone out in the park for free with the newly licensed flight license I acquired through the Boy Scouts of America. I finally spoke with my neighbors across the way after intervening as a Good Samaritan in the laundry room we all share. That earned me two donuts and a long John. It also feels the politeness has lowered the defcon ratio of mistrust that exists on my porch. That shadow is more cast by what people expect out of this city. To trust no one. To think everyone is spying on them. To worry about what people say behind your back. That world exists out there every time I step off the property. It's a culture I do not welcome on my doorstep. I live in what they call a sanctuary city that nobody will talk about for fear of going on record. The silence is meant to protect but mostly a large defense that keeps people from healing and growing. And yet another year here locked in my little hut by the train seems different. What could have changed?

I'm not a mind reader. I'm not psychic although my mom's Croatian gypsy and Bohemian German roots claimed they saw the future. Nature is overlaid onto of us at all times just like the internet. The mysteries and the wonders are happening right in front of us as we fixate on a microscopic display. Most people live an encapsulated life in a walled garden of their own data. They're afraid of freedom and so they sacrifice it for a jailed security. I somehow end up the same. Trapped here in some weird prism of questions nobody really wants to ask. They tell you that's the first thing that bothers people. When people ask too many questions? What are we doing here? Are we alone in the universe? Where is this thing we have headed? Will I see you again on Tuesday? Do you remember Kid Entropy? I remember the reverse entropy of working out every day and not looking like I did when I was younger. Just sore. All over my body. The Body by Jake sore and not the I fear I'm dying of Covid sore. Not even the wake up on Monday and have to face your fuckhead boss kind of sore. I remember having a job once. Or at least being on someone's payroll because music wasn't good enough of a career to justify your existence. It still isn't. I make more money mining ethereum than I did on band camp sales. And even then it's not that much. Why are all the people I help shoot videos getting featured on bandcamp daily while I'm invisible to everyone and everything. Maybe it is best to not focus on what isn't being said. Everything is a double edged sword of Damocles in this era. You get what you wish for. Or do you? Nobody but you will ever know. And that's a level of confidence that goes deep into the void if you follow it. Nobody out there is sure of anything. They ask for reassurance. Sometimes they don't ask. They want to control your stage time on this episode of real life. And I live on a backlot where anything is possible. Anything except having a real job and being seen as important. I was never as important as I was when I started writing here. And that's not very important really except to a few dear friends. I always say stick to what's worth it and then stick to what's working. I just said that now. But anything worth it is worth fighting like hell for. And it's pretty clear to see what is working and what isn't. I have a space where I live alone and wonder aimlessly. I try to figure out what I should be doing to be relevant. And then I realize there is a lot I already do. So much so I've done or did that nobody can forget. I've been cancelled without even a word or a poor deed to speak of. Nothing to be remembered and nothing to be gained. Is this why they are so worried about cancel culture? I existed this far in life by sticking to my morals and ethics. Nobody really has ever asked what they are. People want the abridged version. They want to know what God you worship or what your favorite sports team is. They don't want the heavy lifting of understanding what singular identity you represent. They don't want the burden of caring. They're too busy caring about themselves. When you do care nowadays it shows in ways that seem arcane and wizardly. I'm not a mind reader at all. I am considerate enough to go above and beyond your expectations. That is if you are worth it.

Some shit out there is just not worth it. Not worth explaining. Not worth thinking about. Not worth fighting to be heard amongst people who can't even remember your name. Fake names included. There's people out there who still remember every bit of the last twenty to thirty years of my existence. I wish they'd understand why it doesn't mean anything. And yet I'm still alive. I still look out for people. I didn't ask for a medal or a star on a walk of fame. I'm still that guy you try to copy but can never get the swagger right. I still foster the culture even if I felt abandoned by it all. I still think it's worth it to be the impossible version of me. A kind, stern figure that moves deliberately like a shadowy colossus as not to hurt the blades of grass flowing underneath my feet. I walk off my steps onto the concrete and it's a million human eyes perched like grasshoppers. I could endure that for anyone but around here it's more trouble than it's worth. I've been walled off behind an understanding. One that has no guarantees and no goal posts other than how I hold it down. How things can be so fucked up out there but always so safe with me. I wonder sometimes. Why people don't strive to be more like me instead of chasing after some stupid shit. Like everyone writes on the internet that people like me should be more like me. And yet people like me are horribly forgotten. After all this time, it's better off that way. But what kind of a mind fuck would it be to explain that to people. I stopped explaining. I stopped going out and dealing with the constant silent prodding. I resisted by mothballing my entire life and hiding. I wanted people to seek it out. The horrible and bitter truth. Whatever my history is. Because I'm not like anybody after all of this. I'm in a place where I can truly say you deal with me and me alone. If I write about it, you can read it for your own very eyes. I've cultivated that for years. Sometimes it's been used against me. Sometimes it's my own fault for not realizing things sooner. But nobody can grow when they're constantly being uprooted by hazing, gaslighting, intimidation and pack tactics. That's not provoking culture. This isn’t the army. That's being an asshole. If anything delicate plans need deliberate decisions and timing. And we live in an era where everyone thinks they can brute force, glitch or subvert their way to the top in a two week news cycle. I've been casted to the side more times than I can count. And I get back up and reinvent myself. These days I'm through being tested by people who can’t be bothered to look themselves in the mirror. And I'm through watching other good people have their time wasted by useless roasting and disingenuous provocation. If anyone has learned anything about me is that they've tried it all. And it all just sits there on the wall. Other people's failures of vision of what I could excel at. All the failed pranks and dumb attempts at guerrilla warfare. They couldn't see a world where we win by our own standards. Maybe if they rolled the old gypsy bones a couple more times, you'd be able to predict my outcome. I've rolled them for you. Bohemian rhapsody all day. You can unlock the layman's interpretation on Tumblr+. Everything else you should have figured out already. The people I really care about already have. <3 Tim