#to me there's an overwhelming sense of isolation in that show and to be honest it seems to reach into the backstories as well

[transingthoseformers]

Me automatically rejecting canon and giving all the rescuebots unique Cybertronian root modes and altmodes because i can and because that Blades having wheels comment. This also goes with when i think they were frozen in the war (closer to the middle, while Bumblebee was created juuust as Cybertron died) and I'm just gonna slip in the headcanon that their colors were different when they were on Cybertron, because transformers and humans are differently wired and our heads have different "Pay Attention Motherfuckers" colors

I headcanon that Blades's altmode, as mentioned above, was ground based. I see him as being sort of a combination of a racer and an emergency vehicle, considering his training and his earth altmode. He's the EMT of the group.

I think Boulder's altmode was closer to a midsized all terrain vehicle, a lot less strictly construction based as his earth alt is. From what I can see, he's the engineer of the group. He evaluates infrastructure and helps fix what needs fixed— whether it's damage or faulty designs.

In my head I keep returning to the idea that Heatwave's altmode and root was bigger on Cybertron than it is on earth, but i think that's in general the fact that wow is he the firetruck equivalent of insular dwarfism. He's definitely got experience with dealing with fire, but in my head i think his original job also dealt with hazardous chemical leaks and collapses.

Chase is a difficult mark because based on his vibes i think his altmode was pretty similar— just the most average civilian vehicle mod possible. But also because in the tfwiki it says these guys are essentially search and rescue, and considering how the topic of rescuebots is treated it seems like the rest of them were gone-inated either pretty early in the war or were themselves a prototype project. I honestly do not see where the cop angle fits into the environment we've been given.

But hey! I accept being wrong on exactly every angle! And the altmode headcanons are very likely probably not canon, especially since how Cybertron is depicted in rescuebots is pretty damn different than it is in the rest of aligned (honestly it's pretty different than how it's depicted in RBA, but that can be chalked up to the idea of things being different ever since Cybertron was reborn)

[mllemaenad]

The Magnus Protocol: Running on Empty

While I have nothing but sympathy for the poor tutor who had to mark that essay, I must admit I enjoy the return to stories where a survivor recounts a bizarre supernatural experience.

It's not that I can't take an episode where the monster wins – those can be very effective. But, well, while I enjoyed the overarching plot in the fifth season of The Magnus Archives, I must admit I enjoyed the individual stories significantly less than the ones in the previous seasons. Mostly because they weren't stories so much as descriptions of suffering. Because the victims generally had little sense of a time before or after their torment, you missed out on all the bits about how they got themselves into this mess, how they got themselves out of it, and what they thought the whole thing meant. The personalities, the individual characters who came and went after their one weird thing, were part of the fun. And they were largely absent.

The cases in The Magnus Protocol aren't exactly like that, of course: you can glean a bunch of background, at least, by reading between the lines. But still. There's something immensely cheering about getting a couple of stories where someone essentially rolls in to declare "So that was weird, right?" and then wander off again.

Also, apparently Norris doesn't like the night shift.

It's interesting how similar the last two cases are. Dianne didn't seem like the type to use terms like "liminal spaces", but Hilltop Road has very literally been a threshold between worlds:

Martin/Annabelle Once there was a house, a building that, for all it might have looked like those around it, was not the same. Stop, no. It didn’t start with the house. It was here long before any might have thought of it as a home. Once, there was a patch of land, not quite as firm in this reality as that which surrounded it. Stop, no. It’s not about the land. Mud and soil has no part in what is there. Once, there was a point in space that did not quite obey all those petty rules that decide what can be allowed to happen in a world. Stop, no. It’s not a point in space. The Earth spins and hurtles through the darkness, but it still carries it along. Let us simply say that once there was a place. A place where the universe had… cracked. – The Magnus Archives: This Old House

And if you don't know that, then you do know that Hilltop Centre's status as a charity shop makes it a way station for objects of all kinds. And this place let those almost-human people in, and let them bring their weird objects with them.

The people in Running on Empty put me in mind of the gibbering crowd in Lost in the Crowd, whereas the volunteers in Give and Take reminded me of the students in Anatomy Class, but that's more a question of degree than kind. The latter put on a good enough show that it took weeks to really confirm there was something wrong with them; the former could be spotted almost instantly. Both are stories of the uncanny valley: the thing that is almost but not quite human. And in both cases the victim is very nearly overwhelmed by the crowd: objects crushing, or "people" biting, sure, but both instances of being isolated, outnumbered and then assaulted.

Poor Terrance is a perfect victim, as well: he already has a nervous breakdown on record, which will mark him as an unreliable witness, he is isolated enough that nobody reported him missing after his incident, and his job requires him to spend a great deal of time alone.

Norris is describing the situation in the OIAR perfectly. They are a small number of people working a night shift in an old building clearly intended to contain more staff:

Celia Sure, no worries. I’ll be honest, I thought there’d be more people working here given the size of the building? Sam Yeah, no we’re, uh… Alice Streamlined? – The Magnus Protocol: Introductions

The point of their work is deeply obscure to them:

Sam Where does it go? Alice If I were a betting woman, I'd say some long dead database that no-one will ever look at or care about. Sam So why do it? Alice Because that's what they're paying us to do. – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

Their odd hours put them out of step with normal social conventions:

Gertrude To what do we owe this early morning… pleasure. Sam Oh yeah, sorry we work nights so… Gertrude So? – The Magnus Protocol: Running on Empty

And the place has high turnover and burn out rates. Colin is clearly not coping – he is absolutely right about the electronics being weird, but he isn't dealing with that information very well – Sam is struggling with the sleep schedule, Gwen is stressed enough that she's about to commit a murder over an empty kettle and Alice ... unflappable Alice is worried:

Alice Just been a lot of changes round here recently. I don’t love it. Teddy, Sam, Celia, and did you hear Lena put Colin on “mental health leave”? – The Magnus Protocol: Running on Empty

It's not clear whether the computer voices are aware of each other, so calling it coordinated is probably overstepping the available evidence at this point: but Chester and Norris do seem to have delivered almost exactly the same warning. What might the staff of the OIAR be in danger of letting in?

The story also continues its thread of visual communication, with Gerry's painting. Gerard Keay has always been a painter, of course. But if The Magnus Archives needed to give you a visual, it simply did:

Archivist/Dominic Swain Instead, my attention was fixed on a picture attached to the one small area of wall not covered by bookshelves. It was a painting of an eye. Very detailed, and at first I almost would have said almost photorealistic, but the more I looked at it, the more I saw the patterns and symmetries that formed into a single image, until I was so focused on them that I started to have difficulty seeing the eye itself. Written below it were three lines, in fine green calligraphy: “Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call.” – The Magnus Archives: Pageturner

But here there is:

The video you could not watch

The alert that was not read out by a text-to-speech program

The email you could not read

The painting you could not see

The painting might not be anything, of course. But if you knew something could hear you but not see you, a person might resort to communicating purely through a visual medium. "John" apparently sent Sam Gertrude and Gerry's address. But nobody knew that until they got there, and so they travelled unmolested.

It's hard to say for sure what this universe's Gertrude knows – although I'm going to assume she knows something of significance, or she wouldn't be here – but it makes an interesting contrast to The Magnus Archives. There, the primary concern was being seen, and Gertrude was paranoid enough on that front to cut out the eyes from the illustrations in all her books. So one might expect equally paranoid behaviour if the concern was being heard.

The actual arrival of Gertrude and Gerry is fun: I enjoyed both characters, so I'm happy to see more (although if I get to wish to see an existing character, it's Adelard Dekker; I was always a little sad that we never got to properly meet him). It is suggestive of the way the world works that they're together, though.

I mean – I know this isn't the kind of alternate universe story where the Roman Empire never fell. It's recognisable modern day Britain, so I assume just about everybody still hates Margaret Thatcher and it's customary to drive on the left hand side of the road.

But it's a different world, and the history relevant to the story has not played out the same way. And yet, Gertrude and Gerard Keay are still a duo. Are there some things that are always true, then, no matter the world? I'd be interested to learn how it came about, though. That Sam was personally traumatised by The Magnus Institute isn't exactly surprising: he hardly hid his interest, after all. But Gerard Keay? Signing her kid up for a "gifted" program at The Magnus Institute doesn't sound like Mary Keay's style at all: she valued her independence too much. So what happened there?

And what is Georgie doing? It does make one wonder what life would have been like for her and Melanie – the first ones, I mean – when the world was put back together. Everyone clearly remembered what had happened, or they wouldn't have bothered to murder Simon Fairchild. So they would always be set apart.

My general thoughts on the plan are that it is reasonable to pass the entities along. Sure, it's a trolley problem. Nobody likes a trolley problem. But you are setting a risk of harm to the denizens of other worlds against the certain deaths of everyone in yours. So – sure, have at it.

But if you do that, you have now made yourself responsible for those worlds. You know what these things are, and you know how they operate. The people in other worlds likely do not, and won't know how to defend themselves.

So maybe, now, you have a responsibility to do something about that. Ha. Like make a really good podcast about it.

[aspenwritesstuff]

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warnings: MC was in a car accident, blood (mentioned, not too terribly graphic), surgical scars, broken bones, medical setting, themes of depression throughout (self-neglect, lots of dark thoughts), isolation (self-imposed), threat of institutionalization, ANGST (little to no joy to be found in this chapter, I'm afraid), a lot of background/world building

wc: 10.5k (I'm sorry/You're welcome?)

"You felt your bruised heart crack further and wondered if it, too, had an ugly, angry, puckered scar."

a/n: welcome to the first part of "Desderium." I hope that you enjoy reading, though this part is sorely lacking in the happiness department. I'm a bit nervous, if I'm being completely honest, to share this with anyone. This work has been a driving force for me lately, something I find myself drawn to work on rather than having to drag my feet to do so. I think that's due to how much of myself I'm scattering amongst the words on the page. It's quite a bit darker and wordier than my released works up until now. So, as always, feedback is appreciated. Reblogs and comments are creativity food.

series taglist: @findingjieun permanent taglist: @svintsandghosts

You had never been afraid of the dark.

You struggled to believe anyone truly was, with no true danger coming from the lack of light itself. No, no one is afraid of the dark. They are simply afraid of what lurks within, waiting for the cloak of nightfall to strike. 

So, you supposed, it made perfect sense that you simply felt a sense of foreboding now - plunged entirely into impenetrable blackness. 

You weren’t sure how long it had been dark. You weren’t even sure what the last thing you’d seen had been. Memories lingered just out of reach, teasing you with their reluctance to come any closer despite your desperate beckoning. 

Stubborn things, memories. 

Basic things were easy to recall; your name, your age, your parents. These were simple memories, ingrained into you from the day you were born ‘til now. As important as they were, these memories offered nothing as far as solace went. 

Incheon. You remembered Incheon, the city in which you’d spent the vast majority of your life. You remembered how the scent wafting on the summer breeze from the fish markets would make your nose curl, and how the sand at the beaches held their warmth even after the sun had set. The sound of airplanes arriving and departing from Incheon International seemed to be a perpetual background noise in most every memory, like a white noise you’d grown used to. 

You held onto it, that white noise, for that was a comfort. 

As you explored what you’d managed to recollect, more and more memories were released from their prison - flooding you with an almost overwhelming sense of identity, as though you’d begun to forget who you were.

You remembered your friends. 

You remembered Felix and his brilliant smile against constellation skin. You remembered the way he would celebrate your victories more so than you yourself would. He was light. He was the sunshine. He was warm, he was a comfort. 

You remembered Changbin and the boisterous laugh that came from within his broad chest. You remembered the way he’d choose violence against any who dared to wrong you. He was light, too. He was the streetlamps illuminating the path home. He was safe and he, too, was a comfort. 

They did not coexist with the white noise. They were separate comforts, Felix and Changbin, from a different home. 

Seoul. You remembered Seoul and its towering buildings and they way they made you feel so small - so insignificant - at first glance. You remembered tipping Felix as he danced in the streets of Hongdae, sticking around far longer than you’d intended after he’d shot you a grateful grin. He’d asked if you had plans, and taken you along to a sushi restaurant - where he’d introduced you to Changbin. 

You remembered the two of them showing you around, making entire days of introducing you to the contents of these domineering buildings, giving you advice on good versus bad places to be. They made you feel bigger, even just slightly, equipping you with the knowledge required to no longer fear the overwhelming amount of activity in the city. 

You remembered SeMA, and the way the art there had made you feel small, too - but in a much different way. You remembered the way a particular sculpture brought you to tears and that Changbin had gone on the defensive until you assured him that you were just touched by the piece. You remembered that Felix had asked lots of questions, joking with you that it was your turn now. 

Your turn for what, though?

If you were anywhere but in the dark, you’d have screamed in frustration. Or, maybe, you’d have cried out of guilt. As soon as you woke up, you decided, you’d apologize to Felix and Changbin for forgetting these precious moments. You were sure you’d remember if you went back to that gallery with the two of them.

Gallery. The gallery. SeMA. 

Art. Your art. SeMA. 

The darkness suddenly felt suffocating as you remembered. You remembered that you were an artist, a painter. You remembered submitting your art to be put on display. You remembered the acceptance email. You remembered that you had somewhere to be. 

You were going to be late for your very first showcase because you couldn’t wake up. You were going to miss seeing the looks on patron’s faces - whether pleased or displeased - as they took in the painstaking hours you’d poured onto a canvas. You were going to miss seeing if anyone noticed the finer details of your work, miss any question someone may have, miss any tears one may shed over it.

All because you couldn’t wake up.

Perhaps this was what was lurking in the dark for you, seeing as the nothingness surrounding you was suddenly horrifying.

Beeping. The first sound you’d encountered since finding yourself stuck in the dark. How ironic, having your alarm go off whilst you’re stuck in your own mind, incapable of grasping consciousness. You’d have laughed if you could.

Your mothers voice calling your name frantically, begging you to wake up. You’d have laughed harder, then, seeing as you hadn’t lived with her since you were nineteen. Twenty-three now, you chalked it up to an auditory dream, blaming the fear of missing your big day for bringing her into this.

You remembered getting into a car, your mentor’s car. Ms. Park, a gentle woman around your mothers age. You remembered the pride in her eyes as she asked if you were ready. You remembered her praise as she spoke to you about your piece, expressing admiration that you’d been accepted into a showcase so young.

But that couldn’t be right, could it? 

Anxiety crept into the shadows that swallowed you. If you’d already left for the show, why was your alarm going off? Why were you asleep? Why wasn’t Ms. Park waking you up?

You remembered. You remembered that your alarm was never a steady, repetitive beat, but an upbeat rock song with enough bass to rumble your nightstand. You remembered that you did, truly, get into the car with Ms. Park. You remembered laughing as she reminisced on your early days of painting, teasing you about having threatened to give up when certain shades of blue proved too difficult. 

You remembered, then, arguably the most important thing of all - how to open your eyes. 

Bright, white light flooded your vision as your lids fluttered open weakly. You didn’t want to remember anymore as the reality of the situation began to sink in. But you did. You remembered. You remembered that, just as you were blinded by the light above you now, you were blinded in the car, too. Not one, but two lights, barrelling at full speed towards your seat in the car. 

You remembered, though you wished you wouldn’t. The crunching of metal against metal, the shattering of glass, Ms. Park’s screams cut short by the airbags whooshing into action. The sudden jolt from your face hitting the dashboard, the taste of blood on your tongue, the smell of smoke. 

With the return of vision came pain. 

The pain was not remembered, but experienced. Dreadfully and completely, all at once. 

The right side of your face throbbed painfully with each erratic beat of your heart, your neck completely stiff and limbs feeling as if they were nothing but dead weight at your sides. It hurt to breathe, lungs fighting to expand under swollen flesh. These were minor inconveniences compared to the horror of your next realization.

Your hand.

Your right hand.

The hand with which you painted.

The hand around which you had inadvertently based your entire future. 

The pain was hot and white, brighter than the lights above - brighter than the lights that prefaced its very existence. You couldn’t lift it from your side, couldn’t bend your fingers through the electric shock attacking your nerves with each attempt. 

You screamed, then. A visceral outburst of shock and horror, anguish and hopelessness, and everything that came with and between. Nurses rushed to your side, urgently discussing something involving your morphine dosage as though any drug could dull the torment of what you had lost - what had been taken from you. 

Even as they pushed another dose, spewing empty reassurances from behind blue masks, you screamed. Even as the medication coursed through your veins, though the push back towards the unconsciousness of before brought it down to a pathetic whine, your desperation was not silenced until you found yourself back in the dark. 

You welcomed it, finding solace in its solitude. This time, you prayed that you wouldn’t remember.

Time, it seemed, had little to no effect on anything aside from your exterior. New flowers replaced the old, crimson replacing gold against the otherwise ébauche backdrop of your hospital suite. Faded blue walls - more gray than blue, really - interrupted only by clean white curtains and the dull green of your gown. And the flowers, of course the flowers. 

Felix and Changbin had brought them to you as soon as visitors were allowed, but they also brought questions. Questions that, if you were completely honest, you weren’t ready to answer. Questions like, “How are you feeling?” Questions like, “Do you wanna talk about it?” Questions that a response to would only serve to deepen the wounds that hadn’t healed. The wounds you weren’t sure ever would. The wounds they couldn’t see.

So you hadn’t spoken, allowing them to just sit in your presence despite what terrible company you made. You hadn’t spoken, or even looked up at them. Not because you didn’t want do, though. You just couldn’t. You couldn’t look up and see the pity - the sorry, helpless look - that you were sure they held for you. No, you couldn’t. That would make this real.

You knew that it was wrong to meet their concern with silence, in a way. Yet your heart lacked the heaviness that came with guilt, already carrying far too many burdens to worry about a possible offense.

The nurses came three times a day with meals - though you barely ate, the doctor twice for progress checks - confirming that your body was healing, and a therapist at least once - always asking the same questions that the boys had. You couldn’t answer them for her, either, always resulting in the same heavy sigh before she retreated - defeated completely by your lack of response - back to her office down the hall. 

Perhaps you should feel bad for her, too, being assigned such a non-cooperative patient. Trekking from the psychology wing to the inpatient ICU, just to be met with a brick wall. You wondered if her lack of heels in the last few days was a choice rather than coincidence, saving her feet from your unaccommodating, actively chosen muteness.

Your mother came every day - arguably the one you should have felt the worst for neglecting as she cried at your bedside, holding the hand not in a cast beneath her own as she apologized. For what? You busied your mind with that in her absence. She couldn’t have predicted this, she couldn’t have protected you, and she certainly wasn’t at fault. 

You hated that she apologized. You hated that you knew the answer to your own question. For what? For you. For your hand. For the misfortune that had befallen you. You hated that she apologized. You hated that she made it real. So you didn’t speak to her either - not out of spite, despite the way her remorse affected you. But out of necessity. Talking about it makes it real. Realer than apologies do. 

The sun rose and set, the days came and went, and you did not speak. You picked at your food, stared at the flowers, and you did not speak. The doctor removed your cast, and you wished he hadn’t. Black and blue highlighted the angry, puckered red scar left from the reconstructive surgery on your shattered hand - your shattered instrument - and it taunted you. It taunted you far more than the cast ever had. 

The cast was white. Innocent in both color and appearance as it held your hand still, giving you an excuse for its newfound lack of use. The cast protected you. Both your bones and your mind as it hid away the ugliness beneath. Hid away the evidence that it wasn’t a horrible dream. Hid away the evidence that it was real. 

The scar made it real. 

Rehabilitation was an option. An option you took, despite the doctor telling you that regaining full mobility was highly unlikely. An option you took because you were supposed to - because that’s what people in your situation do. 

You’d be able to write again, he’d said. To use your hand for the things everyone did. To eat, to touch, to hold another’s. You’d be able to draw. To paint, even. He’d said this like it was a miracle, like you should be grateful. 

But it would never be the same. He hadn’t said so, but you knew. 

You knew it would never be the same.

The tedium of your days went undeterred for a while. Sunrise, nurse, doctor, mom, nurse, doctor, therapist, sunset, nurse. Felix and Changbin on Mondays. What was unexpected, though, was a guest after the sunset nurse. A guest you’d not guessed would come - or simply hoped wouldn’t, seeing as she of all people would make this undeniably real. 

Ms. Park. 

Ms. Park with only sickly yellows and greens beneath her eyes to show that she’d been in the same car as you had. Ms. Park who still had full use of both of her hands, all ten of her digits, and the ability to dream. Ms. Park who’d called your name, slowly peeking past the curtain separating you from the world as your blood ran cold. 

Ms. Park who asked if she could sit, to which you nodded. 

“I’ve heard that your painting was well received by the patrons,” she spoke tentatively, as though fully aware of the irony that otherwise wonderful news brought with it. This news, had circumstances been different, would’ve made you happy. Circumstances were not different, though, and you were not happy.

It was a cosmic joke, being given a taste of success in your now-futile dream. A pill most bitter, knowing that you could’ve made a name for yourself with your work had a single red light not been ran. 

You felt your bruised heart crack further and wondered if it, too, had an ugly, angry, puckered scar.

“I’ve heard from your mother,” she interrupted the silence you were content to share with her, earning nothing but a blink in return. You watched as she adjusted the thin wire glasses sitting crookedly on her face before sighing, “She told me. About your hand.”

You clenched your jaw, finding the urge to speak for the first time in weeks for the sole purpose of cursing your mother. You didn’t, though, gritting your teeth and listening to your mentor’s words.

“I proposed an idea to her, and I know it’s not much,” you didn’t even need to listen to the rest of her sentence to know that she was right. It wouldn’t be much, seeing as she couldn’t fix your hand. She couldn’t change your fate.

“Now, you may not be able to do what you’re used to,” you winced at the reminder, unnecessary though not meant to hurt you, “But your wisdom is valuable, kid.” Your brows furrowed then, feeling foreign against your forehead from the weeks of inexpressiveness, “I think you have a lot to offer - to teach, and many people who would love to learn.”

Your fists clenched, the numbness of your right hand only fueling the sudden bout of rage her suggestion had sent through to your very core. Not only did her arrival cement for you what you’d refused to acknowledge was real - that, though you had survived, your dream had not - but she went even further. 

Suggesting that you give the last smoldering embers towards the fire of another’s pursuit of that very same dream made something inside of you snap.

You spoke.

“Get out,” you croaked, neglect having made your whisper come out in broken pieces. Ms. Park murmured your name then, features drooping into a sympathetic frown at the sight of your eyes welling with tears.

“Get out!” you said again, a raspy shout immediately shifting that pitying look into one of shock, “I said get out!” You grew louder as she began trying to backtrack, though the combination of your shouts and the throbbing of your pulse in your ears gave you no chance of understanding her. 

You fervently began to press the nurse-call button as you watched her still moving lips - despite your adamant demand - her hands held out with palms facing you in a gesture of surrender. 

It was too late to wave that white flag, though. The damage had been done. The thread had been snapped. Ms. Park did exactly what you’d feared she would.

She made it real. 

“Get out, get out, get out, get OUT!” you screamed now, voice cracking as it adjusted to it’s utilization, “NOW!” 

As your voice grew in volume, so did the rate at which the monitor at your bedside beeped. So did the pace at which you frantically tapped the button, never ceasing in your outburst until the nurse had arrived, obviously startled by your anger -  hastily escorting Ms. Park and her lingering, remorseful gaze from your room.

This was real.

Even after the monitor at the bedside had returned to a pace acceptable by medical standards, the tears flowing from your eyes did not.

This was real, and things would never be the same.

You pulled the pillow that had been supporting your head from its place, smothering your face into the starchy linen in an attempt to stifle the broken sobs bubbling forth from quivering lips. There was no use trying to stop the tears from flowing, now. Along with your hope that this was a terrible dream, the dam that held back everything you should’ve felt this entire time crumbled into a useless pile. 

Your throat constricted as you pulled the pillow from your face, tossing it aside carelessly to bury your face in your hands - both of them. The realization that your right felt much colder than your left, not circulating properly after the trauma, only served to deepen the grief that you were drowning in - far past the point of being able to tread its surface.

You’d fallen asleep crying that night. Crying each and every tear that you’d refused to allow freedom before. 

Because it would never be the same.

You no longer kept track of the sunrises and sunsets.

So it came as a surprise - though the word may seem misused considering your indifference - when the doctor brought you a thin stack of discharge papers. The flowers were orange today, in your mothers hands rather than atop the table. You didn’t bother to listen to the conversation between the doctor and your mother, nor did you read the paperwork at all before flipping to the last page. 

Never had you considered just how taunting a thin, black line could be until you stared down at the place where you were to sign your name. You were sure the nurse had thought herself helpful when she handed you a pen, likely having assumed that a lack of utensil was the primary source of your apprehension. 

In all honesty, you hadn’t even considered the need for one until she’d presented it to you, politely smiling - blissfully unaware - as you swallowed down a sudden lump in your throat. 

Taking the pen from her outstretched hand wasn’t entirely dissimilar to what prisoners must feel being given their last meal; a courteous act in retrospect, dampened if not completely overshadowed by the promise of doom.

The pen felt foreign in your hand, as though you’d never held one before. Your hand shook as you positioned the pen between your fingers, pressing the tip to the paper unsteadily. Suddenly self-conscious, you looked away from the page to ensure that the doctor was still engaged in conversation with your mother and that the nurse wasn’t looking your way. Relieved by the lack of spectacle, you returned your attention to the intimidating black line.

It was just your name, your signature, something you’d done countless times - so why was your heart racing? Why were your hands growing clammy and your stomach performing an olympic gymnastics routine? It was just your name. It was just your signature.

You used that as a mantra, forcing yourself to move the ink across the paper in flowing strokes, managing to get halfway through your name with no problem - until you felt the pain. Less of a stab than a concentrated burst of flame, directly in the center of your hand. You hissed as the pen jerked alongside your wrist, leaving a sharp, inelegant line of blue ink in its wake. 

You felt an uncomfortable warmth prickle up the back of your neck, sniffling as you readjusted the ball-point to where your signature had been abruptly cut off. You knew there were eyes on you now, as you struggled to complete the simple task through blurred vision.

It was just your name. Just your signature. Something you’d done countless times.

Still, you’d barely managed to complete the task. 

“Honey, I can –” you cut your mother’s well-intentioned offer off before she could finish, ignoring the wetness that trailed down your heated cheek.

“What’s the date?” Despite the external display of turmoil, your voice was steady - flat and businesslike - as you looked up at her face.

“Sweetheart, really, I can –”

“What is the date,” you spoke slower this time, forgoing the respectful manner in which you’d typically address her as you grew annoyed. Annoyed with the sympathetic glimmer in everyone’s eye whenever they’d try to speak with you, annoyed by the way she naturally doted - as many mothers do, annoyed by the sad smile that tugged at only one corner of her mouth.

“The fifteenth of April,” the nurse supplied, visibly stiffened by the sudden animosity that thickened the air between yourself and the matriarch. 

You turned your gaze towards her then, allowing the tear having escaped you earlier to drip from your jaw before thanking her in the same monotone voice you were using with your mother. 

You scrawled the date quickly, sloppy in your haste to complete it before your hand could catch fire once more. You dropped the pen, letting it clatter against the faux-wood of the bedside tray. You met your mothers eyes then, biting back any further aggression at the way her eyes shimmered with her own unshed tears.

“I’d like to leave now.”

Your mom nodded, passing you a plastic grocery bag, “We’ll give you some privacy to change, then.” 

You nodded and watched as she filed out of the room behind the medical staff. A relieved exhale left your lips as the curtain was shut quietly on your behalf.

If there was one thing you could say for your mother, it’s that she always knew the time and place. Now was not the time to scold you for being rude. This was not the place to confront you about your coldness towards her. Now was the time to let you be angry. Now was the time to say nothing outside of necessity. This was the place to leave you be.

At the soft click of your door closing, you tossed the blanket from your legs and threw them over the edge of the mattress, goosebumps rising up your arms as the cold tile met with your bare feet. You emptied the plastic sack’s contents to where you were once sitting, reassured to see a comfortable pair of sweats and a plain gray tee.

You weren’t sure you were quite ready to face buttons just yet.

You undid the bow on the back of your gown with your left hand - purposefully - allowing the gown to flutter to the speckled floor in a heap. You made haste of putting on your undergarments, the chilly air unpleasantly raising every bit of peach fuzz your skin had to offer.

The clothes mom had packed were loose, likely on purpose. You should’ve been thankful that she’d gone so far as to consider things easy to slip into, but you instead found yourself frustrated. Not with her, but with the fact that it was even a precaution that needed to be taken. 

You pushed back against the sudden tightness in your chest, refusing to cry more than once in a half an hour as you stuck your head into the shirt, pushing your arms through with an unneeded amount of force. Determined, you sat on the edge of the bed and kicked your feet into their respective halves of the sweatpants, standing to yank them over your hips with shuddering breaths. 

You didn’t think twice about the drawstrings around your waist, gripping them tightly in both hands before tugging forcefully outwards - stumbling back onto the bed as your right hand tensed - nails this time, nails that had been left in a furnace, hammering directly through the middle - nerves igniting all the way up to your elbow as you cursed under your breath. 

You stared down at the scar atop your hand, now a soft pink rather than violet-red - though, apparently, just as angry. Stupid. Stupid was how you felt. You shouldn’t have hoped that the dwindling of its colors had any correlation to its ability. You shouldn’t have hoped that it was more than just an aesthetic heal. You shouldn’t have hoped.

“Fuck…” you grumbled as you felt your ears grow hot, leaning your head back as though gravity could stop the tears that threatened to fall. 

Deep breath in, and out. Again. Once more. Collect yourself.

Standing from the bed, forgoing tightening the sweatpants, you walked to the door - abandoning the grocery bag and the dull green gown, still in an unkempt pile on the floor. The staff had gone, leaving just your mother waiting outside of your room. She offered you a smile as soon as she heard the creaking of hinges, tiger lilies from Changbin and Felix still in her arms.

You weren’t entirely sure how getting into a vehicle would go until you found yourself standing outside the passenger door of your mother’s sedan, staring at your own reflection in the window. You weren’t afraid, despite the calamity that ensued during your last experience. Perhaps your sense of self-preservation was also a casualty of the accident, feeling nothing at all as you opened the door and slid inside.

The door behind you opened, accompanied by the sweet scent of the bouquet the boys had brought yesterday as your mother carefully set it in the seat before shutting the door with more care than necessary. Was she trying to protect you, even now? Was she worried that the slamming of the door would hurt you? You didn’t know, nor did you particularly value the gesture in spite of her compassionate intent. You were too exhausted.

Maybe exhausted wasn’t the word. This tiredness was deeper, more permanent than simple overexertion. Stronger than simply needing rest. Harder than just sleeping it off. This tiredness radiated throughout your very bones, making a home within you that you doubted it would abandon anytime soon. 

You were moving now, having completely missed your mother getting into the driver’s seat - and unsure of how your seatbelt had made its way snug against your chest. It was safe to assume she’d ensured your safety herself, as she would when you were a child. Patronizing as it may have seemed to be brought back to your adolescence, relief overwhelmed any offense you otherwise held - the potential of a struggle had you done it yourself more than enough to excuse her.

The entire drive seemed to pass in a blur of pale gray sky against asphalt a few shades darker, splashes of color from pedestrians and other vehicles, and the sound of the reliable engine sputtering as it brought you towards your destination. 

Home. 

It wasn’t as comforting as tv dramas had made it seem, arriving home after a prolonged absence. There was no celebration, no warm aura emanating from the windows, no relief. 

Home, as it turned out, was just a more familiar place to face unfamiliar situations.

You declined your mother’s offer to walk you in, leaving her sympathetic smile and lingering words of affection behind as you trudged forth on the concrete walkway. You didn’t turn around as you made your way up the trio of stairs that led to the door. You didn’t need to turn around to know she was watching as you transferred the flowers from your boys to the crook of your elbow to type in the building’s code. You knew she watched as you stepped forward into the musty air that always lingered in old buildings as the door closed behind you.

You felt like an intruder as you stepped into the stagnant air of your neglected apartment, setting the lilies atop the counter before taking it all in. 

It was the same as it had always been, a moment in time that had frozen in your absence. The air carried faint hints of lilac from the long-gone wall plug and the linseed notes of oil paint, the walls carrying the pieces of art you were too fond of to give away. Everywhere you looked there were reminders of your passion - the passion you’d never be able to embrace in the same way again.

This was obviously the home of an artist. The artist Eclipse, whom you no longer were. You were only a person like any other now. You were just…you. At least no one would know why Eclipse had ceased painting, leaving it an intriguing mystery rather than the tragic truth. You supposed that was the bright side of painting under a pseudonym.

You felt like an intruder. 

As you silently pulled the paintings from their long-occupied homes on the walls, you only felt slightly less out of place. One after another, all evidence that you’d ever had the ability to create at all was set gently into the coat closet nearest your front door. You’d worry about your studio later - likely returning it to the spare bedroom it had been originally intended for in the floor plan - though, for now, ignoring it seemed like the best option. 

Little by little, the evidence of the hours of dedication you had hung on your walls was reduced to nothing but nail-holes and rectangular patches that lacked the dust that had accumulated during your absence. Little by little, this apartment felt like it didn’t belong to an artist, but to you. Just you. 

Funny - bitterly so - that being surrounded by emptiness made you feel at home. 

You made your way to bed then, completely spent after a task heavier than the labor required to perform it. A humorless scoff left your lips as you spotted your phone on the bedside table - still connected to its charger - exactly as you’d left it in your rush to get out the door for the exhibit. 

The thought of checking it at all nauseated you. There was absolutely no doubt that it would be filled with consolatory messages, get-well-soon wishes, and questions about your wellbeing. All of those things were nothing more than reminders of what had happened. Nothing more than cold, cruel splashes of reality, regardless of how pure the intention may be.

So you didn’t. You didn’t check your phone. You didn’t call your friends. 

You did remove the easel from your room. You did put it with the paintings in the closet, along with the half finished piece it had held. You’d been proud of that piece before. You’d been eager to complete it before, the final vision clear as day in your mind.

But that was before. Now, it served simply to take up floor space in the entryway closet - fated to live in the dark, incomplete. 

Your bedsheets were even more enticing with the easel out of sight. They were cool against the exposed skin of your arms as you slinked beneath their comfort, closing your eyes as you welcomed sleep to take you back to a world of surrealism. A world in which you didn’t need to acknowledge your hand. A world in which you weren’t lost.

You would’ve been perfectly content to stay put in your bed had it not been for the inconveniences that came with being a human being. Aside from requiring sustenance and use of a restroom, you had additional duties that came with being recently released from the hospital. 

So, you took your meds. You drank some water and used the bathroom, and ate a few crackers. You did precisely enough for your body to be capable of falling right back into the comfortable world of unconsciousness. 

And you would’ve been perfectly content to maintain this new routine, too, had it not been for the inconveniences that came with a worried mother. You still hadn’t touched your phone, missing the fact that she’d been attempting to check in on you several times during the last few weeks. As any parent worth half a damn would be, she was understandably concerned. 

Concerned enough to use her spare key to see how you were doing for herself. 

You’d been woken up by bright light filtering from what had formerly been a curtained window, your mother having pulled the heavy fabric aside to welcome in the harshness of the sun. Squinting, you made out the silhouette of her frame and sat up in bed. 

“Ma, what are you –”

“You’re getting up,” she interrupted, pulling the comforter off of you in a sweeping motion. Your arms sprang to wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to keep yourself warm, “And you’re doing it now.”

“But –”

“Now,” she repeated, her voice carrying a level of authority that - despite having been away from home for four years - you couldn’t refuse. You scooched towards the edge of the bed, placing your feet tentatively on the floor before looking up to meet her eyes.

She was angry, that much was made obvious by the singular raised brow and arms crossed against her chest. Her face held more than that, however. Something akin to relief laced with sadness hid behind the dangerous glint in her eyes.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls.” You averted your gaze as guilt threatened to invade the numbness you’d begun to cherish, “I asked the boys if they’d heard from you, and you haven’t answered them either.”

The boys. Changbin and Felix. They were probably worried, too, you figured. Well, as long as they didn’t lose interest in you whilst you ignored everything aside from your body and your bed.

“As you can see,” you sighed, holding your hands out to your sides, “I’m perfectly fine. So if you’d be so kind as to –”

“You’re not fine, sweetheart,” she interrupted, again. She had a habit of doing that often when she was upset, not wanting to hear the alternative to the thoughts that had driven her to the point of outward irritation, “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”

“I’ve been resting, ma,” you groaned, the attempt to run your hand through your hair cut short by the tangles that had formed from days of neglect.

“No,” she took a shaky inhale, “You were rotting.” 

You couldn’t argue then, simply continuing to stare down at the hardwood floor beneath your bare feet. 

“Get some clothes and take a shower,” she ordered, though her voice sounded more defeated than anything, “I’ll prepare some breakfast, then we’re going to talk.”

The ominous way she ended the sentence didn’t go unnoticed, though you knew better than to ask questions right now. You did as you were instructed, pulling a fresh pair of sweats and a comfortable hoodie from the dresser before forcing your legs to carry you towards the bathroom.

You caught a glimpse of your sorry state in the mirror as you undressed. You couldn’t find it within yourself to be embarrassed as you noticed the lopsided nature the knots had given your hair. Despite doing the bare minimum aside from sleeping, purplish hues filled the space beneath your eyes. Your skin was dull - your expression even moreso - and your lips were chapped and peeling. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to mind, though, looking away to turn the knobs of the shower. The pipes groaned as hot water put them to use for the first time since before the accident, the showerhead sputtering a few times before releasing a steady stream into the tub. 

You looked back towards yourself, watching as the building steam steadily obscured your reflection before finally stepping beneath the water. The warmth against your skin felt foreign, though not entirely unpleasant. It took you a while to reach for the shampoo and lather your hair, already dreading the detangling process you’d need to take just to finish the wash. 

But you did, eventually, massaging the fruity scent against your head in slow circles before pressing harder when you realized just how good it felt.

You didn’t realize just how sore and itchy your scalp had become, the sensation of your fingertips awakening the nerve endings you’d been neglecting. You lathered for much longer than necessary before allowing the foam to rinse down your back, swirling down the drain alongside several bunches of tangled hair.

You filled the entirety of your palm with conditioner, applying it along the ends of your hair before concentrating it within the interwoven knots. You used your fingers to pry apart the stubborn strands slowly, wincing as you inadvertently yanked against the tender skin in the process. 

The sensation of wet hair sliding down your back made you shudder as more strands were added to the ranks of the already concerning amount of hair. Wetness pooled at your feet as the drain struggled to keep up, hindered by the building layer blocking its cover. 

You ignored the prickle at the corner of your eyes, grabbing your body wash with blurred vision. You squeezed a large glob onto the loofah - only to drop the bottle with an echoing thud to the shower floor. 

Though you’d been trying to hide away from reality beneath your bedsheets, your hand remembered. Beneath the scar proving the existence of your tragedy was the pain. The sharp, sudden burning that had led you to drop the bottle. You wanted to cry, to scream, to expel every last bit of frustration that came with the sudden reminder of your circumstances - but you didn’t. 

Instead, you silently picked up the bottle, placing it back onto the shelf before scrubbing the weeks’ worth of wallowing from your skin. From your neck to your toes, you rubbed ferociously. You sloughed away any dead skin roughly, leaving behind a pink hue on every bit of flesh the loofah touched. You scrubbed, as though you could remove your newfound handicap if you pressed hard enough. You scrubbed, as though the pain beneath the surface could be cleansed away by soap alone.

As you scrubbed at the scar on your hand - that vengeful, tangible mark - you knew it would never go away. You knew that it wasn’t as though you’d made a mistake on a sketch. You knew that, for this, there was no eraser. No back button. No reset. You couldn’t simply turn to a new page and start again - every page now had this vengeful, tangible mark.

The water had begun to run cold, yet you still persisted. It wasn’t until your mother called from your kitchen that she’d finished preparing the meal that you were pulled from the trance, staring down at your thoroughly exfoliated hand as you turned the faucet off. 

You quickly dried, pulling on your comfortable clothes before wrapping your hair up into a towel. You couldn’t see your reflection this time, though you were sure that bathing had given it a stark improvement to the zombie from before. 

This suspicion was confirmed as you caught sight of the way your mom’s face softened at your newfound cleanliness. She had set a plate of french toast and fruit at the table for you. The lilies the boys had gotten you were there, too - though they were nearly completely wilted, more of a rust than sunset orange. They’d been fading alongside you, it seemed. 

Your mother sat down across the table from you, watching you eat a few small pieces of fruit from your plate between her own bites before speaking up.

“So,” she dabbed at the edge of her lips with a paper towel, removing a stray bit of syrup, “I spoke with Ms. Park.”

You winced, putting a bite of the sickeningly sweet breakfast into your mouth to avoid having to answer. Your last interaction with the woman you once proudly claimed as your mentor was the last thing you wanted to discuss with your mother. 

“She told me about her idea, having you teach,” she paused, taking another bite as she waited for you to say something, anything at all. When you occupied your mouth with another powdered-sugar coated bite, averting your eyes from her expectant expression, she continued.

“I think she’s right, you know.”

You nearly choked, reaching for the glass of orange juice you’d been neglecting to wash down the culprit, balking at your mother as soon as you’d regained composure.

“I really don’t think so, ma,” you mumbled before biting a strawberry in half. 

“I do,” she reiterated, “You need to do something aside from lying around all day. Tell me, sweetheart,” she leaned forward, prompting you to meet her stern gaze, “If I hadn’t come today, when would you have gotten up and taken care of yourself?”

Words escaped you, though you knew the answer. You knew that you would’ve continued to lay in the sheets, hiding from the world. You knew that you wouldn’t smell of fruits and florals, but of your own sweat had she not arrived. You knew that you would’ve continued to sustain yourself off of crackers and stale bottles of water. You knew that she had a point - but you also knew that acknowledging it would do nothing but further her point.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, a flustered exhale coming from her lips as she read your silence perfectly, “You should take her up on her offer, honey. You need to do something,” she took a long sip of her juice, gaze hardening, “Or I will.”

You were taken aback. 

“What? What do you mean, ma?” you spoke slowly, feeling your chest sink at the seriousness in her expression, “What do you mean, you’ll do something?”

“If you can’t take care of yourself, there are places to go,” she stated plainly, crossing her arms against her chest, “If you can’t pull yourself together, there are several facilities that will help you.”

Your blood ran cold. 

“Ma…” you croaked, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. She couldn’t mean what you thought she did…could she? 

“Try to see it from my perspective, sweetie,” her voice took on a much more soothing tone as she reached a hand across the table, placing it on top of your own, “Your baby was in an accident, recovered and went home. She won’t talk to anybody, she won’t take care of herself…” she trailed off as her eyes welled with tears, “As her mother, even if it feels wrong –” she took a shaky breath, squeezing the top of your hand gently in her grasp, “You do what needs done to help her, right?”

You swallowed hard, once again knowing that she was right. Knowing that she had a point. Knowing that, despite your complete displeasure at the idea, that you - in her shoes - would do the very same. 

For the first time since the accident, your heart ached for someone besides yourself. 

“So,” she continued with a sniffle, blinking hard before wiping her eyes. She was still trying to hold herself together, even now, “I need you to choose for me - to choose for yourself,” she gave your hand a final reassuring squeeze before returning it to her lap, “The mental hospital, or Ms. Park - who are we calling?”

Both of the ideas left a sickening sensation of bile in your throat. On one hand, a psychiatric ward felt like signing away the last remaining bits of yourself that you had - like the pieces of yourself you were left with would cease to be within your control. On the other, the idea of speaking to Ms. Park after the way you’d left off was nothing short of horrifying - you wondered if she’d address it, and how you’d handle it if she did. Neither option felt anything close to appealing.

Either way, you were relinquishing control over your life - control over your choices. One thing stood above the rest, however. 

Privacy. Space to mourn. Space to be alone, unmonitored. 

“Call Ms. Park,” you whispered, vocalizing your decision before you had time to change your mind.

This was the lesser of the two evils - at least, you hoped.

God, you hoped.

The next couple of days passed by in a blur. Your mother had called Ms. Park on your behalf after sensing your hesitation to speak to her following the outburst at the hospital - for that, and that alone, you were grateful. Her voice echoed in your head, “She’ll do it,” she’d said simply, as though you’d accepted a contract - and, in a way, you had. They felt foreboding, those words. An agreement made out of necessity, spoken of in nothing short of businesslike tones as they discussed the details - you were listening, but never interjected. 

It was difficult to have an opinion about something you wanted nothing to do with, it seemed.

They’d decided to have you meet with a student in a few days, giving Ms. Park enough time to find a pupil whilst giving you not nearly enough to prepare. You’d done your best, though, deciding to start with introductions and finding out what they already knew before planning out thorough lessons. 

You’d rejected Ms. Park’s offer of meeting the student beforehand, asking your mother to relay to her that you weren’t looking to make friends - you were doing this out of necessity, and nothing more. Mother, of course, softened your words into something much more palatable, letting Ms. Park know that you’d rather not make two separate trips to the studio. 

She was doing that a lot lately, mother - making you easier to digest. 

You’d like to think that was for your benefit alone, but you knew her. You knew that she was trying to ensure that you hadn’t left yourself isolated when you came out of this - if you came out of this. 

You’d chosen comfort over leaving an impression today, opting for an all black hoodie-and-leggings combo for the third time this week with your hair tied back in an efficient-but-messy bun atop your head. You didn’t bother with any makeup, certain that you wouldn’t seem too terribly disheveled in the presence of exhausted art students. 

You caught the bus to the main campus, doing your best to watch your feet instead of the surroundings of the very place you’d graduated from but a year prior. Forcing your feet forward against the familiar cobbled walkways was giving you enough reason to hesitate as-is, you didn’t want to look at the towering buildings filled with memories of the artist you’d never be again. 

Eclipse learned here, you did not. 

In spite of that, your feet remembered the way towards the studio wing and carried you there dutifully. You easily found studio 6, the room in which you were to meet the person you’d be stuck teaching for the remainder of their semester - the person whose inspired dream would serve only as bitter reminders of your inability to do the same.

At least you weren’t in a padded room, right?

You stepped inside of the room, immediately greeted by the scent most art rooms would tend to carry - earthy and thick, with hints of chemical-laced paints and varnish. You remembered when these smells would make you feel inspired. You remembered the way they’d cling to your clothes and fill your apartment - making sleep impossible as the need to create invaded your psyche.

It wasn’t the same anymore, though, and it never would be. Now, his room smelled like hopelessness. This room smelled like anger. This room smelled like gasoline and smoke and sterile iodine. This room smelled like loss.

Ignoring the way these familiar scents tugged at your heart, you pulled a stool from the corner of the room and took a seat, waiting in absolute silence for the arrival of your forced pupil.

Hwang Hyunjin valued many things - among these was being punctual. So, naturally, when he woke up with ten minutes until he was scheduled to meet with his mysterious new instructor, he was freaking out. 

He’d nearly fallen from his mattress, tripping on the comforter that his legs had become entangled in during sleep. He caught himself last minute on his nightstand, knocking over his lamp in the process. 

Following his far-from-graceful exit out of bed, he pulled a pair of sweatpants on to replace the pajamas he’d worn to bed, tying his hair sloppily behind his ears as she shoved a piece of toast into his mouth - cursing under his breath as he stumbled, half asleep, out of his dorm. 

You’d started to consider leaving when the clock displayed five-past-ten, wondering if your mother would excuse you for not upholding the deal you’d struck with her considering the tardiness of your student - though the fantasy entertaining that thought provided was erased the moment the studio door slammed open.

Standing there was a very disheveled man, panting, with beads of sweat on his brow. Had he…ran here? Was this your student?

Your name spilled from his lips in a breathless inquiry, his eyes wide with what you could only describe as panic as he took in your crossed arms and disinterested demeanor.

“You’re late.”

You watched him gulp at your words, something you may have found humor in if it weren’t for your complete lack of desire to be here at all. Though he definitely beat you out in the height department, the way he shrunk into himself made it seem as though you were much more intimidating. 

“I know, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened, I swear I set an ala—” he started to ramble, averting his eyes. 

“Sit,” you interrupted with a terse staccato, nodding towards a spare stool. 

He quickly obliged, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rushed attempt to follow your instructions. You allowed yourself to wonder for a moment if you truly were that scary, but you assumed that he was probably just nervous - something you could fully relate to. When you’d first met with Ms. Park - who was arguably much more personable than you were being towards this boy - your hands were so clammy that you struggled to hold your brush.

He sat a respectable distance from you, chewing on his plush lower lip as he studied your face. Of what he was looking for you were uncertain, but if the shell-shocked expression on his face was any indicator? He was likely waiting for you to speak, to assure him that things were fine.

But, you weren’t here to make friends - you weren’t here to make him comfortable.

You met his observational once-over with one of your own; Hyunjin was tall and thin, though not gangly. He held an aura of authority, despite his easygoing expression. Inquisitive eyes framed by well-maintained brows and sculpted cheekbones, a gently sloping nose and full, plush lips the color of peonies. Small indents were visible on his flushed cheeks - likely from the fabric of his pillow. His hair fell messily around his face, tickling the tops of his shoulders - though it was messily tied away, you could tell that it would be like silk to the touch. 

You were suddenly self-conscious. Hyunjin was art.

“My name’s Hyunjin,” he finally spoke, holding eye contact with you despite the nerves you could feel radiating from his perch a few feet away, “And I’m sorry I’m late.”

You watched as he extended his hand towards you, head bowed in apology. You noticed his fingers - slender and steady, despite the way his voice shook. You noticed his eyes - filled with curiosity and eagerness, even in the face of such an off-putting encounter. You noticed his posture - back straight despite the sheepish bow of his head. You noticed him - had you met him on the street, you would’ve still been able to tell. He was more than just art, but an artist, and it was obvious. 

You found it hard to remain stoic then, feeling a pit of something bitter in your gut. It felt like a knife had been lodged beneath your sternum, forcing you to swallow hard before introducing yourself properly. You took his outstretched palm in your own, flecks of paint beneath his otherwise perfectly manicured nails serving to twist the knife and bring a bile to your throat. 

You were jealous. 

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his eager eyes and unsullied hands. 

“I figured we’d start with what you already know,” you said through the growing lump in your throat, allowing your hand to fall limply back to your side, “What mediums do you use most often?”

Hyunjin lit up at the question, smiling broadly as he launched into an explanation, “I think I use watercolor most often,” you could see the brightness in his eyes - the passion - as he spoke, “But, lately, I’ve been dabbling into oils. They’re a lot different than watercolor, though, so it’s been…” his nose scrunched up as he trailed off, in search of the right word, “A learning curve. A difficult learning curve.”

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his desire to learn.

“So, you’re wanting to learn about oils then?” You asked him the questions you needed to in order to plan lessons for him, ignoring the way envy crawled uncomfortably up your spine.

“Mhm! Ms. Park had mentioned you had a lot of knowledge in that area, so I pretty much begged her to choose me for the mentorship!” he laughed - an innocent, embarrassed laugh - as he recounted this to you, “Ms. Park is a really tough critic,” his gaze clouded, reminding you of the same fear the woman had instilled in you when it came to grading your work, “She sang your praises, though! So I’m sure that I’ll learn a lot from you.” The corners of his lips pulled up into a grin then, expectant eyes boring into yours with an intensity you’d only recently found yourself without.

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his ability to focus on the future. 

“That’s the goal, yeah?” you tried to hide the bitterness behind your words as the suppressed emotion clawed at your insides, threatening to spill out if you’d elaborate any further. Hyunjin simply nodded, spurring you to continue, “Let’s see what you do know, today. We’ll go from there.”

Hyunjin rose from his stool to go towards the supply closet, grabbing a small canvas and some supplies; brushes, spatulas, several tubes of paint and an unused palette. He moved gracefully, a stark contrast to the flustered man you’d’ve sworn you met moments ago. This Hyunjin was vastly different. This Hyunjin was confident and calm, flowing even before he held a brush in his hands. 

As he set up his supplies next to an empty easel, you found yourself immobilized. You could do nothing but watch as he pulled his stool closer, opening a few windows to ventilate the toxic paints before taking a seat. You were drawn to the furrow of his concentrated brows, the gentleness of which he squeezed the tubes of paint, the way he’d press his lips together as he thought - releasing them back to their previous fullness only when he’d reached a conclusion he was content with. 

Your interest only grew more difficult to ignore when he put the first splash of color onto the canvas - a smear of daffodil yellow dragged along the otherwise white canvas, much like the golden hues that had once broken the monotony of your hospital room. Bit by bit, little by little, he added more elements, concentration not breaking even once. He’d finished after a half an hour, obvious displeasure on his face as he set the brush he’d been using down with a clatter. 

“I just can’t figure out how to properly blend these…they always end up so muddled…” his face was wrinkled as he stared at the canvas - now a mess of different hues clashing against one another violently. You could see what his intention was, despite his struggle with the delivery. He stepped aside then, allowing you space to appraise the work yourself. 

He’d gone rather abstract, winding bits of color that were intended to blend seamlessly into eachother instead having patches of dull, hospital-gown green separating them. Like walls, you noted, walls that didn’t allow the colors to shine through. 

You felt your eyes begin to sting as you recognized the errors that you, yourself had made in your beginning days with oils - though you chalked it up to the fumes, ignoring the beast growing ravenous in your heart.

“Where do you think you went wrong?” you asked, ripping your gaze away from the canvas to meet with his. 

“I don’t know,” he started, disappointment evident on his face, “I think I noticed it starting to get muddled when I added in that turquoise shade. I tried to fix it with more yellow…” he sighs then, tucking the strands on either side of his face behind his ears as his lips twist into a scowl, “Why can’t I figure this out?”

Though he said this more towards himself than you, you found it necessary to reply.

“Have you ever considered that yellow wasn’t the answer?”

���Huh?” he stepped closer to the canvas, leaning in next to you and squinting as he tried to identify exactly what you meant. He smelled of linseed and cloves. He smelled like the pursuit of dreams. He smelled infuriating. 

“So, with watercolor, you can’t really go back…right? It’s either add, or leave it.” 

He nodded, sliding back onto the stool as he awaited further instruction. He stared up at your serious expression, anticipation obvious in the way his foot bounced against the floor. 

“Oil takes a long time to dry,” you supplied, pointing at the unopened tube of bright white, “Scrape off some of that yellow, and add some of this.”

Hyunjin looked confused, but complied easily. His hand was steady as he gently removed a large glob of sunshine from the canvas, wiping it on the edge of the palette before squeezing some white into an empty indent. 

You watched as he hesitantly dipped a thin brush into the pure white. 

You watched as he dabbed it carefully into the space once stained with that murky green. 

You watched as his face lit up at the vibrance the blue gained, you watched as his strokes became more confident as they met the yellow, and you watched as he blended them together into a brilliant emerald.

You watched, and you were jealous. 

You were jealous of Hyunjin’s hands - Hyunjin’s unscarred, capable hands. 

“Wow! That’s so much better..? I can’t believe it was that simple!” he sounded awestruck, as though you’d handed him the holy grail instead of some offhanded advice. He looked up at you with a bright smile, one that you’d have reciprocated had it not been for the newfound name for the sensation bubbling from within; rage.

You were angry. 

Angry that he seemed so carefree, so unaware of just how blessed he was to still have the capacity for improvement. Angry that he could celebrate a victory as small as learning to blend. Angry that your skill was benefitting him, and would never benefit you again. 

“That’s it for today,” you grumbled, quickly stepping back from the evidence of your knowledge being passed to someone else. Long, rushed strides carried you to the door - your hand trembling as you reached for the handle. 

“So soon?” Hyunjin asked, completely immune to the dark clouds swirling around your head. You could hear the disappointment in his voice, not needing to turn around to know that you’d managed to extinguish his excited spark in a matter of seconds. 

“That’s what I said,” you reiterated, turning the handle and taking a step out the door.

“Thank you!” he shouted after you.

Your rage - simmering and bubbling, lit ablaze with each passing second, and your envy - freezing, harsh and uninhabitable, clashed together then. You froze, feeling your cheeks grow hot as your hands grew cold, slowly turning to face him. 

He had stood to bow, body at what must have been an uncomfortable ninety-degree angle. 

“Whatever,” you mumbled, fighting against the discomfort of the prickling at the base of your neck before spinning on your heel, all but running from the studio in your rush to get away from him - to get away from the feelings that came along with him. 

Hyunjin was art, and an artist. Hyunjin was infuriating. Hyunjin didn’t know what he had and you hated it - you hated him for it.

Hyunjin watched as you fled, the image of your stony glare burned into his eyelids even as the door thudded shut behind you. 

He didn’t understand, how could he? 

He began to clean up after himself, placing the supplies back into their respective places and rinsing the palette out in the sink. Pulling his piece from the easel, he stared at that brilliant shade you’d taught him to create in under five minutes - a shade he’d been struggling with for weeks - and decided. 

Hyunjin would learn everything he could; from you, about you.

He would understand how to make a beautiful work of art with oil paints, and he would understand the storm he’d witnessed behind your eyes. He would understand the way colors interacted together against a canvas, and he would understand what brought emotion forward from your indifference.

He hung his canvas to dry, then, on one of the many pegs sticking out from the walls. He promised himself, then, as he stared at the best piece he’d managed to make using oil as a medium - he promised to be diligent, to pay attention, to absorb all there was to know.

About painting, about you.

You’d made a promise to yourself, too. A promise to lock up that rage, to lock up that envy, to try and outrun the storm that Hyunjin had brought to a head. You had to keep it together, and promised yourself that you’d try. You had to, after all. This was your life now.

It would never be the same.

[translationandbetrayals]

Demons and depression: mental health in Ao no Exorcist

Introduction

Mental illnesses are not pretty. That’s a fact. They are debilitating and overwhelming and they make your life hell.

I have seen multiple people asking for realistic and raw depictions of mental health issues in the media, yet when they actually get it, more often than not they do not have an understanding of it past surface level nor try to offer empathy. And it’s sad, honestly, because I think we need less sanitized portrayals of the times when your brain is against you.

Whenever I think about poor mental health done right in animanga, I think about Okumura Yukio, one of the main characters in Katou Kazue’s Ao no Exorcist. Every single time, he will pop into my head.

When I started reading the manga in 2021/2022, after finding my way back to Ao no Exorcist following my first encounter with it in 2017 pre Kyoto saga, I was immediately drawn to his character like a moth to a flame. There were layers upon layers to his arc and misadventures, and I thought it was beautiful because of how ugly it was.

Imagine my surprise, however, when I started seeing online discussions and found out that people not only misunderstood—or just straight up didn’t try to understand—his arc, but were actively hating on him. I got whiplash, honestly, because to me it was nothing short of amazing.

Who is Okumura Yukio?

Yukio is one of the sons of the Demon King, Satan. He is a fraternal twin to Rin, who is the oldest of the two and the only one who inherited satanic powers, also known as the blue flame.

He is shown as a calm and collected person, despite his young age, and he’s been quite successful. He is the youngest exorcist in the history of the Knights of the True Cross, a world-wide exorcist organization, and a highly skilled fighter.

However, there are dark emotions manifesting within him, and a lot of them that have surfaced after Father Fujimoto, their guardian and previous Paladin of the organization, passed away protecting Rin.

[ Manga spoilers ahead. :) From after the Impure King arc. ]

Demons and depression

Yukio is depressed. Like, severely. And it’s been brewing since before Rin’s power was unleashed or Shirou passed away, like a time-bomb set into motion since the moment he was old enough to grasp the world around him.

It shows subtly at the beginning: bitter comments towards his brother, exhaustion, lack of drive… and it makes sense, honestly, because not only was he completely orphaned, he was also thrown into the workforce at the young age of 15. Before he could drive or buy a pack of cigarettes, he was already a teacher at the cram school on top of being a high school student and a teenager—which, let’s be honest, is already hard and also kind of sucks. And who wouldn’t be depressed after being caught by capitalism and not being able to afford lunch in the school where you live, study and work at? I know I would be.

And things only go downhill from there. After always feeling inferior to everyone around him and constantly going through medical check-ups to make sure he was “normal”, to make sure he hadn’t inherited the blue flame, he realizes he is not, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t fathom the idea of letting the Knights of the True Cross or his brother know, and because of that he projects his insecurities onto him—because accepting Rin’s demonic side would mean accepting himself, and he can’t unless he is completely sure. Slowly but surely, he begins to isolate himself.

Before you realize it, Yukio becomes obsessed, and it’s scary to see how human and crude the process is. His curiosity is both his greatest strength and his worst weakness, and when he tries to discover by any means necessary what the blue flame coming from his eyes is all about or what his heritage actually is, he starts to lose himself. He begins to be consumed by the desire to become stronger and to satiate the lingering question about his existence.

He grows apathetic, as he tries to achieve his objectives no matter how far off the deep end he goes. He stops caring about his friends, about his brother and himself, and so he becomes imprudent in plenty of ways. The only things that keep him somewhat sane are his obsessions, as it’s the only fuel he has to keep going—it’s his reason for existing.

He is grasping at straws and there’s nothing he can do to help his situation. He had vowed to keep his somewhat incompetent older brother safe from those that wanted to take advantage of him and also from his own power, making that his mission and basically his reason to exist—but then Rin became strong enough to take care of himself despite his recklessness and his lack of knowledge, and that tore Yukio’s world apart even more than it already was. Once again, Yukio found himself without a purpose.

As he tries to test how far will his demonic eyes protect him, he becomes suicidal. Time and time again, he tries to put an end to his life through different means—from jumping off very high from the ground, to risking his safety by exorcizing demons all on his own, to kneeling down on the ground with a gun against his head and ready to pull the trigger.

Yukio becomes reckless as well, going way too far to get the answers he desires—he points a gun at his own friend/student, violently pins his first friend to the ground to shut her up and puts a gun against her head, intimidates the people who had raised him, and shoots his own brother in the face to get him out of the way. He grows desperate to know and he hopes to die trying.

He also has no sense of identity or personhood. He’s always Rin’s brother or Rin’s next guardian, or the protégée of the Paladin, or a teacher at the Academy, and so on and so forth. But who is Yukio as an individual? He doesn’t know. And he can’t even begin to comprehend it because he has no idea of where he comes from.

He knows he is one of Satan’s bastard sons, the weak one, but he knows nothing about how their mother came to birth them or why they ended up in Shirou’s care, and no one is offering him any answers. In fact, it is explicitly stated that what he has to come to terms with is the present, not the past or the future, but he doesn’t know how to accept the person he is today without knowing the circumstances that made him who he is.

He refuses help. People around him pick up on his weird demeanor and how he hides everything behind a smile, but he refuses to actually let anyone in. Yukio isolates himself from everything and everyone, too depressed to bring himself to care about the things that were once important to him. He pushes everyone so far away from him, they’re afraid they won’t be able to pull him back in.

It is not until a third party reveals everything that was going on with him to Rin—and they have a physical fight—that he is able to start moving on. But the consequences of his actions still linger, haunting him as he tries to make amends. However, despite the state of the world, the future does begin to look brighter for him.

Conclusion

Ao no Exorcist touches upon a lot of topics. Action battles and diligent training, romance, loss, messy family dynamics, friendship, and I could go on and on. It also has a lot of comedic moments, perfectly blending in with the narrative style, making them feel natural and organic. However, when it has to get serious, it does. Katou goes the full nine yards and gets the job done.

If anyone is interested in seeing a realistic portrayal of mental health issues and breakdowns, I fully recommend this story. The tragedy of Yukio is probably one of my all-time favorites.

Francisca Salgado. ☆

[thatsparrow]

thoughts on lady chatterley's lover (2022 version)

visually stunning—every shot of the grounds, wragby, the fashion—lush and delightful the whole way through

deeply sexy, not just in the sense that, you know, there’s a good amount of sex, but that the sex itself is uh pretty damn hot, tender and intimate, messy and urgent and desperate, the hands! every instance felt like it spoke to the connection connie and oliver have, what they needed from each other in each moment. I also loved that the scene with the most nudity was the two of them playing in the rain, which was fun and romantic and easy and also not particularly sexual at all

I’ll be honest, I didn’t really know much about the plot before watching, and so was surprised at the start to feel so fond toward connie and clifford’s relationship—they genuinely seemed to love one another and make each other happy, and it’s not like that all just stops after clifford is injured and they move to wragby. in no way am I trying to justify clifford’s possessiveness, but I do think the beginning of the movie gave more nuance and understanding to the conflicting needs of the marriage than the latter half. it’s understandable that clifford wants to move to wragby after his injury, to return to a place where he feels safe and secure while recovering (as well as maybe wanting a level of privacy as opposed to the visibility of london) but it’s also understandable that it leaves connie feeling isolated and lonely. I think it’s understandable that clifford is reluctant to have anyone’s help but connie, particularly as he’s newly vulnerable and requires more assistance than he’s used to, but it’s also very clear that clifford prioritizing his own needs has connie feeling overwhelmed and exhausted (“when she’s taking care of you, who’s taking care of her”). now, clearly things become a lot less understandable when clifford refuses to let connie visit her sister, which is why I really love the scene when hilda shows up to call clifford on his bullshit, and he listens (albeit temporarily) and hires mrs. bolton for help. but then as the movie goes on, it feels like the treatment of clifford becomes unambiguously villainous—he takes on this very paternalistic view of himself and the surrounding time and the mines, he exploits the miners, he admits to seeing them as distinctly lesser than himself. given that the movie is largely concerned with class dynamics, it makes sense that it would draw a sharper contrast between clifford and oliver, but it does feel like by the end of the movie, clifford is much more a charicature than the character he started off as

also speaking of, I loved mrs. bolton, and how protective and non-judgmental she was of connie’s affair, both to connie herself, and also while defending connie’s character and refuting ned’s rumors to the other women

it surprised me that we got that scene of connie in the town while the miners were striking, where she’s confronted by this very uncomfortable reality, and then we don’t return to that issue in any real way beyond hearing about how clifford is further exploiting the miners of the town

thinking about the nature of possessiveness and possession in the movie — of course there’s how clifford views connie, any potential child she has, the town, the miners, but to me a sense of possession also felt present in connie’s first interactions with oliver (when she visits his cabin and there’s this sense of expectation that he invite her inside, and then later when she discovers the hut and asks for the key), but also thinking about it in terms of the title—“lady chatterley’s lover,” connie is only identified in relationship to her husband, and oliver in relation to her (compare to oliver’s letter at the end of the movie, where he’s relaying the story in which they now have their own distinct identities, connie is “the lady in love” and he’s “the gamekeeper”)

my understanding of the book is that it has a much more ambiguous ending (we get oliver’s letter but no proof that the two actually end up together), and there was something—reassuring? interesting? comforting? that the movie is so clear that these two get a happy ending. like there’s a moment where it doesn’t feel it’s going that direction (hilda warns the two of them what will happen if they're found out, the rumors spread, oliver is fired, mrs. flint wants nothing to do with connie in case clifford kicks them off their farm, women are gossiping about connie in venice) but then it pivots and we get mrs. bolton saying (maybe just me, but felt very fleabag s2 fourth wall break) “this is a love story,” and not only are they together, but together in a place where they’re both free from their prior marriages and the complications of their pasts and can raise their child and live together in peace

[worldisahouseonfire]

This really helps to read. There's a lot of pressure in institutions and congregate living situations to make friends with the other people there. But I don't do well with this sort of nonconsensual setup, where I can't actually get away from the would-be friends if I need a break from them to evaluate how I'm feeling about an interaction or connection.

Reminds me of something from a RealSocialSkills post called 'Autism awareness for aides,' something like "honest loneliness is better than being surrounded by people who everyone says are nice but don't treat you well or think you are real."

And something Terry Pratchett wrote in 'I Shall Wear Midnight,' about how sometimes two people are both outcasts but come to find out, painfully, that they're not outcasts in the same/compatible ways.

In my experience Autistics can be way more different to each other than non-Autistics are to each other. All of us being outcasts, or treated as 'weird' by normative society, does not necessarily mean that we have anything in common other than our exclusion. And that by itself can be a very painful thing to bond over. Especially in the absence of any independent enjoyment of spending time with one another.

But it still hurts and feels extra-isolating to be in congregate settings with other socially rejected people, and see that they are able to make friends and connections with one another. Especially with the overwhelming (sometimes unspoken) narrative that the whole reason we're isolated and stuck in these places is some lack of arbitrary and universal 'social skills,' so failure to get along with people who have been arbitrarily thrown together with me feels like a sort of universal social death sentence. Like I will always be surrounded by people I don't want as friends, and this social failure will be All My Fault.

This is why, though, I am so glad that most of my life I have had a computer and reached out online for social connection. My closest friends are sometimes two or three timezones away, or even on the other side of the world, but they remind me that with the right people, I'm not a total social failure. And that spending time with other people doesn't have to feel like being in a car wreck -- uncertain what happened, afraid it was somehow my fault, wondering what lengthy consequences I might be facing, not even sure if I'm hurt or how badly.

My friends far away show me how it feels to be myself with people, to let the soft animal of my body rest in the (virtual) presence of others. And we do more for each other than anyone I know in meatspace, not because we feel obliged to, but because it makes sense.

Without my laptop, I would not survive congregate and institutional living situations. I would not keep fighting and striving to get out and stay out, and support my friends in all their efforts to break free and stay free from coercive shared living situations.

It makes sense to not always be able to make friends in settings and places not of our choosing. Where the only thing we may have in common with others there is our inability to leave, to make different choices who we spend our days with. In school, in employment, in families, in neighborhoods and sometimes housing, we often have limited pools of people with whom we interact. The chances of them being My/Your/Our People are ludicrously small.

I think it's okay for it to be harder to find friends. Especially as an adult, and especially when going through rough times. It's okay to not make friends with people you have to spend a lot of time around.

(I hope so, anyway. 'Cause where I'm living, and who I'm living with right now, is *not at all* where I want to be.)

“Because I could see that all these kids were weird and even they didn’t accept me, I knew I was the strangest one of all.”

—

Sean Barron, There’s A Boy In Here

Describing what happened to him in institutions.  I once attempted to describe this phenomenon in a book review of someone autistic who’d managed to make a lot of friends in institutions.  I was trying to just say our experiences had been different, but he somehow managed to take it as an insult, and to get his blog followers to write about how wonderful he was for being able to do something I hadn’t been able to do.  Which, of course, made me feel even worse: Other autistic people were able to make friends in institutions, so why were such experiences so few and far between for me? Was I defective somehow, even for an autistic person?  Was I showing how i wasn’t the right kind of autistic person, the kind who in their teens could somehow manage to make friends because they were so sweet and nice? 

I wasn’t sweet and nice, I was weird and strange and sticking out in all the wrong directions.  And many times, I would come to a mental institution and within seconds everyone would judge me to be the ward outcast.  I’ve talked to lots of autistic people who had this experience.  It turns out it’s not rare after all, and it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with us, it just means we’re not among the rare autistic people who do manage to make lots of friends in such places.  And they aren’t better than us, and we aren’t better than them, we’re just different.  But it took me a long time to be able to see this, especially with grown parents of autistic children, who should’ve known better, harping on a very young adult autistic person for saying hir experiences were different than someone else’s.

(via autiequotes)

[pumpkinpaix]

mdzs fandom, diaspora, and cultural exchange

Hey everyone. This post contains a statement that’s been posted to my twitter, but was a collaborative effort between several diaspora fans over the last few weeks. Some of the specifics are part of a twitter-localized discourse, but the general sentiments and issues raised are applicable across the board, including here on tumblr.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you’ve probably seen a few of my posts about this fandom, cultural exchange, and diasporic identity. For example, here, here, and here. This statement more directly criticizes some of the general issues I and others have raised in the past, and also hopefully provides a little more insight into where those issues come from. I would be happy if people took the time to read and reblog this, as the thought that went into it is not trivial, and neither is the subject matter. Thank you.

Introduction

Hello. I'm a member of a Chinese diaspora discord server - I volunteered to try and compile a thread of some thoughts regarding our place and roles in the fandom expressed in some of our recent discussions. This was primarily drafted by me and reviewed/edited by others with the hopes that we can share a cohesive statement on our honest feelings instead of repeatedly sharing multiple, fragmented versions of similar threads in isolation.

This was compiled by one group of diaspora and cannot be taken to represent diaspora as a whole, but we hope that our input can be considered with compassion and understanding of such.

For context, we are referencing two connected instances: the conflict described in these two threads (here and here), and when @/jelenedra tweeted about giving Jewish practices to the Lans. Regarding the latter, we felt that it tread into the territory of cultural erasure, and that it came from a person who had already disrespected diaspora’s work and input.

Context

The Lans have their own religious and cultural practices, rooted both in the cultural history of China and the genre of xianxia. Superimposing a different religious practice onto the Lans amidst other researched, canonical or culturally accurate details felt as if something important of ours was being overwritten for another’s personal satisfaction. Because canon is so intrinsically tied to real cultural, historical, and religious practices, replacing those practices in a canon setting fic feels like erasure. While MDZS is a fantasy novel, the religious practices contained therein are not. This was uncomfortable for many of us, and we wanted to point it out and have it resolved amicably. We were hoping for a discussion or exchange as there are many parallels and points of relation between Chinese and Jewish cultures, but that did not turn out quite as expected.

What happened next felt like a long game of outrage telephone that resulted in a confusion of issues that deflected responsibility, distracted from the origin of the conflict, and swept our concern under the rug.

Specifically, we are concerned about how these two incidents are part of what we feel is a repeated, widespread pattern of the devaluing of Chinese fans’ work and concerns within this fandom. This recent round of discourse is just one of many instances where we have found ourselves in a position of feeling spoken over within a space that is nominally ours. Regardless of what the telephone game was actually about, the way it played out revealed something about how issues are prioritized.

Background

MDZS is one of the first and largest franchises of cmedia that has become popular and easily accessible outside of China. Moreover, it’s a piece of queer Chinese media that is easily accessible to those of us overseas. For many non-Chinese fans, this is the first piece of cmedia they have connected with, and it’s serving as their introduction to a culture previously opaque to them. What perhaps is less obvious is that for many Chinese diaspora fans, this is also the first piece of cmedia THEY have connected with, found community with, seen themselves in.

Many, many of us have a fraught relationship with our heritage, our language—we often suffer from a sense of alienation, both from our families and from our surrounding peers. For our families, our command of the language and culture is often considered superficial, clunky, childish. Often, connecting with our culture is framed as a mandatory academic duty, and such an approach often fosters resentment towards our own heritage. For our non-Chinese peers, our culture is seen as exotic and strange and other, something shiny and interesting to observe, while we, trapped in the middle, find ourselves uprooted and adrift.

MDZS holds an incredibly important place in many diaspora’s hearts. Speaking for myself, this is literally the first time in my life I have felt motivated and excited about my own native tongue. It's the first time I have felt genuine hope that I might one day be able to speak and read it without fear and self-doubt. It is also the first time that so many people have expressed interest in learning from me, in hearing my thoughts and opinions about my culture.

This past year and a half in fandom has been an incredible experience. I know that I am not alone in this. So many diaspora I have spoken to just in the last week have expressed similar sentiments about the place MDZS holds in their lives. It is a precious thing to us, both because we love the story itself, and because it represents a lifeline to a heritage that’s never felt fully ours to grasp.

It’s wonderful to feel like we are able to welcome our friends into our home and show them all these things that have been so formative to our identities, and to be received with such enthusiasm and interest. Introducing this to non-Chinese friends and fans has also been an opportunity to bridge gaps and be humanized in a way that has been especially important in a year where yellow peril fear mongering has been at an all-time high.  

History

However, MDZS’ rise in popularity among non-Chinese audiences has also come with certain difficulties. It is natural to want to take a story you love and make it your own: that’s what transformative fandom is all about. It is also natural that misunderstandings and unintentional missteps might happen when you aren’t familiar with the ins and outs of the culture and political history of the story in question. This is understandable and forgivable—perfection is impossible, even for ourselves.

We hope for consideration and respect when we give our knowledge freely and when we raise the issue of our own discomfort with certain statements or actions regarding our culture. Please remember that what is an isolated incident to you might be a pattern of growing microaggressions to us. In non-Asian spaces, Asian diaspora are often lumped together under one umbrella. In the west, a lot of Chinese diaspora attach themselves to Korean and Japanese media in order to feel some semblance of connection to a media which approximates our cultures because there are cultural similarities. This is the first time we've collectively found community around something that is actually ours, so the specificities matter.

There is a bitterness about being Asian diaspora and a misery in having to put up a united front about racial issues. Enmity towards one group becomes a danger to all of us, all while our own conflicted histories with one another continue to pass trauma down through the generations. Many of us don’t even watch anime in front of our grandparents because of that lingering cultural antipathy. When the distinctions between our cultures are muddled, it feels once again like that very fraught history is flattened and forgotten.

Without the lived experience of it, it’s hard to understand how pervasive the contradictory web of anti-Asian and, more specifically, anti-Chinese racial aggressions are and how insidious its effects are. The conflation of China the political entity (as perceived and presented by the US and Europe) with its people, culture, and diaspora results in an exhausting litany of criticism levied like a bludgeon, often by people who don’t understand the complicated nature of a situation against those of us who do.

There is often a frankly stunning lack of self-awareness re: cultural biases and blind spots when it comes to discussions of MDZS, particularly moral ones. There are countless righteous claims and hot takes on certain aspects of the story, its author, and the characters that are so clearly rooted in a Euroamerican political and moral framework that does not reflect Chinese cultural realities and experiences. Some of these takes have become so widespread they are essentially accepted as fanon.

This is a pattern of behavior within the fandom. It is not limited to any specific group, nor does it even exclude ourselves—we are, after all, not a monolith, and we should not be placed on pedestals to have our differing opinions weaponized against one another in fandom squabbles. We are not flawless in our own understandings and approaches, and we would appreciate it if others would remember this before using any of us as ultimate authorities to settle a personal score.

It is difficult not to be disheartened when enthusiastic interest crosses the line into entitled demand and when transformative work crosses into erasure, especially when the reactions to our raised concerns have so frequently been dismissive and hostile. The overwhelming cultural and emotional labor we bring to the table is often taken advantage of and then criticized in bad faith. We are bombarded with racist aggressions, micro and macro, and then met with ridicule and annoyance when we push back. Worse, we sometimes face accusations of hostility that force us to apologize, back down, and let the matter go.

When we bring up our issues, it usually seems to come with the expectation that there are other issues that should be addressed before we can address ours. It feels like it’s never really the time to talk about Asian issues.

On the internet and in fandom spaces, Western-coded media, politics and perspectives are assumed to be general knowledge and experience that everyone knows and has. It feels like a double standard that we are expected to know the ins and outs of western politics and to engage on these terms, but most non-Chinese have not even the slightest grasp of the sort of politics that are at play within our communities. We end up feeling used for our specialized knowledge and cultural background and then dismissed when our opinions and problems are inconvenient.

As the culture represented in MDZS is not a culture that most non-Chinese fans are familiar with, we’d like to remind you that you do not get to decide which parts of it are or are not important. While sharing this space with Chinese diaspora who have a close connection to the work and the painful history that goes along with being diaspora, we ask that you be mindful of listening to our concerns.

Cultural erasure is tied to a lot of intense historical and generational trauma for us that maybe isn't immediately evident: the horrors of the Pacific theatre, the far-reaching consequences of colonization, racial tensions both among ourselves and with non-Chinese etc. These are not minor or simple things, and when we talk about our issues within fandom, this is often what underlies them. This is one of the first and only places many of us have been able to find community to discuss our unique issues without feeling as if we’re speaking out of turn.

With the HK protests, COVID, the anti-Chinese platforms of the US election etc., anti-Chinese sentiment has been at the forefront of the global news cycle for some time now, and it is with complete sincerity that we emphasize once again how important MDZS fandom has been as a haven for humanizing and valuing Chinese people through cultural exchange.

Experiencing racial aggression within that space stings, not just because it’s a space we love, but because it feels like we’ve been swimming in rapidly rising racial aggression for over a year at this point.

Feelings

This is a difficult topic to broach at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. Many of us have a wariness of rocking the boat instilled in us from our upbringings, and it is not uncommon for us to feel like we should be grateful that people want to engage with something of ours at all. When we do decide to speak up, we’ve learned that there is a not insignificant chance that we’ll be turned on and trampled over because what we’ve said is inconvenient or uncomfortable. When it is already so difficult to speak up, we end up second-guessing and gaslighting ourselves into wondering whether there really was a problem at all.

We’d like to be able to share what we know about our culture and have our knowledge and experience be taken seriously and treated with courtesy. This is a beautiful, rich world built with the history of our ancestors, one that we too are trying to connect with. When we find it in ourselves to speak up about it, we would appreciate being met with consideration instead of hostility.

We don't have the luxury of stepping away from our culture when we get tired of it. We don't get to put it down and walk away when it’s difficult. But if you're not Chinese or Chinese diaspora, you get to put this book down—we'd like to kindly request that you put it down gently because of how much it matters to all of us in this fandom, regardless of heritage.

What we are asking for is reflection and thoughtfulness as we continue to engage with this work and with one another, especially with regards to how Chinese issues are positioned. When we raise issues of our own discomfort, please take a moment to reflect before reacting defensively or trying to shut us down for spoiling the fun—don’t deprioritize our concerns, especially in a fandom for a piece of Chinese media. We promise most of us are not trying to start shit for the sake of a fight. Most of the time, all we want is acknowledgement and a genuine attempt at understanding.

Our hope with this statement is to encourage more openness and understanding between diaspora and non-Chinese fans while we navigate this place that we’re sharing. Please remember that for many of us, MDZS is far more intense than a typical fandom experience. Remember that the knowledge we have and research we do is freely and happily given, and that it costs us both materially and emotionally. Please don’t take that for granted. Remember too that sometimes the reason for our discomfort may not be immediately evident to you: what seems culturally neutral and harmless might touch upon specific loaded issues for us. We ask for patience, and we ask for sincerity as we try to communicate with one another.

We are writing this because there’s a collective sense of imposed silence—that every time the newest round of discourse crops up, we often feel as if we’re walking away having created no meaningful change, and nursing new wounds that we’ll never get to address. But without speaking up about it, this is a cycle that will keep repeating.

This is not meant to shame or guilt the fandom into throwing themselves at our feet, either to thank us or beg for forgiveness—far from that. We’re just your friends and your fellow fans. We are happy to have you here, and we’re happy to create and share and play together. We just ask to be respected and heard.

Thank you. Thank you for listening. Several of us will be stepping back from twitter for a while. We’ll see you when we get back. ❤️

* A final addendum: here are two articles with solid practical advice on writing stories regarding a culture other than your own.

Cultural Appropriation for the Worried Writer: Some Practical Advice

Cultural Appropriation: Some More Practical Advice

The thread on twitter is linked in the source of this post. Thanks everyone.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

For the AU-Jon wakes up from his coma before Martin accepts Peter's offer?

1. Oliver Banks comes sooner. No one knows why it happens this way, but this is the way it happens, and it mostly goes the same. Georgie shows up, Oliver leaves, and Jon starts to breathe again. It all just happens earlier.

Basira doesn’t tell Martin right away, when Georgie shows up. He’s taken this whole thing so hard, and it might be nothing, it might be nothing at all. She resolves to call him as soon as they have more details—when she has a hold on the whole situation.

2. This happens only two days after Peter has made his offer. He gave Martin a few days to “think it over,” and Martin still hasn’t come to a clear decision. (He thinks that the decision should be obvious—should be—but he isn’t that brave, and he’s never been the hero, and the decision seems impossibly stupid at times, and what if—what if Jon wakes up?)

Peter’s offer is still sitting like a stone in his mind, and he’s halfway considering visiting Jon, for some grasp at clarity—or maybe an attempt to say goodbye—when Basira texts, tells him to come to the hospital. She doesn’t offer many more details besides that, and Martin is out of the Institute and in a cab before there is even time to consider what this might mean. He halfway wants to call Basira up and press for information. The thing that sticks in his mind—the thing he thinks it must be—is that Jon is dead. Jon has finally died, and Basira’s called him there to say goodbye—and that just makes him want to press Basira even more, to demand answers, because what if he’s heading to the hospital with even a glimmer of hope and it turns out to be the exact opposite…

(Or what if—what if he’s awake? What if he’s alive?)

Martin doesn’t let himself hope. Doesn’t know how to. He keeps going over the possibilities—He’s probably dead, or worse—keeps reapproaching Peter’s plan—If Jon’s dead, I’ll have to take it, it’s the least I can do for the others, what will I have keeping me here then… He goes straight to the hospital, and up to Jon’s floor—the nurses know him, and wave him on through—down the halls to Jon’s familiar room, to Jon’s door, all the while bracing himself for bad news.

3. Basira is waiting by the door, and she looks up when Martin comes down the hall. “What’s happened?” Martin snaps, immediately. “What’s going on? Is he—” His throat closes at the prospect of finishing that sentence; he can’t do it, can’t say it…

Basira’s expression is closed off enough that Martin can’t read it, can’t tell if it’s bad news. But then she says, “He’s awake,” and the force of it is like a gut punch, nearly bending Martin in half. His hand immediately shoots for the door, and Basira puts an arm out as if to stop him. “Martin. It isn’t what you think.”

“What is it, then?” Martin snaps, and he yanks the door open, the word pushing out of his mouth entirely of his own accord—”Jon…”

Jon is awake. Jon is sitting up in bed, with a crumpled statement in his lap, and a tape recorder running on the side table, and Martin can’t breathe. Jon looks almost exactly the same as he has for months now, except that he’s awake and alive and looking at Martin. “Martin?” he says—a lot of emotions crammed into this one word—and Martin doesn’t know what to say, can’t get past the reality of Jon actually saying his name.

“Martin, you’re… here,” Jon says, quietly, the statement crumpling in his hand. “I-I didn’t know if… you’re all right?”

Martin starts to cross the room slowly, to the chair he’s more or less grown accustomed to sitting in when he’s visited. He hasn’t said anything yet—hasn’t found the words—and Jon is still talking. “I wasn’t sure if… y-your plan, Elias, Basira hasn’t… hasn’t filled me in, and I… you’re all right? You aren’t hurt, are you? Martin?”

Martin shakes his head numbly as he sits. Looks down at the bed and almost reaches for Jon’s hand—a long running habit, this isn’t his first visit, they’ve become as routine as anything—but he stops himself. He doesn’t know if Jon would want that. Maybe Jon never would have wanted that.

“You, er,” Jon begins, stops. He takes a slow breath, and his voice sounds remarkably well put-together, even after months of disuse. “It’s, uh. It’s good to see you here, Martin.”

Martin chokes a little. “Jon?” he says—he isn’t sure he has the words for anything else—and he looks up, and Jon is looking back at him—something unreadable in his eyes, something almost like affection, maybe—and one of them, or maybe both of them, move before Martin even knows what is happening. Martin jerks forward, and so does Jon, and then they’re embracing, leaning over the bed, Jon’s fingers digging into Martin’s shoulders, Jon’s heart thudding in his chest—Martin can feel it now. And he doesn’t bother to stop himself from crying anymore. He just holds onto Jon—Jon, awake, Jon, alive, Jon's head on his shoulder—and keeps telling himself, over and over again, that it’s all okay, it can all be okay now.

4. Jon ends up staying with Martin. It makes sense—Jon doesn’t have a flat, and neither do the others—Basira and Melanie have been living in the Archives, and Georgie hasn’t said anything to either of them since the hospital (Martin has still never met her). But Martin still has a flat. And Jon deserves better than a cot, after months of hospital beds, so Martin offers to let him stay, and Jon agrees.

The marvel of it is too much—after months of quiet in the Archives, months of growing apart from Melanie and Basira, months of isolation and feeling lost, months of Jon being asleep… the reality of Jon standing in his kitchen, Jon drinking tea at his dining room table, is genuinely overwhelming. There’s a dozen things Martin wants to say without knowing if he should, a dozen things he wants to explain. Basira filled him in on most of the important things, but they haven’t gotten a chance to talk about any of them, and there’s even more things Martin wants to say, if he knew how to say them. He wants to talk to Jon about how much he’s missed Tim—how much of his mind has been stuck in the reality of that first year, when Tim was alive and Sasha was alive, and aside from Jon sort of hating him, everything mostly being all right. He wants to tell Jon about how much he’s missed him, when he was asleep—wants to say all the things he’s been able to say to Elias and a goddamn tape recorder, but not to Jon himself. He wants to tell Jon about his mum. He wants to tell Jon he visited every single week, sometimes two or three times. He wants to talk about how horrible this all has been, and what they do next, how they move on from this, because he genuinely does not know. He wants to talk about all of it.

He wants to tell Jon about Peter’s offer, and he wants Jon to tell him not to take it. Because a part of him still thinks he needs to take it. He thinks about Peter’s warnings, and his promises to keep them all safe. And yes, Jon is awake now, but shouldn’t that be even more reason to take it? To keep Jon safe, too, now that he’s awake and can be put in danger? And there’s still the others, in the same danger they would’ve been before, and they deserve to be safe, too—and Martin isn’t the hero by a long shot, but he wants to be, wants to do something more to make a difference besides lighting some fires while Tim and Jon went off to die. He wants to make the noble decision, even if it will be a thousand times harder with Jon here in front of him. But he also wants Jon to talk him out of it.

Martin doesn’t say any of this to Jon, because he can’t. Not with everything Jon’s been through—in a coma for months, how selfish can Martin be? He makes tea, and he sits at the kitchen table with Jon, and he answers Jon’s questions about what he’s missed, and he tries not to think about Peter’s offer. The urgency in his voice that was probably a lie. He keeps getting paranoid that Peter will see him sitting here with Jon (Peter is not Elias), and that Peter will insist that he can’t be doing this, that he’s breaking their agreement (except Martin never agreed), and then try to tell Martin that the deal is forfeit now, and it’s too late. And it’s absurd, because Martin doesn’t want to take the deal—except he’s scared about what not taking it might mean. Scared about how this will all end, scared that if he doesn’t take the deal that something will happen—and what if Jon (or Melanie, or Basira) die and it’s because of him, because he turned down this chance? Except that he was only going to take it because Jon wasn’t ever going to wake up, and now he’s here, and how can Martin leave now, after everything?

There is simultaneously too much and not enough to talk about, and Jon doesn’t seem to know how to initiate it either, so they talk about nothing. They end up on the couch, flipping through the television channels, and Jon asks some lighthearted questions about what he’s missed on TV shows Martin didn’t even know he watched. It’s easy enough to make that kind of small talk, over other kinds, and it’s enough to get them both laughing a little. They stay on the couch for a long time. (Martin halfway expects Jon to be tired, to need to get more sleep—and halfway decides to leave a couple of times, an attempt to give Jon space, before deciding in the other direction—but Jon never mentions needing sleep, and Martin guesses if he was sleeping for months on end, he probably wouldn’t be tired, either. So he stays on the couch with Jon.)

At some point, they do start talking: about Tim, about the missing months, about how hard everything has been. Martin doesn’t bring up the thing with Peter, not yet, but he talks about all the rest. (The tremor in Jon’s voice when he tells Martin he’s sorry about his mother is almost too much to take. There’s still a lot Martin hasn’t talked about yet.) Martin tries to find the balance—he doesn’t want to put too much onto Jon, with everything Jon’s been through, he can’t do that—but he’s honest, too. He says, I… I missed you, Jon. We all did—but I… He says, It’s been… bad. Hard. While you’ve been gone, and he tries not to think about how often Jon was gone, before the Unknowing; how far Jon pulled away after Prentiss. They had time—limited time—between America and the Unknowing, but then Jon was asleep, and now—if Martin takes Peter’s deal; if Jon has to leave again…

Jon takes a sharp breath. The room is dark, and Martin isn’t looking at him, but he feels it when Jon, tentatively, takes his hand. (Like a dozen nights in his hospital room except Jon’s awake and his hand is warm, his pulse beating against Martin’s thumb, and Jon initiated it, and it’s all okay now.) “Well,” says Jon, uncertain and reassuring all at once, somehow. “I’m… I’m here now. And I don’t know how much help I’ll really be, with… everything. But Martin, I promise… I-I’m not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.”

5. And Martin decides, in that moment, and in the moments after, and in the email he writes out the next morning, in frank, firm language. He decides then. Jon is back, and there has to be another way out, a way that they can figure it out together. So Martin doesn’t take Peter’s deal.

(send me an au and i'll give you 5+ headcanons)

[narutogwriting]

Oooh can I have a matchup with a male Naruto character pretty please?

Appearance: I’m a 27 year old black woman with shoulder length locs that I put crystals in. I also am really fashionable and constantly change my aesthetic. I’ve been compared to a fairy appearance wise. I’m also thin with a semi athletic build and I have hidden tattoos except for the one on the back of my arm and the one on my wrist. The rest are on my hip, back and rib cage. I usually have a fresh face but I also like wearing lipstick and eyeliner (sometimes in colors like purple). I also have a smirky smile.

Love language: small gifts (like I about cried over something as small as a box of matches a guy got me once because he got them since it reminded him of me), words of affirmation and some quality time like for example if he was busy with work, he’d make time just to cuddle and sleep with me and we don’t even have to talk to do anything. Just his presence is enough. I hate being the one to initiate all the time. He’d have to meet me half way or I lose interest.

Personality: I tend to be really approachable like random people come up and talk to me all the time. I can be really reserved around guys I like because I’m so worried about coming off as awkward (cos sometimes I stutter when I’m overwhelmed) or saying something stupid or rude without thinking. I have adhd but I don’t come off as hyper, I’m just forgetful and say things without thinking sometimes. I’m bluntly honest but I will feel terrible if I ever hurt anyone’s feelings. I’m also super chill most of the time, have a somewhat sarcastic and occasionally morbid sense of humor. I can be really sensitive but I cry in private. To be honest I pretty cry often but no one would ever know. I’m a bit of a loner and travel a lot alone. I never feel like I fit in anywhere. If I consider you a true friend, I’m loyal to the end but I can be really bad about keeping in touch or remembering birthdays or picking out presents but I’ll stand up for you, be reliable no matter what time and I’m totally the mom friend. But as a girlfriend, I’m on top of all of that. I don’t crush often but when I do I’ll admit I can be super attentive and interested until I get bored or realize I’m way more into him than he is me or vice versa.

Interests: I play bass guitar, like collecting crystals and other witchy things, I like being outside when it’s warm enough hiking or having a picnic or whatever, I really like cats of all kinds but dogs are alright too (I’m not really all that phased by them), I like experimenting with aesthetics in fashion, etc.

Sorry if I wrote way too much! And thank you kindly ✨

I match you with

Gaara of the Sand!

Gaara is completely taken aback when he sees you for the first time. Your gorgeous dark skin, your stunning hair style with the creative and eye catching accessories of crystals you put in. You absolutely remind him of a fairy; you're so gorgeous and ethereal that he feels you can't be real.

He feels as hesitant and has as much reservations about approaching you as you do him, but with the help of Kankuro, he works up the nerve. It's about as close to love at first sight as you can get. You connect instantly. You're relaxed and calm like he is, but balance him out well. You're very approachable, where he isn't, and because of this, you help him to come out of his shell more and connect with others.

You both grew up feeling isolated and like there was no place in the world for you, but when you come into each other's lives, that changes. You two fill the hole in each other, become the missing puzzle pieces you were always looking for. You finally know where you belong; at Gaara's side, and he at yours.

Valentine's Day

Gaara knows how sentimental you are, how the smallest things can make the biggest impact on you

He's always doing his best to show you he matters, tries to prove he never takes you for granted, but he always feels like he falls short in one way or another

That's because you're so attentive, always seem to know just what to say, just what to get him, just what to do

He loves you so much for it, and he just wants to return the favor

He scowers every store, looks at every single gift he can find to see what you would like, but nothing sticks for him

Chocolates? Candy? Flowers?

They're too generic for Gaara's taste, doesn't really say effort

It's when he passes a jewlery store that he finally gets the idea

It takes a couple of days of focused concentration as well as hours of patience, but it's worth it Gaara knows how much you love your crystals and other witchy things

He spends hours on hours using his sand to carve and chip away at a crystal slab he purchased until he finally gets it shaped into the perfect heart

When he presents it to you, you're speechless

Instant tears

Gaara knows you well enough to know that he definitely got it right

Just imagining the time and patience he must've spent on it was enough to make your heart melt

He'd also spent hours rehearsing the perfect way to shower you with verbal affection and find the right words to tell you just how special he finds you

Ending the night in his arms, cuddling on the couch with a glass of champagne in Gaara's arms, it's the best Valentine's you can imagine

[voidtouched-blue]

Forgotten-contract--prior

If the contract was to be completed, it would be at the last of her natural life. Or he would take that bullet instead. The bare of his palm moved from the soft back of her own to gently press once more to her cheek - a flinch of his own sensation of that more personal fur, of his own senses of overwhelmed touch, going from feeling deadened nothings to the heat of a star; and with her permission - with that mirrored movement - he leaned closer again. “I can’t see the future Cyra, but for as long as you will have me, please let me stay by your side.” There was no hesitation in his gentle kiss.

She had her suspicions, but nothing could prepare the unwound woman for the pain reflected in his voice as he spoke. Though details had been left out on both sides, the wounds they both bore had been unmistakably bleeding in their respective mangled pasts.

They had been the same from the start.

The paths they walked had been different, but the outcome had left them both with scars that had gone beyond the fragile cover of skin.

Their chosen isolation had been to prevent the chance of becoming close with another, just to see that woven fabric shredded by a cruel fate. The choice to remain in solitude had been enforced by the prepared public personas they both had carefully crafted in order to sink deeper into the shadow of assumed identity.

Cyra listened, her ears almost fully perked up as the silent tears continued to pour without restraint. There was not a single moment that her vision drifted away from him, maybe from his face to the movement of his hand, but she dared not look away. He was right here, and the fear that he would vanish had still gripped her heart. Despite the way his thumb wiped away the tears, and despite the unquestionable touch of his hand on her face being all the proof she needed, it was the terror of loneliness that contributed to her continued trembling.

She ignored the throbbing of those gory horns that had pressed further out from her skull. Nothing mattered more to her in this moment than this intimacy of a shared understanding. Her grip on his wrist relaxed as he pulled his hand away for just a moment. Her own fingers fell to rest atop the blanket between them, eyes shifting to watch as he removed the glove.

It was his answer to her unspoken request.

The touch of his skin to hers, the gentle caress of his thumb over her knuckles the same way she had done in an honest moment after a terrible vision that she had taken him to see had placed a smile on her tear-streaked face at the memory. That point in time had been a turning point for her. She didn't have to trust him with that information. She didn't have to show him a single source of her many hurts. But it was with that longing cry of her spirit reaching out for another in a moment of weakness that she had found herself grateful for.

Her fingers tensed around his for a second, relishing in the painless touch of a hand. It was such a simple gesture, but it meant so much for her.

“I’m supposed to tell you to order me to leave. To beg that you forget me.”

He spoke again, but his words had nearly broken her heart. She felt the honest organ slam against the wall of her chest, only for it to catch just a few seconds later. The press of her hand to his cheek, a willing gesture that reciprocated her own. There was no way she could comply with that command. Not when he had made her feel so welcomed in her own skin. The mere suggestion of it had her ears flatten to the sides of her head. Another wound that threatened to tear anew, and drown her in the sorrow that would follow. And yet...the warmth of his skin under her hand, and the glisten of those suns had said otherwise.

“…But I can’t.”

She couldn't either.

She wouldn't suffer another moment of isolation.

The strength of his hand on hers had shifted, her exhausted fingers sinking to rest at his shoulder. In an effort to keep her arm from falling from him completely, her muscles tensed to grip the fabric of his collar. It was a familiar sensation of wondered origin, but it gave her no alarm. It was comfortable.

Cyra let out a gentle gasp at the sense of his touch on her cheek. The learned reaction still had won out, but because it was his hand and not another, she had been able to fight back the threatening memory from stealing this moment from her. But it was as he spoke again, the trust of his gentle caress to her skin, that she finally understood the growing feeling that had begun to blossom within her.

The longing plead of his words had her fingers tense around his shirt in reaction to the equal pain and comfort laced within them. She leaned forward as best as she could with her tired limbs protesting every step of the way. Anything to meet the comfort of that honest touch, to feel the tender caress of that wanted company with a sincere, whispered confession.

"Until my dying day."

Her starlit skies fluttered closed as the warmth of their lips met. Her tail finally flicked in the strengthening response of her returning spirit. If her small frame hadn't already been so weakened by her choices made in the day, she would have pulled herself closer to him. It always started with that single cross of the threshold that had her giving in to the demands of her heart. She wanted to lean into him more, she wanted to feel her arms around him.

She wanted the comfort his presence brought to her fearful soul.

[spoonietimelordy]

Yay Charlie, here we go. For the THATW song ask game, I feel like we haven't gotten to talk much about Battle Cries? So that one, and questions 1, 2, 6, and 8. :)

1. what was your first impression about this song? And as it changed?

I didn't really have any feelings about it, I loved it obviously like all of their songs but it wasn't one of the special ones. And yes it did change a lot but that will be for the next questions ^^

2. How does this song make you feel?

Overwhelmed to be honest.

(Edit: OK so this is what I wrote first and then I Googled some stuff and maybe I'm wrong, you'll see why)

I feel like Joey's voice is a tiny bit too load and cover Madeleine's voice so I have to focus really hard, even with the lyrics, to isolate her voice.

But also I'm kind of angry at Madeleine's character imao. I trully feel like she is the toxic and controlling one in this relationship which make me even more mad that I have to read the lyrics to understand her because she is the emotionally violent one so I feel like she should be the one we hear the most and that we should have to focus to hear Joey. But I guess that it could be voluntary since emotional abuse is often hidden from others, but since we're inside there home it would make more sense to hear her more to me.

I think that it's my biggest hot TAD take so far 😅.

Edit: wait wait wait! I just googled what beating your chest mean and wait O.O– it mean screaming your sadness and hunger at people but in an unsincere way. Was he lying all along to get people's sympathy? Was he trying to pass as the good guy here???? Or what? I'm doubtful suddenly, because it now feel like the lasts lines might be a twist but I'm not sure, or is he sincerely saying that he will not show a fake version of the story and will be honest? help!

6. What stories or characters are connected to this song in your mind?

Complete OCs, like most of their songs tbh.

8. Do you visualize any colors, images, or scenes while listening?

Yes!!! I imagine everything in such a detail way oh my god, I feel like I'm either their neighbours or their kid listening to them fighting, or I could even be the wallpaper. I'm just listening to every details of something that I shouldn't be listening too, they don't know that I know you know? But I can see them in their living room, fighting, screaming, putting their hands on their face and in their hair, pointing to the kitchen when talking about smashing the plates. I can see her trying to grabe onto him, to get him to stay.

All of this in a very specific aesthetic, it's the evening, the golden hour and the sun is making everything yellow with some ray of sunlight sliding through the curtains while the rest is a lot darker, representing their fight and fallen relationship.

[eliemo]

Love Our Way

Summary: Virgil knew he should have said something right there. But he didn’t, because he knew that would be the end.

Notes: Ace Virgil fic with romantic LAMP

TWs: Mentions of sex but no details. A little bit of internalized acephobia but barely, Virgil just has negative self esteem.

They’d been together a few months now and it had been, without a doubt, the best few months of Virgil’s life. 

It’d been a bit nerve wracking in the beginning, those first couple of weeks, as excited and thrilled as he was, Virgil had been extra paranoid about doing something wrong, about giving them any reason to lose feelings for him. 

He honestly hadn’t thought it could work at first. Relationships rarely worked out with two people, let alone four. Eventually they would fight, or lose feelings, or decide it was all too complicated. And things would get awkward and they could all end up hating each other and who knew what it would do to Thomas if they could no longer stand to be in the same room—

But they didn’t. By some miracle, that never happened.

Things were...things were perfect, as scared as Virgil had been to use the word. They’d been amazing ever since the anxious side was allowed to join their family, the love and warmth a wonderful kind of overwhelming he’d never felt before, but actually dating the people he loved more than anything, no longer needing to be afraid to express his feelings…

It was more than he’d ever thought he would get. More than he ever thought could be possible. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it was real. 

They fit together like puzzle pieces, making each other stronger, pushing each other to be better, gentle and encouraging, coexisting in peaceful harmony. 

Virgil had never felt so welcomed, so surrounded by unconditional support and affection. They showed him just how much he had to offer. For the first time he’d actually felt like he wasn’t just a burden. 

It was hard, especially when it took a while to convince himself that he wasn’t invited into the relationship out of convenience, but because they actually wanted him. 

But they loved him. He knew that now. They all loved each other, flaws and all. 

And, well...Virgil should have known it wouldn't last forever. 

Not for him. Because...because that was just the way things were, wasn’t it? He’d made progress, he wasn’t the bad guy anymore, but he was still Anxiety. Things were just destined to go wrong. 

He really hadn’t given a single thought. It never crossed his mind as something that could ever be a problem, even when they had initially gotten together. No one else seemed intent on bringing it up, so Virgil had figured they never would. 

But then it had. Logan had brought the topic up about a week ago, somewhat awkward but still painfully casual, the conversation simply to discuss everyone’s level of comfort when it came to intimacy. 

Which...yeah, Virgil guessed it made sense. They were dating, the four of them happy and comfortable with their relationship, and had been for months now. So obviously sex was going to get brought up eventually. Boundaries needed to be set before...anything actually happened. It was routine for a healthy relationship. 

Except Virgil hadn’t actually thought they would ever talk about it. Because he’d known for a long time that he was asexual and he’d just...kind of assumed the others were too.

Which in retrospect, was a stupid conclusion to jump to. 

Virgil had known for years now, long before befriending the others. It had taken him a while to be sure, lots of research and panic and overthinking, but he’d eventually grown comfortable with the label. It was just another part of who he was. 

But he’d also never really understood why. Thomas wasn’t asexual so it didn’t make any sense for Virgil to have a separate identity. 

Unless it was just something all the sides experienced, none of them able to feel that kind of attraction.

But he’d never actually gotten around to asking. No one brought it up, and before the...development in their relationship it never seemed like something that would be an issue. So he’d just assumed, and ran with it. 

But clearly that wasn’t the case. Not when Roman and Patton were responding to Logan’s question with varying levels of eagerness and approval, comfortable and willing to take the next step when they were all ready.  

And Virgil knew he should have said something right there. They had given him the perfect opportunity to come out, quick and easy, and avoid anything uncomfortable in the future. 

But he didn’t. Because...because that would be the end, wouldn’t it? 

They would be sweet about it, of course. Thank him for being honest. But if he was the only one who didn’t want that...well, what was the point of him being a part of things? 

It was a cruel thing to assume, he knew that. None of them were shallow enough to see sex as something necessary, and he knew they would never force him into anything. 

But...but he already offered so little. They already had to jump through so many hoops to accommodate his anxiety, and it wasn’t like he was particularly loving or good at romance, as hard as he tried. As loving and amazing as they were, this could simply be the final straw. 

He wanted to be with them. He wanted them in every other way. He loved them more than anything. But he wouldn’t fight it when they ended up distancing themselves from him. 

Virgil just wasn’t ready for that heartbreak yet. So he plastered on a fake smile, and nodded along with the others.

 He’d tell them tomorrow. The longer he waited, the worse it would be. 

_

“Movie night!” Patton declared, skipping into the living room where Virgil was scrolling aimlessly on his phone. “And don’t think you’re getting out of it this time, Virge!”

Virgil tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted at the phrasing, swallowing against rising panic and sending Patton a smile. It was just movie night, same as every Friday. 

It had been two weeks now, and he still hadn’t told them. He’d managed to avoid last week’s movie night with the excuse of an upset stomach, desperately trying not to think about what they could be doing without him. 

And now...now he’d have to tell. They’d already be upset he waited this long, he couldn’t put it off any longer. 

Besides, they’d all be in the same bed all night, as they often were, relaxed and happy and enjoying each other’s company. They wouldn’t ever force him into something he wasn’t comfortable with, even if they wanted nothing to do with him after he came out. 

He’d lied, after all. He should have told them right away. 

“I'll be right there,” he said, forcing a smile as Patton made his way upstairs to his bedroom where the others were likely waiting. “Just...give me a second.” 

This was it, then. Hopefully afterwards, it wouldn’t be too awkward. Hopefully they would still be willing to keep him around as a friend. 

They were all waiting for him by the time he made it to Roman’s room, the three of them sprawled out on the bed in a pile of laughs and smiles, and Virgil’s heart felt like it was trying to break through his chest. 

He loved them so much. He wanted nothing more than to forget all of this and be held in their arms, content and warm until the sun came up. 

But putting it off wasn’t fair to them. And it wasn’t fair to him either. 

“Virgil!” Roman exclaimed, and Virgil felt lightheaded at the fond, excited looks he was being given. “Come help us choose a movie!” 

He almost chickened out again, just for a second. But he couldn’t panic. Not until it was out in the open and he could deal with the consequences. 

After tonight, he could very well end up alone again. Isolated like a villain. 

Why did he have to keep turning out to be different? Why was he always meant to end up alone? 

“In a second,” he said, stopping just inside the doorway. “I...I need to say something first, if that’s ok.”

Their smiles dropped slightly, but their gentle, welcoming expressions never wavered. The three of them sat up in bed, scooting forward as Patton nodded. 

“Of course, honey,” he said. “What’s on your mind?” 

He was actually doing this. He just...had to figure out how to start. 

Virgil took a breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide how they’d begun to shake. “Just to- just to get it out there to make it easier for you guys...I- I get it if you want to break up with me after this.”  

That got their attention, their heads snapping up with wide, wary eyes. Virgil couldn’t quite bring himself to look at them anymore. 

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, and god he was shaking so bad. “I’ll understand.” 

The silence only stretched on another few seconds before Logan cleared his throat. “We’re listening, Virgil.” 

Ok. Ok he could do this. He...really should have planned out what he was going to say first. 

“I should have told you right away,” he started. “I know I should have. It’s not fair to you guys and I’m...I’m really sorry that I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to...to lie or- or lead you on or anything, I just...love you guys. A lot. I’ve loved being with you and I wasn’t ready to...you know...ruin that.” 

“Virge? What...what did you do, darling?” 

It was passed off as a joke, the Prince forcing a small smile, but there was serious concern behind it. 

Virgil quickly shook his head. “It’s not...I didn’t realize that it would be, you know, an issue. But you guys want...you want someone who’s not...me. Because- because I’m…” 

Say it, just say it. 

“I’m asexual. And you guys...I shouldn’t have kept that from you. I’m sorry. I’m just...sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

And that was...it. That was it. They knew now. 

They knew, and they could react how they wanted. If they were angry, Virgil wouldn’t blame him. If they were disgusted and demanded he leave...Virgil wouldn’t fight it, no matter how badly it hurt. 

He knew them better than to truly assume that would be the case, but the thought was still there. 

Furious or not, there was no way they’d trust him enough to keep him in the relationship. 

But he had to hold it together until the end of the conversation. He’d escape as soon as they let him, and then...and then he’d readjust to being alone. 

Unfortunately, none of them seemed particularly inclined to answer, the silence stretching on a moment too long. He risked a glance up from the floor, hunching his shoulders when he caught Logan’s eye. 

“Virgil,” the logical side said. “Come sit down, please.”

He quickly shook his head, taking a step back. He didn’t need a long, drawn out ending to this. He wouldn’t be able to hold it together that long. 

“You...you guys don’t have to--” 

“Virgil,” Patton cut him off, scooting aside to make room. “Come over here and talk to us.” 

And he’d never be able to deny Patton anything, would he? Not when he sounded so desperate. 

Virgil moved forward on shaky legs, focusing solely on his breathing to keep himself from crying, ending up seated in between Patton and Logan, Roman pressed up against the moral side. 

“This doesn’t need to be a conversation,” he said, just wanting to get out. “I...I said I would understand.” 

Virgil jumped when there was a hand against his cheek, Logan suddenly cupping his jaw and turning his head until they were face to face, the logical side’s eyes piercing behind his glasses. 

“Virgil,” Logan started, sounding almost breathless. “How...on earth could you think this would end in a break up?” 

Virgil blinked, wondering if this was some kind of trick question. “What? I don’t--” 

“Darling,” Roman said, and the Prince was suddenly scooting over to sit in front of Virgil, the three of them surrounding him. “You thought we would leave if you came out as Ace?” 

Virgil shook his head because no, that...that wasn’t the problem. Not entirely, anyway. “It’s not...guys I lied. You asked me to be in a relationship with you and I didn’t say anything.” 

“You did not lie,” Logan said, never dropping his hand from Virgil’s face. “You just were not ready to come out yet. You and I both know there is a substantial difference.” 

There was a hand suddenly slipping into his own, and Virgil startled when he realized it was Patton’s, the moral side’s free hand now running fingers through his hair. 

“You weren’t comfortable sharing that part of yourself,” he said. “That’s totally ok, sweetheart. No one’s mad at you. I’m just glad you said something before something...happened.” 

Logan’s hand suddenly dropped, his eyes big and painfully worried, and Virgil had to force himself not to look away. 

“Virgil,” he said slowly. “You do not...owe us anything. Especially not something like sex. If we made you feel like--” 

“What? Jesus- no.” Virgil moved his hand away from Patton, pulling his knees up to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut to try to get a hold of himself. “It wasn’t...I just thought...it would be too...t-too much to deal with, you know?” 

They weren’t breaking up with him. They weren’t. He’d been stupid to think that. There was no reason he should still be so upset. 

He couldn’t make them feel guilty. He couldn’t make them think they’d been the ones to do something wrong when they’d been nothing but perfect. He couldn’t--

“Oh Virgil.” 

Too late he realized the tears had started to spill over, his face burning as he pressed a hand against his mouth to try and muffle any treacherous sobs. 

There was a pair of arms around him, warm and grounding, and it took Virgil a moment to realize it was Roman, gently guiding him into the embrace. He didn’t fight it, falling limp against the Prince’s chest with a pathetic choking noise. 

“S-sorry,” he managed in between sobs. “I’m sorry, I- I don’t know why I’m...I sh-should have told you, I- I thought you’d...I thought you’d run out of reasons to- to want me.” 

“We could never,” Roman whispered, holding him tight. Patton moved forward to rub circles along his back, Logan reaching out to squeeze his hand. “You’re beautiful, Virgil. And this doesn’t change a thing.”

It didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense. If one of them had come out, it would be different. But with him...there was already so much to deal with, so much they were forced to handle. 

Eventually, it had to get to be too much, right? He’d already figured they’d get fed up with the extra steps they had to take to respect his boundaries, Virgil always a little more wary when it came to being vulnerable. 

But they all sounded so...genuine. Princey hadn’t once loosened his hold, still whispering quiet reassurances, Patton was back to running his fingers through Virgil’s hair, pressing kisses to his free hand. 

And Logan still held on tight, counting out familiar breathing exercises just loud enough for Virgil to hear, always knowing how to calm him down. 

When he finally managed to calm down, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, he reluctantly pulled away from Roman, wiping at his eyes as he stared down at his lap. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I never thought...I wouldn’t have let you guys do anything. I was always gonna tell you eventually I just...kept putting it off.” 

“That is quite alright,” Logan said, sounding oddly hesitant. “But I...don’t think I could forgive myself if we had taken the next step without realizing you would not enjoy it.” 

Virgil nodded, forcefully pushing down the sickening panic at the thought. “I know. I wouldn’t have let that happen. I promise.” 

Patton and Logan both squeezed his hands, Patton tilting forward to press a kiss to his temple before leaning his forehead on Virgil’s shoulder. He allowed himself to lean into the touch, taking another shaky breath before continuing. 

“I’m...I am sorry though. If this complicates things.” 

Roman cocked his head slightly, frowning. “Complicates things?” 

“Yeah,” Virgil said, hoping he wasn’t about to refute every wonderful thing that had just been said. “We’re...in a relationship. And you all want...I mean, Roman you’re pretty much all romance, so I know you want--” 

He cut himself off, caught completely off guard when Roman started laughing. 

“Sorry,” the Prince said quickly, smiling at the exasperated looks Virgil realized the others were giving him. “Sorry, I just...gosh, Virgil can I kiss you?” 

Virgil blinked, mind suddenly completely blank. “I...uh, sure?” 

True to his word, Roman was suddenly cupping Virgil’s face in both his hands, gently pressing their lips together, and just like always Virgil melted against the touch, completely safe for just a single, blissful moment. 

When Roman pulled back, he met Virgil’s gaze, brimming with nothing but adoration and love. “Virgil, darling, you really think I see something as trivial as sex romantic?”

“I mean...yeah?” 

“Virgil, I love you. You, not...not what you have to offer. I love seeing you in the mornings, and holding you...I love hearing your voice. I want to cook you dinners and pick you flowers and sing for you. That’s romantic, Virge. Not...not something as small as sex. That’s not what’s important. Not to me.” 

“I, for once, am in agreement with Roman,” Logan said. “Sexual intimacy has never been of importance to me. It certainly does not hold enough power to damage our relationship in any way if you do not desire it. And it certainly has no power over my feelings for you.” 

Virgil was suddenly dangerously close to crying again. “I--” 

“Besides, there is no logical reason for us to engage in sexual intercourse. We are not human, so the need to reproduce does not--” 

Roman thankfully cut him off with a kiss, Logan making a noise somewhere between surprise and annoyance, but reciprocated without further complaint. 

Patton was suddenly taking both of Virgil’s hands, their fingers laced together, and Virgil suddenly wasn't quite so scared to meet the moral side’s eyes. 

“I don’t care about something silly like that,” Patton said. “I just care about you, honey. The four of us being safe and happy and together. If we all just cuddle and tell each other how much we love each other...nothing else could ever make me that happy. So don’t you worry about a thing, ok?” 

Virgil wasn’t sure whether he laughed or sobbed, but he was smiling back at Patton, at the people who surrounded him with unconditional love, and he nodded. 

“Ok,” he agreed, feeling lighter than he thought he ever had. “Thank you. All of you. I...I love you all. So much.” 

Within moments they were all tangled up in each other, the television playing an old comfort movie, Virgil wrapped up in Logan’s arms with his head against Roman’s chest, Patton leaned against his legs. 

It was still perfect, and Virgil had a funny feeling it always would be. He loved them, more than anything in the entire world, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind they felt the same way.

[seventeenlovesthree]

The more I think about it, the more I feel like Tri actually works best if you SOMEHOW keep 02 out of the equation. Because development-wise, many individual character arcs would make MUCH more sense if Tri followed after 01 and THEN they'd add 02 AFTERWARDS. All the 01 kids seem so more mature in 02 than their actual age might suggest, so it'd make a lot more sense if Tri came between them. So having the 02 kids not exist yet would at least make the story flow a bit more coherent - because the 01 characters didn't display any urgency in finding them. (And I'd prefer to keep the whole fake Kaiser thing to be left out anyway - having it just be fake Gennai all the time would have MUCH more impact!)

Character arc wise, I thought about it like this:

Taichi: Is obviously traumatized after the Dark Master's arc by his overwhelming fear of losing Hikari, so his fear of destroying the city, other Digimon, lives overall in Tri makes MUCH more sense as opposed to his overall smoothness in 02 - there he is obviously scared of losing Agumon too, but once again, they (and especially him and Yamato) settle that it'd be better to sacrifice a mon than having more lives destroyed.

Yamato: Is still somewhat dealing with the aftermath of the dark cave, thus struggling with his inner demons, wanting to become more approachable, have a better relationship with his brother, mother, etc. And since he's struggling with all that so much, he obviously still butts heads with Taichi, since he doesn't want to see him make those mistakes again. 02!Yamato then is the self that finally got more content with himself.

Sora: Tri obviously continues her arc of self-sacrifice to the point of losing herself and what's important to her, so it's an extension of HER dark cave scene, since she still can't open up to others about it. She already displays interest in sewing here, so it'd make sense to make 02 follow up to that, making her picking up other, more feminine traits as well. Plus, it'd give her more time to actually think about stuff like whom she actually likes.

Koushirou: Oooooh, boy. I won't let this part escalate too much, but it just hurts how much sense it makes to me! 01!Koushirou wanted to grow closer to others and Tri!Koushirou already shows glimpses of that, but ALSO shows him dealing with things by himself A LOT, without being able to connect to other human characters well - he's butting heads with Mimi a lot, ignores the advice of the others in terms of taking care of himself, etc. Putting Tri!Koushirou between 01 and 02 would be so coherent, because the experiences he made through losing their partners and reconnecting again, also with the others, would perfectly explain why he's such a great mentor to the 02 kids! He's seen it all, he's been through it all, he FEELS how hard it is for Ken to reconnect, etc.

Mimi: The whole deal about her being considered selfish/self-centered when she's just being honest as follow up to 01 is amazing when you then look at her 02 self being so incredibly comfortable with herself, her experiments in terms of fashion etc. and her being so good at enabling and encouraging Miyako. I love that!

Jyou: Is probably even the best example of them all, because HE is the one who would isolate himself after 01 to get lost in his studies, focusing on being "a responsible student", just to learn that it's important to find a balance between all of his duties, making choices for himself, etc. Because he's SO GOOD at passing on that message to Iori in 02 - and nobody ever blames him for staying away, because they, by now, understand how important his academic journey is to him, but that he'd never leave his friends behind.

Takeru & Hikari: I'm putting these two together (no pun intended, heh), because I still have a hard time finding an end to their arcs. I think the main factors for them in Tri are that Takeru still is dealing with abandonment issues and Hikari is still dealing with her brother complex (and being a vessel for Homeostasis). I'm actually not sure whether it'd make too much sense to put their Tri selves between 01 and 02, but Takeru and his fake smile persona at least would feel pretty consistent if you think about how often he's been through losing his partners to darkness already. Hikari actually makes a stand in Tri, towards Homeostasis AND Taichi, so it might actually be more logical to make Tri!Hikari come after 02!Hikari...

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

scopaesthesia 👁️ chapter 4

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, death, murder, violence, stalking, paranoia, blood, gore, and other warnings to be added

This is dark!Bucky Barnes with a likelihood off dark!Steve Rogers as well and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Not everything is what it seems.

Note: I’m getting this chapter out before I’m clogged up with work. Y’all take care of yourselves and I hope you have a Happy Halloween.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Despite your agitation, your isolation slowly reinstilled a sense of stability in you. Even if you were trapped, even if you had little choice in being there, the cabin with the bullet proof windows and advanced security system calmed your wearing nerves. And without a phone, you could not be reminded of, or harassed by the faceless villain who had turned your life on its head.

The first day dragged by as you spent hours pacing in your room and tossing and turning on the mattress. Sure, you were annoyed with Bucky and his demands, his often mercurial moods, but you recalled Steve’s words and they abated your irritation. You could still be in your apartment, still be entirely clueless to your shadowy stalker, still be a sitting duck swimming through dark waters. But you were safe with two super soldiers, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal.

Steve brought you a pre-packaged meal and you ate alone at the desk after trading him for your grocery list. 

You stared out the window at the shedding trees and the frozen ground, the critters gathering what they could for their nests and burrows. The preserved potatoes were powdery and stuck to your tongue; the gravy lumpy and bland. You tossed the tray in the bin under the desk and rolled yourself in your covers.

That nail in your skull hadn’t quite relented yet and the knot in your stomach only wound tighter. You were still tender between your legs but the levee had yet to break. You laid awake through the night but for the few hours before sunrise. You awoke with stiff muscles and a heavy head. No longer a sharp pain at the top but a dull pulsing just above your neck.

You went back to the desk, wrapped in the quilt formerly folded over the end of the bed and slid open the drawer. You stirred through the hotel quality contents; cheap pens, a notepad, and a handful of mints. Odd but you supposed you weren’t the first occupants of the safe house.

You took out a blue pen and the pad of paper. You looked out the window and etched in ink the scene on the other side of the glass. You weren’t particularly skilled but the points of the tall pines and the sprawling arms of the walnut tree were simple enough. Little scribbles to show the twigs and pinecones at their feet. You blindly scratched the nib against the thin paper until you heard a knock at your door.

“You awake?” Bucky’s voice came clear through the door.

You put the pen down and cloaked yourself once more in the quilt as you stood. “Yeah,” you called back as you leaned against the edge of the desk. “What is it?”

Bucky carefully turned the handle and opened the door. He wore his high collared jacket with its chest pockets and two more lower down. His leather-sheathed knife hung from his belt, its tip poking out from beneath his coat, and he twisted a pair of gloves in his hands. He let the door fall completely open and lingered in the frame.

“I’m going into town. Steve will be here.” He said as his blue eyes bore into you. “You okay?”

You shrugged and pulled the blanket tighter around you. 

“You want me to turn the heat up?” He asked. You didn’t answer. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. About being so blunt but you have to understand, you panicking isn’t helping anyone.”

“Why wouldn’t you at least tell me about something like that? About the drawings?” You snapped. “I have a right to know.”

He sniffed and let out a long breath. “You really don’t want to know everything. Alright. I was just coming to make sure your list was final. Anything I need to add?”

“Just sweeping it aside? Just like that?”

“Honey, you don’t need to worry about this creep. Me and Steve will. You just need to be patient,” He neared you with decisive steps, “And listen to us. We’re your lifeline, it’s about time you start using it.”

“Don’t.” You huffed. “Don’t call me ‘honey’.”

He tilted his head and his eyes sparked. His lips curved slightly as he considered you.

“Sorry,” he said rigidly. “I guess… I didn’t realise I was doing that.”

You watched him as he pulled on his gloves and bent his fingers, flexing his hands as he pushed his shoulders back.

“So, I don’t need to grab anything else while I’m out?” He prodded. “You got enough clothes--”

“Yeah,” you said sharply, “I should be fine. I’d say that list is the least of my worries.”

He smiled and scoffed. “Alright, h-- You need anything, you let Steve know. He’s downstairs trying to figure out breakfast.”

You nodded as he stared at you. He rubbed his hands together and backed away. He turned and stopped at the door.

“If you really want the truth,” he looked over his shoulder, “He killed again. Two girls in as many nights…” He shook his head and tutted. “He seems pretty desperate. It’s a good thing you’re here. With us.” He stepped out into the hall and you barely heard his last word. “Safe.”

👁️

You found Steve in the kitchen grimacing at a bag of oats. His hair was slightly askew and he wore a sweatshirt which would be loose on any other man but clung to his broad chest and thick arms. His blue eyes bore a semblance of fatigue and he looked up as you neared the other side of the long walnut island.

“There’s coffee,” he smiled. “Do you like oatmeal?”

“It will do,” you climbed up on a stool and bent your arms over the counter. “Bucky gone?”

“Yeah,” Steve set down the bag and turned to the cupboard. He pulled out a metal mug in the military style and filled it with coffee from the pot. He slid it over to you. “You like sugar? Cream? Because we have neither.”

“I’m fine,” you chuckled. “So… is this something you do a lot?”

“What? Make coffee?” He asked as he bent and searched the cupboards.

“No, whatever it is we’re doing here. Hiding?”

“I’ve been sent on protective missions before,” he stood and clunked a pot on the counter. “Can’t say it’s ever been this… intense. Usually political,” he opened the bag of oats and poured them into the pot, “Escort from point A to B. Nothing overly complicated.”

“So why exactly has S.H.I.E.L.D. taken the lead and not the FBI?” 

He looked at you and raised his brows. He turned to add water to the pot and placed it on the stove. He turned the dial and spun back to you.

“If I tell you, you can’t let on to Bucky that you know.” He warned as he neared the island. “I mean it. I really shouldn’t. He’s right, you know? The less you know, the better.”

“Tell me. I’ll keep my mouth shut.” You urged. “Please.”

He sighed and pushed back his blonde hair. His short stubble caught the light as he dropped his arms.

“We have reason, strong reason, to believe that this… guy has ties to an association known as HYDRA. An organization which has been working to undermine democratic peace for decades.” Steve lowered his voice as he leaned across the countertop. “The hotel room that was… an unexpected and uncharacteristic slip-up. Before, he was stealthy, smart, we were barely able to string it all together. He was all over the city. But… I’m starting to think that it’s all deliberate on his part. He wants to distract us with the overwhelming evidence so that we make a real mistake.”

“But why-- Why would an operative want anything to do with me?”

“Oh, well, we don’t think he’s with HYDRA anymore and that makes him even more dangerous. He’s taken everything they taught him, all the evil they instilled in him, and now he’s working for his own agenda.” 

Steve searched your face, “Why he chose you; who knows? Maybe you said ‘hi’ to him and he liked the way it sounded or maybe it’s entirely at random. The FBI handed this case over because they can’t figure him out and I gotta be honest, we’re not any closer than they were. The only upper hand we have is that Bucky saw him. That’s it. We don’t have a name or anything else. Just a face and there are an awful lot of those in New York.”

You trembled and ran your fingertips down your cheeks. You gulped as you sat up and your eyes threatened to well.

“Thanks for telling me.” You whispered.

“Right, but I need a favour in return.” He said.

“What?”

“Stop snooping around. We’re all stuck in here for a while. It doesn’t help anyone, especially not Bucky. He’s just trying to do his job and he’s already had to call in back-up. He’s feeling beat up right now.” Steve explained. “Besides, you really can’t give him a hard time after he got all bloodied up for you.”

“I… I’m sorry. I’m just scared.” You muttered, “I’ll cool it. Okay?”

He smiled and turned back to the stove. He grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the oats. He swore under his breath.

“I really hope you’re a good cook because we’re all gonna be miserable if I’m in charge.” He tutted at the steaming pot. “Or at least, half-starved.”

👁️

“So we ended up getting lost on the beach,” Steve hit his empty bowl with his elbow as he talked. “And the bozo says he’s gonna get seasick. On land!”

You laughed as Steve’s eyes twinkled but quickly stopped as you heard the beep from the front door. It opened and closed, followed by the tap of fingertips on the panel. You looked over your shoulder as Bucky entered. You hadn’t realised how long you and Steve had been talking. A couple hours even after finishing the chewy porridge.

“There’s more in the car,” Bucky crossed to the island and plunked two bags on it. 

“Oh, I’ll help,” you slid off the stool and Bucky caught your shoulder.

“You should stay inside,” Bucky said, “Steve.”

“Alright.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’ll clean up in here,” you offered.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve warned as he rounded the counter. “But since you promised to cook tonight I’ll be more than happy to let you do so then.”

“Deal,” you said and watched him pass into the hallway. 

Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder and he gripped the lip of the counter. “You two get along.”

“Figure I should try, considering,” you moved so that the stool was between you. 

“It’s gonna start snowing soon.” He said awkwardly. “Calling for a storm next week. Could be snowed in here.”

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” you said.

“Maybe,” he reached into one of the bags as he spoke, “I got you this.” He pulled out a bottle of red, “Figured I might as well.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to but… thanks,” you tried to smile. You heard Steve behind you and Bucky’s jaw squared as he looked over your shoulder. “At least let me help unpack.” You insisted as Steve placed the bags beside the others. “I mean, it’ll be something to keep me busy.”

“Twist my arm,” Steve said, “Alright, I’ll get the dishes and you started putting all this away. Bucky, do you mind helping?”

Bucky nodded and blinked slowly. “Any coffee left?” He asked.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Steve said as he gathered up the bowls, “But I wouldn’t recommend my oatmeal. There’s probably something better hidden in those bags.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bucky muttered, “It was a long ride.”

👁️

You decided that while you weren’t in control, it didn’t mean you were helpless. It only meant that you needed to let those who knew what they were doing take care of it. Bucky and Steve had years of experience in security and combat. You were just a secretary scared for her life. You had no idea what to do or what you were doing.

After the first couple days, it grew easier. You grew comfortable but not complacent. The few times of day you could cook kept you busy enough to distract you. Steve and Bucky were easier to be around as you grew used to them, even just used to having others in your living space. Mostly, you kept to yourself but managed some decent conversation when you ate or stumbled upon each other in the cabin.

It was quiet and you were bored. Again. There were a few books you'd found to read and your doodles had grown frustrating. You decided to take a shower and try to relax. Your isolation made you restless and your restlessness made you think of why you were hidden away in the middle of nowhere.

You locked the door behind you and hung your towel. To your surprise, Bucky had managed to pick out the exact soap you used. You couldn't recall if you'd been finicky enough to have written it on the list. You stretched and undressed. You still didn't sleep very well but it wasn't as if you did very much either.

You stepped under the showerhead as the pipes whined. In the evening, if your keepers were busy, you'd read by the woodstove. The smell was calming and the crackle filled the dead air. Maybe after you would sneak down and try to warm up in front of the fire.

The shower fogged up and you closed your eyes as you scrubbed your body. The smell was reassuring. It reminded you of when your life was normal. It made you think that maybe you could go back to before. That this might end and you might be free to live again.

You let out a breath and cranked the shower off. You pulled back the curtain as the steam cleared and you patted your skin dry before wrapping yourself in the towel. As you picked up your clothes, you froze. You stood and neared the door. Had you not locked it? 

It was half-open and let in a draft from the hallway. You poked your head out and peered up and down the hall. Nothing, no one. Well, you were careless, you could've left it unlocked, not pushed it enough for it to catch.

You tiptoed across the hall to your room and pulled the door shut. This time you made sure it was closed though there was no lock on it. You tossed your clothes on the bed and pulled out a new set. Loose sweatpants and a cotton shirt. You needed to do laundry already. Well, another task to keep you occupied.

You pulled on some socks and crept out into the hall. You descended the stairs and listened for any sign of disturbance. Usually the men worked in the dining room or in the small office on the other side of the stairs. 

You got to the bottom of the stairs and neared the front door. You looked out at the grey forest. It was supposed to snow that night, that's what Bucky declared at breakfast. You grasped the handle but it would not turn. You reached to the panel just beside you but it rejected your fingerprint with a loud beep. 

"Going somewhere?" Bucky asked and you spun to face him, startled.

"No, I just… haven't been outside and I just wanted to… smell the air. I guess that's, uh, weird." You rubbed your hands together.

"It's freezing. You can't go out like that."

You stared at him. "But can I… go out?"

His blue eyes clung to you and his long lashes flicked. He lifted his brow and stepped closer. He stopped and slid your boots over to you with his foot. 

"Stay close," he grabbed his coat, "And wear a hat."

He handed you a wool beanie from his coat pocket before he pulled the ends of his hair from beneath his collar. You took your coat, in slight disbelief, and smiled.

"You sure it's okay?"

"Well, you shouldn't be pent up in here for so long and once it snows, you won't wanna go out much at all."

He opened the door as you tucked your hands into your gloves. You stepped out and he followed you closely as the door clicked shut behind him. You tramped down the steps and bounced on your heels at the bottom. It smelled like pine and cold.

Bucky walked evenly across the clearing and you trailed behind him as he neared the trees. He stopped and waited for you to catch up. He waved you ahead of him. "Just follow the path."

He wasn't far behind as you did as he said, the path winding between trees and petering out before a frosty brook that would freeze over with the first snowfall. Your teeth chattered as the looming winter nipped through your layers. You were quiet as you bent to pick up a pinecone and admire its scales.

You felt Bucky watching you as you turned back and walked around the small clearing amidst the trees.

"Hey," you faced him and tossed the pinecone away, "I'm sorry I was so… contrary. I was afraid."

"It's fine," he shooed away your apology with his hand, "I've dealt with worse."

"Sure but… I owe you a thank you, too. You saved me. More than once. And I know I wouldn't be alive without you. So thanks. Really. And… I am trying. I trust you. I know you're going to get this guy."

He gave a small smile and kicked a stone as he came closer. "Well, let me just say, this is one of the only jobs I've been assigned that hasn't been a complete pain in the ass."

You scoffed and resisted your urge to back away from him. "Flattering, really."

"Twenty minutes," he said, "Then we gotta go back… before Steve notices and gets worried. Or worse, he'll think we left him out of some fun."

"Ah," you snorted, "Yeah, wouldn't want him to think that."

👁️

Another day and then another. Time fell as lackadaisical as the snow. At first, it had been a storm but it had slowed to a powdery lull. Neither Steve nor Bucky spoke of the killer and you didn’t dare to ask. What good would it do you to know he had killed another? Or that some other grisly piece of art had been found? Ignorance was bliss or at least solace.

You found yourself moving from room to room. First, your bedroom, then the kitchen for a cup of tea, the living room to feed the stove and watch it burn, and then back upstairs. You ran into Steve on your way up. He seemed distracted if not a bit perturbed. You noticed that in the last day he and Bucky had been quiet. More so than usual.

You continued up to your room and opened your current read; a classic you refused to read in high school and opted for the Sparknotes instead. You laid on your bed, one leg bent under the other as you swayed back and forth. The words didn’t stick in your mind and you found yourself rereading the same page until you clapped the book shut and snarled.

You sat up and tapped your foot on the floor. You heard voices, muffled by your door. You eked it open and slowly approached the top of the stairs. You listened as the argument came clearer.

“Goddamn it, Bucky, after everything I’ve done for you. What the fuck are we here for? Well, what am I here for?” Steve growled.

“Stop yelling, alright.” Bucky snipped. “Have a little fucking patience. You know this hasn’t been easy.” You heard something slam but couldn’t guess at what. “Don’t fucking blow it. Shut up and have a little faith in me.”

There was grumbling but nothing more as a door closed and blocked out the voices entirely. You felt that heat along the back of your neck. The sudden burst of instinctual fear that nestled along your shoulders. The goosebumps that told you that not all was as it seemed. The creeping, inescapable sensation which had lingered for weeks now.

You pushed yourself up to your feet and headed back to your room. It was a stressful mission, you couldn’t blame the two for getting frustrated. That must have been what it was. They were anxious to get this guy and be onto their next mission. You doubted it was their ideal job to be locked away in the snow.

You stopped as your hand fell to your door handle and you peered down the hall into Bucky’s room. The door was mostly open, only a slight angle blocking out part of the room. Slowly, you dragged your hand away from the knob and felt along the wall as you continued down the hall.

His bed was unmade, the pillows strewn about, and a familiar patch of fabric stuck out from beneath one of them. You glanced behind you and took a breath. You took a step inside and waited as if testing it. Would he know? He seemed to know everything.

You placed one foot in front of the other as softly as you could. You leaned a knee against the mattress and reached beneath the pillow. You lifted up your panties and blanched at the little daisies speckles along the cotton. You’d gone all week without a pair, the mystery of their disappearance forgotten as your own carelessness. You mouthed ‘what the fuck’ as you dropped them back to the bed.

You turned around and went to the tall dresser near the closet. You inched the top drawer open; the rest of your panties bunched up with his briefs. The pink pair with the hearts you didn’t dare to touch as dried white strings stained the lacy edge. You slid the drawer shut and gasped as you were suffocated by your shock.

You spun around and peeked out the open door. You heard nothing but the winter gales outside. You rounded the bed and went to the table in the corner; a monitor, a mouse, a keyboard, stacks of folders and papers. 

Your fingers shook as you took your wallet from the mess and opened it up. Your cards, your IDs, and even the cash remained within. You put it back and took the envelope that was hidden beneath it. You opened it and flipped through its contents; your college ID from years ago, the one you got replaced after presumably dropping it in the library, your graduation photo, pictures of your family and you… all things you’d thought you lost.

You replaced the envelope and lifted the top of a file. The same drawing as before and several more, each one bloodier, more gruesome than the last until the final one. A metal arm around your neck…

Your hand hit the mouse as you retracted it in disgust and the monitor lit up. The sudden glare stung your eyes. A dozen different frames across the screen; each one a room in the house, including yours and even one in the shower. Bucky and Steve were in the office, deep in conversation.

You let out a shuddered breath as tears pricked.

You moved the mouse slowly and clicked on the file explorer. Folders sorted by date and then another simply labelled with your street name. You hesitated before you selected it. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of video files sorted by date. You bent closer as you clicked on the last day.

You hit double speed as your empty apartment greeted you. Then you came home, poured your wine, then Bucky arrived, you ordered food… You slowed down the footage as you slumped against the arm of the couch. The wine and the terror of that video call had left you senseless.

Bucky stood and pulled you down to lay across the couch. He backed up and watched you for a while then neared you again. You watched in horror as he bent over you and rolled your pants down. He climbed between your legs and buried his head between them. He shoved his metal hand beneath his mouth and your entire body jolted as he fingered.

You gasped as he finished and pulled your pants back up. Then he stood near you and used your hand to pleasure himself. You exited out of the window before your stomach turned entirely. You stood as you looked to the live feed. The office was empty.

You were suddenly pulled back as a rope wrapped around your neck. You kicked out as you were strangled, a figure flush against your back. You flailed and grabbed at the robe as you were shoved towards the bed. The body fell down onto you and the rope tightened.

“Baby girl,” Bucky’s voice slithered in your ear, “It didn’t have to be like this.”

[scarletravenswood]

7 Things I Wish I Knew Before Becoming Pagan

1: There isn’t one way to do things When I was starting out it was pretty overwhelming as there is so much variation in pagan practices. I was kind of hoping that I could find one book or one teacher that could show me how things were done - but it doesn’t work like that.  As a Pagan you have to decide which path and traditions resonate with you and the way you do things might be completely different from other pagans. 2: Labels often don’t mean anything When I was starting out and meeting other pagans I would occasionally meet people both online & in person who said they were a high-priest or a high-priestess.  I initially found this really exciting but the truth is anyone can call themselves a high priest or priestess so take everything you hear with a grain of salt.  There is no formal hierarchy or system of granting titles so you need to be cautious about taking people at their word. 3: My practice would evolve I started out as a Wiccan but over time my practice has evolved away from Wicca and more towards Pagan-reconstructionist practice.  While I used to do lots of spells and Wiccan rituals, now I focus on reviving Pagan traditions and understanding their origins.  Don’t be surprised if your beliefs and practices also change over time.  

4: The amount of research involved Building a Pagan practice takes a lot of research and reading.  In my view a large part of Paganism is learning about ancient history and figuring how we can bring that historical knowledge and beliefs into the modern day.  This takes a lot of digging into old manuscripts and texts so get ready to spend lots of time with your nose in a book.  To be honest, I’m a bit of a history nerd so this is really one of my favorite aspects of Paganism. 5: Pagans are often anti-organization Getting a group of Pagans together can often be like herding cats.  Most pagans are uncomfortable with rules and hierarchies and this is most likely due to the fact that many pagans grew up in a Christian household and are looking for a religion that is opposite from what they grew up with.  While absence of rules and structure can be liberating this aversion to organization also isolates us a bit. It’s no coincidence that solitary Pagans are now the norm. 6: Being Pagan can be lonely Unlike more mainstream religions, most Pagan groups do not meet very regularly and can sometimes be tricky to connect with.  There are a ton of paid witchy and pagan workshops you can attend, but it’s tough finding events that are free.  For me, I’ve definitely felt lonely from time to time and one of the reasons I created a YouTube channel is so that I could connect with other Pagans. 7: It would profoundly change my life Paganism has inspired and helped me in so many ways.  It’s helped me connect more with nature and the cycles of the seasons.  It’s helped me connect with my ancestors and learn more about their history.  And most importantly, it’s provided a greater sense of meaning and purpose in my life. 

What things do you wish you knew before becoming pagan? Share your thoughts.