#tw; having a shrine full of stolen things

[terrence-silver]

Would KK 3 era Terry steal beloveds panties / thongs and make a secret shrine out of them? Or smell them when she wasn't around? (Only 2 more to send! 😂)

---

I generally think Terry relishes in snooping through intimate items.

Collecting them, sure.

Holding unto them in some perverse display of ownership, yes.

Like maintaining a trophy.

Not limited to just the unmentionable type of intimates; namely, panties and undergarments, which would seem like the obvious target of any stalking pervert.

No.

I think Terry's interested in everything.

Literally everything he can find or stumble upon. Old newspapers beloved's (or an enemy in general) kept. Trinkets. Books, read and unread. Mundane nonsense. The wrapper of a chocolate. A half emptied deodorant bottle. The chunk of hair caught in their brush. The contents of a pill cabinet. How much dust has or has not accumulated over furniture tops. The method with which his target folds their clothes. Their drawer of socks. Old memories. New memories. Where they keep the spare key. Do they have a jar of money. The contents of a diary. What's in their fridge and by extension, what are their eating habits. What laundry detergent they use and what it smells like. The general layout and feel of their home. Are they a messy or a tidy person.

I mean, literally anything you can imagine interests him and he sees potential in everything, no matter how mundane and seemingly ridiculous. Why? Because it's all information and informations are power. Something someone like him might've learned during his army days; Never disregard any piece of intel, because that very same intel might tactically stand between you and death itself. He was supposedly in the Spec Ops, so it's very likely this training has been embedded in him to the degree it bled into every habit he has because scouring an apartment he broke into isn't that different from scouring a booby trapped base camp or a battlefield to Terry. He functions under eerily similar principles in both war and peace. See, if you've an eye for detail --- all details --- you can discover incredible things about a person's habits. Interests. Personality. Mentality. Daily and night routines. Their comings and goings. Weakness you can exploit. Strengths you can appeal to. Secrets they want to hide. Interests you can emulate. How their very insides smell like judging by the soaked fabric of worn, used underwear fished out of a hamper. It's all right there. In someone's surroundings. In their domain. The home they inhabit. That's pretty much how he tried to appeal to Mr. Miyagi by discovering what unit the man served in during WWII and conveniently bringing up the fact that he too is a veteran and that war is, in fact, hell. Nevermind what people say. Often times, you should disregard what people do too, because even patterns of habit can deceive and a deceiver like Terry should know. How people live? Now, there's where all answers are usually contained. All it takes is breaking into someone's house once, and if you're tenacious and determined enough, if you've a talent for looking, you can find out...literally whatever you want just by observing at what you see around you.

You'll have control over the situation.

And an upper hand over people in ways they don't have over you.

And I think Terry has a legitimate glee when he snoops through people's things.

There's childlike excitement in literally everything he finds.

It's like going to an endless candy shop for him.

Precisely because it represents power.

Which, by extension, might be why he was so distraught when Chozen, Johnny, Mike Barnes and Daniel Larusso broke into his home because he very well understands the meaning of someone trespassing into your privacy and all the ways it violates the sanctity of intimacy. All the ways they had power over him in that moment, very well beyond his control. All the things they could've discovered about him. All the ways he was open to scrutiny and observation by an enemy. All the ways he was infuriatingly vulnerable.

That being said, he is something of a hypocrite with double standards.

He's fully keen on collecting beloved's panties, underwear and god only knows what else and keeping all of these things and much, much more as a trophies for a shrine, a private collection or merely his own personal enjoyment, but he'll just as well fly into a rage under the right circumstances at the very notion of someone doing as much as harmlessly walking around the mere premises of his estate without explicit permission. He can do unto you as he likes, but be prepared for retaliation if you do unto him as you like.

[westmoor]

the ocean still roars

↞ ↞  | main post |  ao3

(2.5k // tw: blood and violence)

When Jaskier left him on that mountain, something had shifted.

Geralt had found excuses for it at first. Told himself it was the sound or lack thereof; songs unsung, no lute strings plucked, no stories told or tangents pursued with details growing grander with each telling. That it was just the lingering smell fading over time, the perfumed oils and musk underneath, the trailing scent of herbs or flowers stooped for and picked on their way. Of dandelions in spring and apples in autumn, of wild berries and clovers at the height of summer.

But Jaskier had left before, too. Taken his voice and his scent and his lute with him, and it was not the same. 

Something in the air had changed, its taste or its weight in his lungs. Colours looked strange to his eyes, like someone had changed their hue and no one else could tell. It was as though the world had tilted slightly on its axis, without proof or reason as to why.

Geralt found meaningful excuses for what he could and pinned his heart as the cause of the rest.

He still does.

But too much has happened since, too many solemn notes making his medallion tremble with the beat of the other’s heart to only blame his own. 

There is a memory of lights in the forest and a woman in green, the taste of blood in his mouth and gentle hands turning his face to the sky, slipping from the grasp of his mind like fevered dreams.

At the bottom of his saddlebag, wrapped in cloth, is a broken silver bell.

He had hoped that the flicker of emotion that crossed the other man's face had been a sign that perhaps it could be fixed - that he’d be allowed near enough to start to chip away the wedge he had driven between them. That maybe, just maybe, his friend would walk back into his life and he’d be afforded a chance to make things right.

Most of that hope had gone down the storm drains by the time he made it back to Hagge.

Ever since waking up in his half-made camp beyond the forest's edge, head fuzzy and the taste of foreign magic on his tongue, news of his former travelling companion had dwindled. Jaskier hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been anywhere. No note or song, not even a rumour, not for weeks.

It seems that now, for the first time since the day a fresh-faced youth approached him in a tavern in a valley of flowers, the position in his life occupied by Jaskier the bard is truly vacant. 

And still, he can’t give up. 

He doesn’t know what Jaskier is, exactly, nor where, but he knows now there are places to look. In caverns and hollows where they first crawled into legend, glades and groves where their roots have grown deep with power and patience. Nooks and crannies where, with luck and circumstance, one can slip from this world into the one below. 

He also knows that for whatever purpose, if they wish to find him, they will.

There are questions.

He doesn’t give a damn about the answers.

--

When it comes, it comes in the form of a guardsman with a debt to pay.

Odd things afoot, the man claims. A diseased harvest, unseasonably sour weather. Livestock acting strange and wildlife even stranger. And an overheard conversation in the next town over - word of a band of lawless men having captured the White Wolf’s companion.

If true, Geralt doubts they know what they have captured. In fairness, neither does he, but he knows this: They have his bard.

Geralt takes the bait.

No veiled pretense. No loosened horseshoes or impish little children, no stolen potions or fox tracks in the dirt. 

He rides north toward the town in question, a hamlet nestled at the mouth of a river valley, along a road flanked by firs. The trees near the road are willowy and young, felled in rotation to keep the villages with firewood and kindling. But above, further up the slope of the mountain, they tower tall and dark against the afternoon sky.

His medallion stirs before they even leave the road. 

He brings Roach as far as he deems safe, until the forest grows too dense to pass through with ease. Too far in and she’ll be more a hindrance than a help. He leaves her at the edge of a deertrodden glade, where the canopy opens enough to retain the light for a few more hours. 

It’s a bit of a hike - needles of spruce and dead branches crunching underfoot, nothing to hear but the rustle of wind and birdsong, present but frantic in a way that sets his teeth on edge, as though they too can feel the thrum of foreboding reining him in - but eventually the trunks space out and give way to what seems to once have been a wide trail.

Years must’ve gone by since the last wagon passed this way, overtaken as it is by bushes and undergrowth. Life claws its way out of the grasp of barren darkness, to stretch its shrubs and saplings towards the sun.

There are no tracks but the ones behind him. He didn’t expect there to be.

--

It had been an outpost once, perched at a height to overlook wide open fields to the east and narrow passes to the north, sheltered from the west by the steep rise of the mountain proper.

Now it’s a derelict ruin, crumbling timber roof cast in shadow by the jagged rock face above. What had been a tidied yard for corralled horses and the loading of carts shrivels by the season as the forest eats its way closer, devouring fertile ground and reaching with many-fingered hands to a weathered tower hunched against the rock from which it once was built.

Standing in front of it, Geralt weighs his options. 

It’s too quiet, too still, as though he stands at the shrine of a god he can’t name. Despite the open air and sinking sun, it feels enclosed. Walled in by trees as tall as city gates - their spiny crowns like battlements - the acrid scent of junipers is even thicker than it ought to be; the sound of the woods too uniform and dull.

On one hand, he has no hint, no proof, no true sign at all that the ramshackle structure hides what he seeks. On the other - 

The hinges have rusted nearly solid, the frame warped by age and moisture, and he has to put the full force of his weight on it to shoulder it open.

His body blocks the light and when his eyes adjust, he is faced with a rough wall and a narrow walkway, moss creeping along the cracks between hewn stone. The air inside is as cold and damp as an earth cellar, except for the sour coniferous tinge prickling like needles at the back of his throat and burning his sinuses. 

He rounds a corner and faces another door - this one slightly agape, tilting at a steep angle from its fastenings. Prying it open and sidling through, he scans another, longer hall, this one winding inwards to the mountain. It slams shut behind him and the world plunges into darkness. 

And then it's blinding.

And then the scream.

Guttural and wild like a dying beast. Geralt is knocked back by the force of it, bile rising in his throat.

People never scream like that. In terror or pain, he never heard a human make a sound like that. 

His heart knows the sound when his mind doesn’t.

There is a boy in a tavern and a man on a mountain and a creature in a clearing, and Jaskier was never human. 

It rises and ricochets too loud in too small a space. Notes bend until they break, echoing and doubling back until he fears his skull might split.

Flashes of light and dark beating at his vision like frenzied wings, too quick to catch and too fast to adjust to. His eyes are burning with it and he screws them shut. Ears still ringing and he can’t see, can’t hear. He needs to get out, but he needs to find Jaskier.

Something scrapes against his shoulder like talons or teeth and he spins around, a lunge for his ankle nearly has him off his feet. When the walls prove too close for swords he pulls his hunting knife instead. 

Fighting deaf and blind and hampered by the pounding in his head, there is still a weapon in his hand. He digs his heels in. Roots himself.

He finds his rhythm soon enough. The practiced ease of combat gives respite from his battered senses as he learns the pattern of his adversary. 

There are noises around him, differing like voices, but melding together to a single mass of sound.

A shift in the order and a change of pace, his space is empty and he thinks his opponent has retreated - then a cry like a call of a name, and he adapts without thought. Rushing air and the warmt of a body provides direction; near-hits become deflections. 

With a twist and a turn his blade hits home, sinking into solid flesh and grating against bone.

If life could give me one blessing - 

Blood wells hot between his fingers and the feel of it, smell of it, is so close and so familiar -

Horror turns his gut.

- it would be to take you off my hands. 

He can hardly hear himself shouting. Jaskier slumps against him.

--

Panic consumes the moment and the next, and he is staggering out into the fading light of day. 

Jaskier's knees fold in the grass and Geralt follows him down, grappling at his shoulders, his clothes, anything to keep him righted and assess the damage he has done.

It’s a decent hit. Certain. Deep enough to stay embedded between his ribs. Had it been a contract - 

He knows he’s talking, feels his mouth curl around Jaskier’s name, swearing, curses, promises he can’t keep - and all he can see is red, and tawny brown, and blue.

Jaskier is staring, silenced for once by shock and the fear rolling off him in waves. But when he is stopped from grabbing at the hilt of the knife to pull at it, he grasps for Geralt like a plea. Like he can save him, in spite of it all.

It can’t be real. He should wake in his camp, clouded and drained and relieved.

Pale silk drenches red, slow and steady, like ripples in a pond.

That fire in his eyes, lighting them like moonlight reflecting in a clear tarn, is burning white-hot, burning out. There’s no grounding but the shaking hands fisted in his shirt. He prays for that grip to stay firm.

He doesn’t know how this works, or if it works at all, but there is no choice but to try.

Geralt gathers him up, one arm below his shoulders and the other under his knees, and he runs.

It seems impossibly far. His own tracks through the grass make an even trail to follow. The forest passes in a blur.

At the sight of Roach, he grinds to a halt and lowers Jaskier to the ground as slowly as he can afford, ignoring the whimper in protest when he goes out of reach.

He ignores, too, the uncertain shift of his horse as he rifles through saddlebags without care for their contents, digging blindly under blankets and supplies for what has weighed on his mind for a month. And there, beyond a scrap of cloth wrapped around a warped piece of silver, his fingers find a bundle of twigs.

Rushing back and cradling his bard in his arms with as much gentleness as he can bear, he nearly hesitates, then. Jaskier is already too pale, life ebbing steadily out of him and this - this is a waste of time.

But the hilt of his own blade moves with each laboured breath and he’s not- he can’t- it can’t end like this. He curls his and around the knife, and braces for the strangled scream and struggle that comes.

Presses the handful of now-dried heather against the wound in Jaskier’s chest as he begs for whatever power, whatever luck or chance has followed them this far to take hold. 

The prickly stems soak quickly, white flowers dyed red, then black, in seconds. 

Willing his voice to some semblance of steadiness he taps a pale cheek, trying not to cringe at the cold creeping in.

“Jaskier.” He shakes the arm beneath his back to keep him waking, and is rewarded with a flicker of attention. “I need you to sing for me, lark. Can you do that?”

A grimace, or possibly a smile, sluggish and wan but he tries - the notes sound roughened in his throat, words garbled, more a mumble than a song but he tries.

The silver pendant between them quivers in response to each rising sound and for a moment, he hopes, maybe - but the heart beneath the press of his touch staggers on, rabbit-quick and panicked. Geralt can’t see his own hands for all that red.

There are lessons to this, ones imprinted in him since childhood, the cost of loving what is mortal. Reasons for tempering your heart, for why Witchers do not feel. None of them matter now. 

In their place is a barrage of moments, fleeting glances, the hand at his elbow by instinct when he comes back weary and injured, half-formed melodies by dying fires hummed to no one in particular. The scent of camomile and lavender and ink, ringing laughter, the rustle of silk. The lightness of a pack with provisions just for one, the deafening silence of a thousand lonely mornings, the chill of a bed too narrow for two.

Jaskier’s voice dwindles and fades and he doesn’t know what to do, he does the only thing he can think of. He pulls him so close he fears his bones might break, and he kisses him.

It’s desperate and too forceful and wet with his own tears and Jaskier gasps for air against his lips, and it’s nothing like the stories. 

And nothing happens.

“Please, Jaskier, I can’t -” he chokes out, and it’s all he can muster against the waves that clog and tear at his chest. “I can’t lose you. Not like this. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t let you go.”

There is a deep, ragged breath shaking the body in his arms. His medallion stills on its chain.

And then another breath. 

And when Geralt forces his eyes open the ones that meet his gaze are wet and dull with pain, but awake and alive, blinking up at him with confusion and something like disbelief.

“Geralt?” 

Something breaks in him, then. A wall or a barricade, something old and rigid, shatters like glass and he crumbles with it. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s brow, and for now his world is only that: Hair tickling his nose. The smell of blood, still, but less bitter; tempered by earthy musk and summer flowers. Grass under his knees. Jaskier in his arms.

Breath against his neck, calmer, pained but not panicked. Stutters a few times, stops and starts before the words form softly to his collarbones. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” It’s barely a whisper, but he doubles down, makes it a promise. “Never.”

 And the world tilts slightly on its axis.

--------

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @love-more-today-than-yesterday @fontegagrilledcheese @geraskier-trashh

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker, Need ,Part 2

tw: mentions of death, dark peter

Tony knows he's made a mistake.

It is his own fault. His own runaway mouth is not under his command. He will punish himself for an eternity, as that is how long he will live.

Things have been peaceful for a few centuries now. Living here with Peter, presiding over Attica. Tony is a god. His mortal flesh long shed, power where there was weakness, endless talent where there was once fanciful skill.

He is a god, but all the shrines are to Peter.

Tony is not surprised. While he keeps to the palace on the hill, looking down over their polis and the people, Peter likes to go down and grace the mortals with his presence. Keep them on their toes. They teach stories about him, mother's take their blubbering babies into the streets hoping Peter will spare them a glance.

Their palace is laden with offerings sent from all the other countries and lands. Most of the gold and the art and the lion-skins are pleas. Leave us. Do not try to conquer us. Please. We beg you, Deus Peter.

That is what they call Peter now. Deus Peter. He is no god, but he has the favour and tricks of them. He wins every battle he fights, as Ares blesses his soldiers and his weapons. He is kept young and beautiful, strong and infinite. He is Tony's, and Tony is his.

The mortals call them husbands, lovers, partners. Tony once knew what those words meant. When he was contained in a body of flesh, when he understood the passage of time.

He sees his ignorance now. Peter and he are bound. Eternity is fathomable. Time passes as the tide, again and again, bringing changes, never stopping, but irrelevant.

The people do not fear Tony. When, on occasion, he comes down to the busy, chattering villages and cities, searching for inspiration for some new invention, they bow to him; fleeting, they press dedications into his hands for free, but here is no fear there. Why should there be? Tony has never harmed them. Would never harm them.

He is not the Captain. Peter is.

Perhaps it's his complacency that leads to such a mistake. Perhaps due to his mortal history, he forgets, lapses in his judgement. They are partners, they are bound. But Peter's love is unlike any other. His love is fierce and endless and even Eros cowers in it's wake.

They are eating: table straining under such a feast, when Tony errs.

"Archimedes turns into quite the young man." He says, and Peter looks up from his wine.

"Archimedes?"

"A young man from the city. His mind is unrivalled. You should give him your blessing."

Peter smiles. Cold beauty. His amber eyes hold the secrets of a hundred years. "I should."

Tony wisely, does not speak again.

"Tell me, does his mind rival yours? This Archimedes. Your new favourite."

"I do not take favourites-"

"His mind."

Tony slinks into his chair. He is wrapped with power. Powers that came with being a god. Strength, endurance. But there are his own powers too, that came from his mortal form. His mind, his sharp tongue, his hands. One touch and if he wanted, he can turn those into dust. He has not used it. "His mind shows great promise. His will be a treasure to us. To our country."

Furious, beautiful, deadly, Peter rises. He gestures to the table. "This is not treasure." He says, and the table cracks and splinters. He summons hoards of gold and gifts. "Even these are not treasure." They melt into tar. The attendants carrying them scream. Sharp teeth, cutting blood into the air. "That boy is not your treasure. I am."

"Of course you are," Tony breathes, the air getting sucked out of the room. He is a fool. He sees his error here. You do not command Deus Peter, and you do not forget your love for him. "I love you and only you. I could love no other. You are my treasure, the greatest, only treasure." He rises, tries to go to him, to hold Peter in his arms and feel that soft, smooth skin, but the air does not let him.

"You forget yourself." Peter hisses, eyes slits, "But I will make sure you do not forget again."

*

Peter has a kindness in him. A sweetness. He blesses children and widows. He labours with the common man when he passes them by.

Women swoon and bat their lashes. Peter looks just like a boy, beautiful, ethereal. He stands for paintings and pays handsomely to the ones he likes. Pays handsomely too, for the ones he doesn't. These, he destroys in the palace pyre.

When Tony was freshly turned, mortal blood still pulsing in his veins, still weak, Aides, son of the underworld, had broken into the palace. He had stolen a cursed trident. One touch, and Tony would have died.

Peter was there. He had pleaded, his beautiful tears, and Aides had smiled: hungry. His large hand around Peter's throat, the other feeling his lush body.

"I will take you," Aides had purred, "pretty nymph, after I kill this ambitious mortal."

"I should see you try." Peter had snarled, unsheathed, pretty to poison, uncoiling like a snake, biting Aides' throat out, lapping at his blood. "Queens of the underworld, your son I return to you." He'd spat, before blue flames had wrapped around Aides.

Then Tony was cut free. Peter healed him with his herbs and potions, loved him, caressed him.

"How long will I be like this? Half turned? Half mortal, half god?" Tony had croaked.

"A few more years yet, my love,"

"How long has it been?"

"Some decades."

Some decades. Everyone Tony knew is dead. As he was lost, in this haze of transformation.

"What of King Rumlow? What happened to him?" At Peter's look, Tony feels inclined to remind: "your father."

"Dear heart, why do you not sleep? I will have them fetch you tea."

Later, once he's changed, he finds a throne in the thick, green, palace gardens. Teeming with fecundity, overgrown with roses, the throne sits. It's Rumlows. Tony traces it's velvet softness. It is his old life. How many times had he bowed before this throne and he who sat in it? The fall of his home. Peter took it to war in the blink an eye. An army of the dead.

"Did my people fight yours well?" Tony asks, when Peter finds him, and hooks their arms together.

"What a silly question. We have the same people."

"What of my home?"

"You are there."

Tony had stooped low, and kissed Peter in the garden to see if it would still feel like safety. Like saviour. Like hearth and home.

It had.

*

News of Archimedes' death spreads slowly. A shadow, a slow, creeping monster over the city.

Tony hears of it from tradesman on the docks. He visits the grieving family. He knows he caused this.

When he returns to the palace, Peter is waiting for him.

"My darling," Tony whispers, getting to his knees. "I have no love for any other. Only you. I valued him only for his mind and the asset he would be for us."

"What of my mind? Is it not asset enough?"

"Even mortals have their skill, Peter. Even mortals have their uses. You saw that within me."

"You would have had me make him a god?"

"No, only your blessing. Only his safety, that was all I asked of you." He is not treading light enough. Peter's eyes are like fire. The attendants cower. Tony tries to pay them no mind. "I should not have asked that of you. You have done so much for me."

"You are grateful for none of it. I should have picked another."

Tony is wounded. His love is hurt, cut deep, and the scar is within Tony too. He is a tragic figure, yes, but he was tragic before. Now, in this endless bliss with his bound one, he has all he desires. Glory and triumph. He has Peter when no one ever has before. He hosts Olympians. He converses with mortals. Few kept gods are allowed such luxury. "My love." He pleads. He is bold, and touches Peter's legs.

Slim, shapely. He slides his hands up, up, up, to those soft, warm thighs.

Peter spreads them, his head still turned away.

"I want only to worship you." Tony vows, holding his bird tight, gratitude rolling off in waves.

"Then worship."

*

Sating Peter is hard-worn, but no hardship. Tony goes unsatisfied, aching, but thinks not of it. Only watches Peter, watches for his forgiveness or his wrath.

"Would you have me retrieve him?" Peter asks, fingers under Tony's chin. "Boil roots and leaves and retrieve your precious treasure from the underworld? You ask and I will do it."

Such divine forgiveness, Tony does not deserve it. "How can you retrieve my treasure," he asks, "when it is before me?"

Finally, Peter smiles. The kingdom seems to breathe in relief. The storm breaks. He lets Tony stroke his arms, brush his hair. "You can choose another favourite. With a sharp mind. I will let you be a mentor to them."

Tony kisses his temple. "And what can I do in return?"

"Be faithful." Peter beams. "Or suffer the consequences." He looks hungry to inflict punishment.

Tony laughs. Full and rich and godly. "If there is one thing I am certain of, it is my loyalty to you. Deus Peter."

Peter scrunches his nose; dappled with freckles and sunlight. Good hearted for now. Claws sheathed, for now. Teeth hidden, for now. It is like laying with a snoozing lion. "You have such mortal humour." Peter muses, distasteful, twining their fingers together.

Tony kisses him again, and avoids disaster.

[studyaroundthetokki]

A (not so) little reminder about life

Life Goals: When you get there, you’re just starting...

TW: all the bad things

I often see posts here from younger folk talking about how they feel unable to do what they want to do. I see the depression and the struggles and the pain. From an old fart of a lady on the internet.. here’s my story about how the fuck I climbed out of the pit of misery and self destruction I was on and am finally, at almost 37, just starting the life I wanted to live.

I have always wanted to go to Japan and teach there for a while. There’s lots of reasons why I’m fascinated with the country and culture, but that’s not what this is about. My adoration is not limited to just pop culture, but to the language itself. The characters and complexity and the beauty of it (I think this of all languages, I just prefer Japanese). 

However, as a woman with very humble beginnings in a slightly dystopian rural scape in America.. I never really thought much about it becoming a reality. Through my blunder years, I stood out like a sore thumb as well. My family was a “broken” one, my parents divorced when I was 10 and.. let’s just say I grew up really fast. I think that gives enough background. I was an ‘01 graduate. So, like any up and coming gen Y: I went into English and Art and Sociology and Graphic Design at different parts of my education and nothing practical. Japanese wasn’t offered where I went to school but I did study French for 4 years.

A failed engagement, 2 cross country moves, being broke AF and a few years later in 2011, I got involved in an ESL/EFL/Linguistic Master’s program. I was already in my late 20′s but I figured that there’d be jobs available for me in the field. When I was working on my graduate thesis, companies rejected me based on my weight, my lack of experience, my rural accent and a few other things. I also had my liver rupture and a nice 2 week hospital stay where my house was broken into and my graduate thesis was on the laptop that was stolen.

I wrote that fucker over again from a few images and notes on social media and pure willpower.. and a lot of my “special blend” coffee that has enough caffeine to fly me to the moon, in about a month. By the power of greyskull I scraped through with honor’s and a diploma. My thesis defense was shakey AF.

Finally had a job lined up in Korea.. which I knew nothing about. Didn’t even know how to say the words or read it. Knew very little history as well or culture. That was a trip best left summed up as: The people were awesome outside of the job, the job was full of racist assholes. The kids? Eh they were typical students who didn’t GAF.

Oh, and I got a major tear in my left ACL and couldn’t work for a few months. SO that was fun.

By the time this had all transpired, I was 33. Queue another few failed relationships with physical/emotional abuse, sexual harassment, rape and other fun things like that. 

I moved back in with my mom from 2014 to 2018. I was on disability. I had to take physical therapy to regain motion of my leg b/c of no treatment in Korea. Ect. Queue the depression fugue and struggle with suicidal desires which turned into plans and research and almost implementation. I pushed friends away and basically became unable to function normally. When I did find people I could form friendships with, they ended up being unhealthy. My sense of boundaries was weird, and like many people who are drowning in these dark places, when I tried to talk about it: it sounded like I was a self-centric prick instead of the cry for help it really was. My communication skills became limited to type, and often lead to misunderstandings or miscommunication due to forming fast and intense friendships with people online instead of taking time to slowly open up. Basically, even when I was trying to convey something harmless my lack of awareness could make it sound pretty cutting or downright racist/bigoted/ect. 

I’m not trying to deny their feelings. I just want to take ownership of my side of things as a note: that was never the real meaning, but I will always be one to apologize for my lack of clarity in speaking. I fucking studied linguistics and communication--I feel that I should be able to avoid most of that shit.... but it’s still going to happen. I still felt horrible over it all and have guilt to this day, even though I don’t even remember ever saying anything like that. 

But you know? I have also learned that some people are only meant to be in your life for a while, and that’s OK. You don’t have to jive with everyone all the time. Still, I wasn’t myself. I’m still not entirely back to “me.” I’d lost my sense of identity. I’d lost my center and balance.. I’d lost so much. My head gets tight and dizzy when I think about identity too much to this day. I’m working on it though. 

Oddly enough, what saved me were 3 things at 3 different times:

My first partner, a now trans man, who brought me out to house sit while he and his wife were going on a 2nd honeymoon. We’re really tight. I was there  before he knew he was transgender and helped give support through his coming out. He knows me at my purest and his wife is the most lovely and gracious woman on the planet. They’re my center for what is healthy and good in life. I love them both more than words. 

He also asked me to read his biography, which while slightly muddled, was very flattering to the parts that had me, and drug me through the dark places he also traveled and into the light where he is now. It gave me hope. It breathed some fresh air into the cave I’d been hiding in. 

We were all very close and we shared some good memories and for the first time.. I remembered that I was not this ball of pain that I was at home. My family is wonderful and amazing. I just don’t flourish in the environment that they do well in. My needs, especially due to my health problems (more on that in a minute), are very specific and limiting. 

It was really weird. I felt pain all the time, at such great intensity, due to my health problems. While I was there at another point (a year later doing the same house sitting gig), an older friend of mine who also had fibromyalgia, let me try her medicinal weed. 

I cried really, *really* hard. I’d forgotten what it was like to not feel pain all the time and stayed high as a kite for about 2 weeks straight and got some time to think clearly and actually write also. It was during this time that I was contacted about a job in... Korea again. I decided to say fuck it and go do the interview with the owner of the private cram school.  A friend of mine also went into a downward spiral at this time and I was their suicide watch. I’m happy to say, he is still alive and is doing well and according to him: is living a fairly content and productive life now. 

I am NOT going to go into details about my job as I am still working there but I will say this: it’s better than the last one and has given me some perspective. I also was the head teacher, so it looked really good on my resume...and I will NEVER teach kindergarten again. 

On the off chance, I took a 3 day trip to Japan. It was something I wanted to do all my life and I was at a low point again. It... was amazing to do something that literally was on my bucket list. I loved everything about Tokyo. I loved the crowded streets and the lack of staring and how quiet it was and.. just I was the happiest I’ve been in many years. I was actually outgoing. I could go on and on... but I found my happy place (specifically the Nezu Shrine in Tokyo). Even now, when I think about it.. I feel the same calm and peace I felt the first time I stepped onto the shrine ground. 

I started studying Japanese again and started applying for some jobs and.. while it’s not the most fantastic job.. I got one teaching university classes. I’m not a full professor but I’m planning on trying to become one if I like it there. It’s an elective class, so the students actually want to study English, unlike the kids at the cram schools and public schools I’ve worked for. 

I’m just now starting on the journey that I wanted to do for most of my life. I’ve dreamed about going to Japan since I saw it on some kid’s show. I later became fascinated through shows like Sailor Moon, Boogiepop Phantom, Serial Experiments Lain, and .hack//sign. The last one there has a lot to do with why I want to go into translation and work in gaming... which is a far cry from working at a univ.  But you know what? I DON’T CARE IF IT TAKES TIL I’M 70! I’m going to be a localizor/translator/world developer for a game. 

And it’s going to be fuckin awesome.