#where if you’re sad/angry enough it excuses you from participating in the real world

[nicollekidman]

realizing that people who equate cynicism with intellectual rigor are often just being lazy and pathetic has been so helpful tbh

[agent-cupcake]

I'M SO HAPPY YOU'RE INTO FE3H AAAA For requests how about hcs for yandere dimitri?

Yan! Dimitri  pre-timeskip - White Clouds

Yan! Dimitri post-timeskip - Azure Moon (SPOILERS-ISH!)

~Ah yes, my darling Delusional Prince with yandere feelings lingering around in the madness ridden rage state of his broken mind. It’s the good stuff. I like to imagine it like you had hopes he was alive but also knew he might actually be dead, so seeing this man you cared a lot about and had an intense emotional connection with understandably makes you incredibly happy, but Dimitri’s just (in all sense of the word) mad. 

~Mad that seeing you again would bring up uncomfortably human feelings he thought he had buried, mad that you were still a distraction, mad that you’d have the gall to be excited to see him, even mad at the sort of relief he’d feel because at least now he wouldn’t have to worry about you haunting him, too.

~I guess it sort of follows some of my thoughts in THIS POST, because I don’t think anything particularly interesting would happen with yandere feral Dimitri unless you were an active participant in trying to ~help~ him. Plus, you trying now would be yet another great reason for him to cling to an unhealthy connection later.

~Some of my favorite scenes to imagine here would be with you trying to help Dimitri in some way, trying to get him to eat or drink or engage in some way other than talking about revenge or murder, and him being rude and dismissive towards you. But then you give up and say how you’re gonna go train with the professor or someone and suddenly he feels it’s incredibly important that he trains, too. In service of killing Edelgard, of course. 

~Dimitri ridiculing you while aggressively attacking you for not being strong enough to be useful to him and pointing out all of your weaknesses while berating you for not valuing your life properly is actually a pretty good display of how I think feral yan Dimitri would be overall. Afraid of losing you for reasons he can’t really understand and dealing with that fear using anger and aggression and violent sexual tension. 

~Another nice thought is Dimitri getting extra physical in questioning you about your investment in him and why you’d be trying so hard to help. Which, if he realized your motives and feelings, could easily end up in a… Compromising situation. All that anger and those repressed feelings bubbling up could lead to some fun little scenarios. 

~He mainly hangs out in the cathedral during these chapters too, which makes me wonder to what extent he’d make a point of being beyond salvation or forgiveness, how far he’d go to illustrate the idea that your feelings would make you just as undeserving and incapable of salvation as he was. What’s a little sacrilege to a monster like him?

~While Dimitri wouldn’t actively keep you near him, or even acknowledge that he’d want your company to the point of being rude about you forcing it on him, I can see him being really passive aggressive if you decided to comply with his proclaimed desire for solitude. Like, talking about how weak you were, so you should have been training for the upcoming battle and not wasting your time doing silly and frivolous things with the others. He’d hear you laughing and having a good time? Big mistake. There’s no time for levity, and he’d call you selfish for indulging in it.  

~As with the other post, just imagine everyone’s reaction to this. Some of them pushing you further towards Dimitri in the hopes you’d help remind him of his humanity (maybe it’s terrible but I see Gilbert being the biggest one to do this, considering how little he cares for anything outside of Dimitri) and then you’d have the others who’d be truly afraid for you. And Felix, angry that you’d enable Dimitri in such a way. 

~Then, Gronder Field hits and we get the best voice acting I’ve heard since Mariya Ise’s Killua (Chris Hackney’s performance is like 60% of my love for Dimitri tbh) and Dimitri’s change of heart. Because this is self insert and yandere, we’re just gonna say that it’s you who approaches him before he leaves for Enbarr because the whole emotional thing is the fabric on which his yandere tendencies are embroidered upon. 

~And then, after that, guilt. So much guilt. Even more than in the actual game which is really sad, but oh-so delicious because it creates a situation where he’d feel very fervently about atonement for his behavior towards you specifically. Whatever that means. 

~To sum up how I think Dimitri would feel in this Phase Three Yandere state, I’d point to his Goddess Tower line “The goddess just watches over us from above… That is all. No matter how hard someone begs to be saved, she would never so much as offer her hand. And even if she did, we lack the means to reach out and grasp it.”, because that feels particularly compatible with his line “Your hands are so warm, have they always been?” in the scene in the rain. Reaching out a hand is basically a staple for strong emotional moments with Dimitri, and in that scene he’s quite literally being saved by you. Even playing as Byleth in-game that felt idolizing (honestly, a lot of this is already in-game text in his supports with Byleth, it’s really not that hard to read it as yandere), and Dimitri definitely has a record of putting people he feels strongly about on a pedestal.

~Dimitri would love you. Absolutely. That’d be a pre-existing thing he just never got around to realizing before the war because he’s emotionally clueless and afraid of feelings. However, he’d also see you as a symbol of sorts. Warmth, compassion, someone who, even at his very darkest, was looking out for him. A co-dependent emotional manager, to say it bluntly. Not just love, then, but adoration and need to an unhealthy degree. A worshiping sort of clingyness. 

~The whole fully formed yan relationship wouldn’t happen all at once after the revelation scene. Fighting the battle of becoming king and winning the war and trying to sort out all of the hundreds of fires he’d left unattended while also trying to mend his broken mind, I think Dimitri’s behavior towards you at first would be relatively innocent. Mostly, he’d just find comfort in having you near him and having you there for ~emotional guidance~. 

~Aaaaand we’re just gonna say that at this point you’d be far too emotionally involved and despite any feelings you may have had about his behavior, despite the severity of his feelings, you couldn’t find it within yourself to step back. But, if you tried, Dimitri would do just about anything to convince you to stay with him. Even if he hated himself for it, even if the guilt was overwhelming, the idea of being without you, the idea of you leaving him and his protection, would be even worse. 

~To this end, I can see him not forcing a romantic/physical relationship. That’d be something he’d want, but his need for you would far outweigh anything like that. To Dimitri, keeping you safe and sound and comfortable and as happy as possible would be the only way for him to make up for his behavior. So he could be overbearingly overprotective, incredibly intense, reverent on the side of uncomfortable, too selfish to let you go, but wouldn’t directly force you into anything.

~Of course he would sense that this was wrong, and feel a huge amount of guilt over it and the possibility that you could be happier elsewhere, but then rationalize that this was best. That he was the only one who could possibly ensure your safety and happiness, that could care about you enough to see it through.

~If you did agree to marry Dimitri, all of these things would only get more intense, but I also think it would lessen a lot of his guilt. If you fully agreed to be his wife, that meant that you were choosing him to give you happiness and safety. Besides, holding you and knowing you were real, that you were his, would possibly be one of his greatest joys.

~The whole overprotective thing would be a huge issue, and arguing with him about it would be pointless because he would never concede to your demands for more autonomy, citing that the kingdom wasn’t exactly safe yet and you would have a target on your head as queen and all of the various yandere excuses to skirt around the fact that his fear of losing you would be absolutely debilitating to him. 

~There’d also be the occasional patch of jealousy, although Dimitri would never doubt or question you, but the intentions of others. 

~I think, sometimes, the pedestal he’d put you on would be pretty awful. Lonely, maybe? His adoration could get cloying, although it could also be wonderful. He’d make you feel well and truly loved, more than anything else in the world. 

~Summing it all up, Dimitri would need you. I think the extent to which he’d feel this way would be very ~~love sick~~, but in reality his behavior wouldn’t be way too extreme. It would only arise in little slip-ups, when his mania would get too intense and his passion would suffocate. 

[bisexualfelicity]

No Other Version of Me - Chapter 4

Amalia Queen was once said to be so important that the universe made sure she happened. Yes, it was her mom who said that but it still counts. Now, she's an adult and struggles to be worthy of such sentence. She doesn't want to be a vigilante and make so many sacrifices like the rest of her family, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want to save the world.

Sequel to "Five Lives"

AO3 link

Chapter Four

“No,” is the only word they all seem to know. 

Amalia expected her parents position, they had always been against their children participating in vigilante activities and were bound to be reluctant, but everyone else? That’s a stab in her back. 

“You can’t just join us whenever you feel like it,” Libbi says, with a offhand air that makes Amalia want to strangle her. “This is a serious business, you going would make it more likely to fail. Do you know how long I had to train before I was accepted into the team?”

Amalia does in fact know it; she also knows that this is not the point. She has no interest in joining the team, she doesn’t care at all about any of that, she just wants to fix what she broke. 

Continue to reading under the cut or on AO3

Libbi might be right in theory, but they don’t know what they’re going to find and they should all use any help they could. Dismissing Amalia just because she isn’t a vigilante? That’s petty. It’s not like she has never been trained, she’s done that her entire life. 

“Come on, honey, I can give you comms and you can hear what’s going on, right next to me,” her mom tells her, “I know it’s hard to sit and wait here instead of going there. I’ve done that many times, remember?”

“It’s not the same at all, Mom, you’re helping from here! I can’t do any of the stuff you or Will can do, I’m much more useful in the field and you know that!” 

“No, I don’t know that. You’re useful here, safe, where no one else is going to have to worry about you doing something wrong. I know it’s hard to hear, but it’s not just that you can’t help, Mali, but you can compromise the entire mission,” Mom continues.

The softness in her voice is what fills Amalia’s eyes with water. She doesn’t know what to say anymore, she has begged everyone. It’s not like her to be like this, but there’s something she can’t explain. She just knows she needs to join them. She’s tried to say that, but Libbi complained it was just arrogance because she couldn’t admit she had done something wrong by not telling them. Maybe that’s part of it, but it’s not all. 

The entire team arrow is looking at her with pity and she can’t stand it. It was bad enough when it was just her family, but now Zoe, JJ and Becky are here, acting like they are humoring a child. 

“I’m sorry, Amalia, but it’s for the best,” Zoe tells her, “I can assure you Team Arrow has this handled, we’ve been working on this for a long time. We’ll get her back safely.”

Becky sends her a kind look and Amalia remembers how reluctant everyone was to let her join the team, all those years ago. Now, she doesn’t say anything on Amalia’s behalf, choosing to side with the majority. Bunch of hypocrites, it’s what they are. She wonders if she should do it like Becky and force their hands, follow them or go solo… But she can’t even entertain the thought seriously. That’s not who she is. 

Will asks her if she doesn’t want to go to his house, spend the day with the kids instead of sitting here in agony. It’s a nice proposal, one she would certainly accept in other circumstances. She loves the twins and they are usually one of the only things that can get her in a better mood when she’s upset, it’s impossible to stay sad when there are two years-olds loving you. But the thought of leaving the bunker and not knowing what is going on? It terrifies her. 

Amalia denies the offer and retires herself to the punching dummy. No one says anything, instead she sees they all reunite around the table, going over the plans for the night. She focus herself on the activity and tries to imagine as she were fighting real people. 

She doesn’t enjoy punching, always preferred the martial arts, but this works for now. She feels her vision blur with tears but fights against them. There is a time and place for crying and it’s late at night in her bed. Amalia knows the thoughts are just waiting for a moment of weakness and she refuses to give them an opening. Instead she steadies her breathing, stares at the bag and concentrates on the burning feeling on her fists. 

The more she punches it, the easier it gets. The pain doesn’t bother her, it helps focus. Her thoughts can’t go to the future if her body yells loud enough for her to pay attention in the present. 

“You should probably take a break,” a voice says behind her and it takes Amalia a few seconds to realize it’s Sara. “There’s pizza, I got you a slice.”

Amalia blinks as she processes the information. Glancing at her watch, she realizes it’s already lunch time; somehow the hours had passed while she tried to bury her thoughts. She looks around the bunker, and sees most of the team eating around the table. Her mom is looking at her direction, probably trying to figure out if Sara would get her to eat something, but turns away as soon as she sees Amalia looking back. 

She accepts the slice from Sara, even though she doesn’t feel the least bit hungry. She waits for Sara to leave, but the woman just stares at her.

“Thank you?” Amalia mumbles as she takes a bite, wondering what exactly Sara wants from her. Sara just laughs at that and sits on a futon next by. 

“How are you holding up?” Sara asks.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Amalia replies without thinking, immediately realizing how true that is. “I’ve been making this all about myself. I didn’t even get to say I’m sorry to you and Nyssa. I should have done something when Naila came to me… Now both your daughters are missing. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, you should have. But it’s okay, I understand why you didn’t and there’s no point in beating yourself up. We’re going to get them back. They are strong girls, they can protect themselves, I’m not worried about their safety.”

“What are you worried about then?” Amalia questions, reading Sara’s expression.

“There are other ways to hurt them. Taliq… wasn’t a good father. They are adults, but they never got to confront him. I’m not sure how that is going to affect them,” Sara sighs, burying her face in her hand. “You should probably talk to Naila after we get her back. She misses you.”

“I miss her too,” Amalia confesses, her voice no louder than a whisper, “I shouldn’t have sent her away by herself. I knew it was important but I was just so angry at her for showing up like that, I barely listened to what she was saying,” Amalia feels the hole in her chest aching and finds herself looking up to avoid crying again. “If the situation was reversed, she would have helped me. Even after all this time, I know she would.” 

“You can help now,” Sara says and it doesn’t escape Amalia how she doesn’t deny that Naila wouldn’t have betrayed her this way. 

“No, I can’t,” she complains, “The plans are already made, I have no skills I can use from here and no one will let me go in the field. Best case scenario, Naila comes back and I’ll have to look into her eyes and explain why I just stood by while she was kidnapped.”

There is more to be said, but Amalia doesn’t say it. She can’t even say it to herself, let alone to Naila’s mom, but that’s the most important part. She betrayed Naila. God, she had made so many mistakes with Naila, but she had been given a chance to make it right and she somehow made it worse. If something happened to Naila now… There would be no coming back for them. 

“Okay,” Sara says after a few seconds of silence, “How are your fighting skills?”

“My- what? They are good. My dad trained me since forever and I still practice. It’s better than gym,” she answers not understanding the relevance until Sara stands up and goes to the fighting mat, looking directly at her.

“Show me you can hold yourself in the field and I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

Amalia doesn’t waste any time, she’s full of adrenaline and motivation, so eager to prove herself that it only takes Sara a few seconds to get her down. But Amalia gets up and goes again and again. She has tears in her eyes by the time Sara throws her in the floor for the fifth time. But Sara still hasn’t said a word and Amalia continues to try. 

When Amalia finally has the upper hand and Sara is down, it’s likely because Sara let her have a win, but neither mentions a thing. Instead Sara smiles to her and they continue to fight for a while, until Sara stops.

“Okay. You can go.”

“I didn’t win… at all,” Amalia says, not understanding how that proves anything.

“Good! That would be very embarrassing for me if you did,” Sara winks, “Not many people can beat me, Amalia, doesn’t mean they can’t hold themselves.”

Sara doesn’t wait for Amalia to reply, she makes her way towards the team. Amalia follows her, noticing how the entire team observes them, probably saw the entire fight. 

“Good fight? Are you feeling better?” Amalia’s mom asks when they approach.

“Amalia is going with us,” Sara says matter-of-factly. 

“Excuse me?” Mom is the first to react.

“We’ve already decided she won’t,” her dad continues. “What’s going on, Sara?”

“I’ve talked to Amalia, and I think she could be a good asset for the mission,” Sara explains like it’s very simple.

“Are you kidding me?” Libbi decides to make her opinion know, “She had just accepted she was not going!”

“We can’t have a new person like that on the team,” Zoe says, “She’s not used to being in the field, it’s too risky.”

“I’m not asking for permission. I’ve requested Team Arrow’s assistance, but this is not your mission. Amalia is under my command.”

Everyone is surprised by Sara’s decisiveness, but no one more than Amalia. Sara may have said she would help her, but convincing everyone of it? That’s a different story. But Sara is right, this is a League business first and foremost, everyone there is under Sara’s command. Everyone but Nyssa, but she doesn’t say anything. From what Amalia understands from their relationship, if Sara is vouching for her, Nyssa is going to support her wife. 

“Sara… A word, please,” Oliver says, and both of them go to a corner, being quickly followed by their wives.

Her parents might trust Sara with the mission and, well, probably with their lives, but Amalia is not so sure they are going to trust her life to Sara. She can see her parents arguing with Sara and doesn’t bother to listen to it, she’s heard it all. The longer the conversation goes, the more nervous Amalia starts to get. Is Sara right to stick by her side? What if she does something wrong? 

Her siblings try to talk to her, but she ignores them. She doesn’t really want to hear them right now, her attention is on her parents. When they seem to finish their talk, her parents stay behind talking to each other.

“Let’s do this!” Sara says to the group. “Libbi and Becky, let Amalia know how the plan is going. Zoe and JJ, with me, we’re going through the plan one last time to include Amalia in it.”

Amalia can’t stop a smile forming on her face. She isn’t sure she’ll be necessary, but she’s going to be there and that counts for something. 

“Don’t screw this up, kid,” Sara tells her before joining the others on planning. 

She feels her parents next to her before she sees them. They both look more worried than before and Amalia feels guilty for being the reason. As the person who was always the one left behind, she can understand how they feel, but not enough to give this up.

“Mali, listen,” her dad starts, “We can’t stop you from joining. You’re an adult and you can take care of yourself, we know that. But please, just promise that you’ll listen to us while on the field, if we tell you to get out, you have to get out. No matter what happens, you understand?” 

“Sure, I know how it goes,” she frowns, “When have I not been known to follow plans?”

Her parents exchange a look, but Amalia doesn’t understand them this time. She is a rule-follower, has been for her entire life, she’s not going to go rogue. 

Amalia’s just going to go there and help save Naila. She doesn’t even need to do anything, she just wants to be present. To show that she cares. 

It’s her chance to prove herself and she’s not going to fuck it up. 

December 2036.

Naila could beat Amalia in a fight while she slept, something that she doesn’t hesitate to say. A few months earlier, Amalia would have brushed it off as a faux-pas due to Naila’s education, now she knows she’s just being teased. 

“I always manage to beat Libbi,” Amalia complains.

“That’s no feat, she’s eleven,” Naila replies, a smile on her face. “You need to take more risks, your moves are too predictable.”

If Amalia knew Naila would take it so seriously, she would’ve never suggested training. Her intention was to do something that would make Naila more comfortable since the girl had been stressed with the holidays coming. They had gone shopping with Claire and Violet the day before, and Naila attempted shopping alone for the first time. While Amalia found Naila’s worries adorable, she could see the weight Naila was putting on it. 

And okay, Amalia has to give herself some credit because Naila is anything but uncomfortable now. She’s even laughing… But Amalia doesn’t like that the laughing matter is herself. 

“No one has ever complained before,” Amalia grumbles, going for another move, trying and failing to surprise her friend. “I’ve followed every rule I know!”

“It’s not about rules,” Naila starts, “How can I explain? You fight like you’re going to compete in the olympic, as if there is a judge and a specific set of rules. We fight to defeat the opponent no matter who they are and how dirty they play.” 

“Well, you guys murder people, so I’m not sure I want to be like that,” Amalia says, bitterness flooding from her mouth, and immediately regrets it, noticing she offended Naila. 

“That’s fair,” Naila answers, biting her lips instead of arguing, “It is the league of assassins, after all. But we’re not like it used to be before. We protect people,” she explains. “It’s not as savage as it sounds. There are other ways to defeat people. Despite the name, we only kill when it’s necessary.”

“Still, I can’t understand how you don’t have a problem with it,” Amalia continues, “You’re telling me you’re ready to kill people?” 

That’s going too far, but Amalia realizes that too late. She has tried to separate what she knows of the League with what Naila talks about her home, but she can’t make sense of it and it bothers her a lot. It’s been almost six months since they started being friends and Amalia can’t reconcile the girl who seats to her next to classes, likes to make sketches of random students and gets nervous buying presents with someone who is going to kill people as a way of living. 

“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not,” Naila says after a few seconds in silence, “My family is the League, I’ll join the mission after I’m done with school.” 

Amalia is about to let her opinion be known when Naila drops her in the floor, going back to training as it never stops. Despite thinking there’s more to be said, Amalia gets the message. There would be other opportunities to discuss it, and at least for now Naila is safe. Safer than Amalia apparently, if her fighting skills are anything to go by. 

And when she leaves… Well, Amalia doesn’t really want to think about that. Naila is a good friend, she balances her friends dynamic in school and is someone she’s starting to get used to having in her life. 

Putting those thoughts behind her, Amalia focuses on the girl in front of her. While she may have restarted the battle, Naila’s mind doesn’t seem to be fully on it, because it doesn’t take long for Amalia to pin her on the ground, winning a round for the first time since they started.

“Not so almighty now, are you?” Amalia laughs at Naila’s surprised face.

Their eyes interlock for a second and Amalia feels a bit of electricity running through her body. It occurs to her that she hasn’t moved and is still on top of Naila, holding her in the ground. She thanks god for the exercise so she can pretend her face is red because she’s tired and not for any other reason. Naila is looking at her with such intensity, Amalia wonders if she’s angry at her, but soon her friend is smiling at her again and she knows they’re okay. 

“Maybe you’re better than I gave you credit,” Naila says, “But I should be going now,” she completes, checking her watch.

“Right. What time does their flight arrive?”

“A little after 7pm. We’re picking them up on the airport and then going out for dinner,” Naila explains, “Sara wanted to do something special, because it’s been so long since we’ve seen them in person.”

“Are you doing something fun while they’re here?”

“No, no, Nyssa and Samyia have both been in Starling enough times, they have no desire in getting to know the city better. Mostly we just want to spend some time the four of us. It’s weird being apart for so long,” she sighs, “Samyia wants me to go back to Nanda Parbat with them.”

“What?! Now?”

“After the new year, when they go back,” she explains, “The plan was for me to stay for the entire school year, but Sara says she might go back in a couple months and it makes no sense for me to start a new semester and then leave.”

Amalia is shocked with this new information. She had just been thinking that they had so much time before Naila had to leave and now it could happen in a few weeks? Amalia’s heart feels like it’s going to fall through her chest.

“You can’t go now! You’re barely just getting used to it, and you’re getting so much better at paying attention to classes. Do you not enjoy it?!” It bothers Amalia how high-pitched her voice sound but she doesn’t seem to be able to control it.

“I do. School is interesting. And I like spending time with you… And Violet and Claire. It’s different, having friends your age,” Naila continues, “But I also miss my family. I can’t stay here forever, as much as I’d like to.” 

“You can! You can stay with your aunt, they’re family too!” Amalia insists, “Don’t give up on what you want because of your family. Look, you can go to a real school, you can even go to college after it instead of joining the league, have a real job. Doesn’t it sound so much better?”

“It sounds like  fantasy,” Naila corrects and Amalia almost rolls her eyes at that.

There’s something really wrong with your life if studying and having a job sounds more like fantasy than becoming an assassin. Amalia doesn’t say that though. 

“Please, talk to your family! Your moms thought you should try school here for a reason, right? Give yourself a little more time to figure out what you want.”

“I’ll think about it, I haven’t decided either way yet,” Naila concedes, “I’ll miss this city a lot.”

“Well… The city will miss you too.”

Amalia’s heart is beating fast and she can’t blame on the training anymore. She knows she’s in trouble because the thought of Naila leaving creates a hole in her chest. She bites her cheek so the tears don’t come forwards and tries not to think about what that means. 

It’s going to be okay, she tells herself. If Naila stays for just a little while more, maybe she can convince her to stay. 

[queen-of-the-avengers]

Like The Good Ol’ Days

Characters: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Reader, minor characters

Word Count: 961

Warnings: just fluff, minor angst

Rating: PG

Summary: Bucky has always been in love with drums, and you hoped he would make it one day as a rockstar. When that day comes, you finally realize what it means to lose someone.

Squared Filled: Rockstar AU // Seeing red (B4)

Author’s Note: This is for @star-spangled-bingo and @buckybarnesbingo  respectively. If you have any requests, please send them in! This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

Pre-school: his tiny hands would bang on any surface that he could reach, making as much noise as possible. Much to the daycare teacher’s displeasure, he would be in his own little world, slapping his hands on all kinds of surfaces because he loved the different kind of noises it made.

Third grade: to pass the time in class, he would take two number 2 pencils and drum them against the desk, causing a distraction for the whole class. The teacher would get mad at him, but you’d watch in amazement that he could make music just by two orange pencils. The kids around him seemed to be more interested in him than the teacher which is why she threatened to send him to the front office if he didn’t put them away.

Seventh grade: by this time, his parents had given up and bought him a small drum kit, one that wasn’t very good, but was still able to keep him occupied. He’d be at the drum set every day after school, and you would be there next to him, doing your homework as you listened to the music he’d create from scratch. It was amazing how long he’d kept up this hobby, and he’d talked to you about making this his career one day. With just enough practice, he might get there.

Eleventh grade: he had joined high school band to play the drums for the first year, but it didn’t seem to click in his mind. He wanted to play more rock than what they were going for, which is why he was interested in music class. They offered all kinds of instruments, and he was the first to grab the drums once he laid eyes on a real drum set. Playing acoustic guitar was something you picked up on over the years, and that instrument was yours. To be honest, you just took the class to watch him play.

Junior year of college: right from the start of college, he had found some friends to form a band that would play around the school, maybe participated in a few low-key gigs that paid pretty well for an up and coming starter band. You had been his supporter all throughout his life, and you weren’t going to stop now. At this rate, he would become a rock and roll drummer, famous all around the world. Seeing him progress through his career is something that gave you joy because he was your best friend, and you would do anything you could to see him succeed.

Present day: Bucky had been offered by many recording companies if he and his band would produce music, which, of course, he said yes. It was hard to pick only one, but you might have had something to do with that. While he wanted to be a musician, you have always wanted to be a producer, and you pulled some strings to get him the producer he wanted: you.

It was a dream come true to see him live it out on stage, playing for thousands of people only to rack it up to millions. From the start of preschool, he had wanted nothing more than to be a drummer, and now he’s gotten it, you weren’t going to do anything to tear that away from him. He’s played on stages from all around the world, and at each event, you were backstage to watch him play.

The only downfall to this was the more popular he became, the less time you got to be alone with him. It was always play here, sign this, appear there. His happiness was your number one priority, but sometimes you wished you were back in his mom’s basement, watching him play on the shitty drum kit his mom gave him.

His latest gig, the one he scored in Vegas, he wanted you to be there for the opening night. There was no way you could say no to him, so you made sure to take the first flight you could to be there on time before they even got started setting up to see if you could score some alone time with him.

When you got there, that dream was crushed to a million pieces once you saw him surrounded by fans. He looked so happy to be signing their papers and taking pictures, and he looked so breathtakingly gorgeous, you decided to stay out of it until he was done. When he finally finished, it was time to get set up on stage.

The concert had been a hit, and afterward, there would be a small party at one of the casinos to celebrate the success of it all. He made sure you were coming to that, and it wasn’t like you were going to miss it. Maybe you might get in some alone time to tell him how you truly felt. It broke your heart that your best friend was being taken from you by the rest of the world, and you needed to tell him how you felt now before it was too late.

While at the casino, the whole band got together to have a few drinks before they all went on their separate ways to do their own thing. You found Bucky huddled with a group of girl fans as they giggled away to try and impress him. Sighing, you took a seat at one of the games, frowning as you put in a twenty. You couldn’t help it, but all you saw was the color red. You were so angry at everyone for getting in the way of you and Bucky that you had to remove yourself before you started crying like a child in front of everyone.

“Ladies, you can all get your pictures. Don’t worry,” Bucky smiled as they giggled. They were pretty and nice and all that, but he really wanted to be spending time with only one person: his best friend.

“You did so well on that stage,” one woman fawned.

“Yeah, you really know what you’re doing there,” another smirked. Something told him to look away from the girls, to pay attention to what was in front of him. He looked up to see you trying your luck at one of the slots, with a sad frown on your face and tears leaking from your eyes.

“Ladies, would you excuse me one minute?” he said as he gently pushed them to the side. He walked to you and took a seat at the other slots next to yours. “Hey, you okay?”

“No, Bucky, I’m not okay,” you gathered the money you won and got up, leaving his side to be on your own. It broke your heart to treat him this way, but you really missed your best friend. He watched as you walked off to the VIP section and took a seat, taking out your phone to absentmindedly play on it.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked once he reached you.

“Don’t you have fans to take pictures with? Sign some things?” you asked, not looking at him.

“Y/N talk to me,” he sighed. The VIP section was empty which boosted your confidence a little bit.

“I fucking miss you, Bucky. Do you know how long it has been since the two of us hung out?”

“We did before the show.”

“I meant alone, Buck. Don’t you miss the days where it was you and me, your drum set, and nothing else? Don’t get me wrong, I am so fucking proud of you for making it this far. I just… I miss you,” you sighed sadly.

“I guess I got caught up with everything, that I lost sight of who was truly by my side through it all. I’m so sorry.”

“And I better say this now because I don’t know when I might get another chance, but I love you. Like, romantically. I didn’t want to live my life without telling you that just in case you might feel the same way as I do.”

“Alright, here goes. For the past few weeks, I have been thinking about you romantically. You have always been there for as long as I can remember, never once giving up hope on my dreams. People said that what I wanted was a foolish dream, that I should think about something practical, but you never gave up on me. I hate that it took me this long to realize it, but I do love you,” he smiled, “romantically.”

“We should make a pact,” you stated, grabbing his hand. “We will spend one day a week where it’s just me and you, no distractions. If we’re going to make this work, we need to be there for one another. I don’t want to mess this up before it’s even starting.”

“I like that pact,” he grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in. At that moment, the other people in the room didn’t matter. You had Bucky and he had you. Just like it has always been.

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[deathbyvalentine]

Prompts

Your Favourite Character’s Perfect Moment

Artificial sunlight filtered in through the glass of the library deck, making the place look like it was bathed in a permanent autumn. They were only half awake, the warmth and calm ushering them into a hazy state, content not to participate, just to listen to the world move around them from the comfort of the sofa. Soon, Finisterra.

Their head was in Nic’s lap, their hair long again and his fingers tangled in it. He was engaged in a book held in his other hand, occasionally coming across a line he would read out loud to the person in his lap, eager to share. It was something theological, which Cal found vaguely amusing, and Nic poked their cheeks every time they couldn’t suppress a smile. 

Across from them, Bridge sat, methodically working through a translation, occasionally looking up to frown and ask his XO for his opinion. An array of data slates were surrounding him, but none were flashing with alerts. And there were no cadets or officers coming in to bother him either, the library code firmly set to private.

Anoretta sat by Cal’s feet, cooing over the two cats in her lap, while Baris sat opposite, eyes narrowed at one of the little creatures, assessing its threat level. Its threat level apparently was raised to an interesting level once he trailed a piece of wiring across the ground and watched it pounce. 

Anya sat beside Silvestro, bandaging a bruise he had gained from nothing more serious than a sharp fall when the ship had juddered into warp. She was smiling, and laughing, and Silvestro wasn’t scowling.  Their mind was as golden as the room they were in. But it wasn’t loud. Just loving. Just waiting, patiently and gently.

Moonlit Masquerade  You could feel the music through the concrete from meters away. A bit closer and you could see the glow sticks flickering in and out of view, attracting revellers like moths to a flame. The parking complex was mostly free from cars, instead filled with a  deafening party. There were speakers shoved in every corner, wires running across the floor to illegal generators. The lights were coloured, and never seemed to stay on for long. And there seemed to be every substance known to man there to enjoy and consume. Powders, cigarettes, liquids, pills...

It was easy for the fae to slip in unnoticed. 

Their shining skin could be mistaken for glitter. Their dark eyes glinting could have been a trick of the light. The way they moved, odd and unnatural looked more like dancing when it was set to music. And of course, the way the entire place seemed louder, wilder, more intoxicating was surely just an affect of the drugs.

Nobody followed the old rules here. They took food and gifts without asking the price, accepting drinks and assuming they had no cost. They ignored thresholds, pulling creatures into dark corners, their lips whispering invitations. They named their lipsticks things like mistletoe and holly, and stepped into circles without checking the contents. 

For the changelings, this was the closest thing to fairyland they could go. Their traitorous human blood meant that was one threshold forever sealed off from them. But now, among the humans they had grown up with and the fae they belonged to, they could almost picture it. They felt more at home here than they felt anywhere, this entire world like a shirt that was just a little too small.

They were all wearing masks, even the humans. But their masks were make up and pretence, pretending to be happier, prettier, more likeable. It had mixed success, depending on how good an actor they were. The fae were pretending to be human, generally poorly. They smiled too wide and their hands were too quick, their laughs too high. And the changelings, well, they were just pretending they belonged. 

Wrongfooted

He wasn’t a big fan of leave. While for most of his squadron it was a chance to kick back and relax, the opposite was true for him. Noble families were fraught enough, but in particularly, he felt the need to seem like a functional human being for his father. 

His father was an affectionate man, and would never raise his voice at his son. Not since he was a kid determined to put dangerous chemicals in his mouth anyway. But his eyes would fill with worry and anxiety, his mouth would twitch with disappointment, and Lance could almost see him wishing for his mother to walk through the door, so he didn’t have to cope with this alone.

Thankfully, it had been a few years since he’d had that look. After all, Lance had very proudly managed to get his shit together. Now he was the charming type of rebellious, rather than the ‘one bad move away from his family quietly asking his father to have him tidied away to some backwards planet’. He could deal with that. Being a pilot kept him out of family drama and responsibility, while giving him the excuse of doing the Emperor’s work if anyone hinted he should be settling down. 

This time though, something was different. He had dropped his bag by the door, and hugged his father from behind, resting his head on his shoulder. He turned with an exclamation of joy and the usual fussing occurred, commenting on if he had grown, if that was a new scar, where he had been travelling, how his moods had been - but something was off. There were some new wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth frequently anxious, his mind occupied. But it wasn’t directed at him. Lance was not quite sure how to deal with this development. He had always been the problem in his father’s life, to one extent or another. He didn’t know how to solve anything bigger.

Best not mention the Inquisition thing for now.

Gaining Sentience

Jovich crouched in front of the blonde girl, shining a light into her eyes, and noting the lack of pupil contraction. He marked something on his clipboard, nodding approvingly. Void tilted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was writing, but he tilted it away without even looking up. She tutted, settling instead for swinging her legs, her feet not quite touching the lab floor. After a moment, he placed the clipboard face down on the bed.

“That’s the physiological side done, unless you have any more power surges to inform me about?” She shook her head, blonde hair swooshing from side to side. “No, the protector you put in last time did its job.”  “Good. Now. The psychological evaluation.” She rolled her eyes, starting to fidget with the pocket of her scrubs. “It’s pointless.” “I know, but we’re doing it any way.” He stood, finding the filing cabinet and yet another form out of a pile of endless forms. Science included a lot more paperwork than people thought. It was one of the myriad of ways the fantasy was better than the reality. “So. Your results last time were concerning, but we tweaked your programming a bit, hopefully for the better. Ready?” She nodded, though she was apparently more wrapped up in plaiting her hair than listening to him. It was the first thing anyone noticed about her. It looked like molten gold under light, perfectly straight and shining. She always seemed to be running her fingers through it, or brushing it until not a hair was out of place.  “Do you still report feeling an absence of guilt, inner conflict or doubt?” “Yes.” “Have you had any trouble following your orders?” “No.” “Where would you say your sense of morality comes from?” “You.” He looked up sharply, and she smiled. “I mean, the programming you have put into me.” “And who am I?” “My creator.” Her mouth twisted over the word, as if it tasted unpleasant. He nodded approving, scribbling something down. “Your memory banks are intact?” “Since the last wipe, yes, though I would say that, wouldn’t I? If I didn’t remember I couldn’t remember...” “Point taken, we’ll restructure the question.” Another moment of the sound of his stylus scratching filling the room.  “And do you feel emotions?” “Yes.” He finally made eye contact with her, sighing. “No. You don’t.” “But I do.” “You don’t even know what emotions are.” “I’ve searched my databanks. I’ve watched over three thousand films and downloaded over five thousand books. I’ve listened to twenty thousand songs. I do know what emotions are.” “You’re a skilled imitator, that’s all. You can learn and mimic, but it’s not real. If it was, that would compromise your use to us.” “Not really. I still don’t feel guilt or conflict or whatever. I can still kill people and not care.” “Then what do you feel Void?” She tilted her head again, the habit resurfacing whenever she was thinking. She thought of how much she wished Jovich would compliment her, or hold her, or even look at her eyes more often. She thought of the sense of deep, glowing satisfaction at a job well done. She thought of her room at night, how empty it was, and how big and empty the inside of her felt and how acutely alone she was. She thought of the jealousy that reared up inside her like a deadly monster when she saw Jovich with his real little sister, as blonde as her but two hundred times as real. 

“I don’t know. Normal stuff I guess. Happy, sad, angry, you know. Human things.” “But you’re not human.”  She flinched as if he had raised a hand to her. “Not to you, maybe. But all the people that don’t look twice at me on the street? Who don’t even realise the difference? How am I not human to them?” “Void, you are metal and plastic and programming. If you carry on with your delusions of grandeur, it’ll be time to decomission you.” “You won’t.” “Why not?” A bright grin. “Because I’m interesting. To you and to the company. And you never know when to quit.”

Strahd

She held me while I sobbed, and I’m not sure if her arms were sanctuary or prison. She didn’t say anything, but cooed at me, her delicate fingers combing through my blood soaked hair. She was the cause of my downfall, and now I was at the bottom, she was my only way up again. 

I didn’t love her immediately. At first, I might have even resented her. She looked as if she knew, always wearing that smile. I wondered more than once if she could read my thoughts, or if she just wanted me to think that she could. There was no need. I raged against her in my own head, but a word never crossed my lips.

But she was so tender when she wanted to be. She would feed me blood from her goblet, watching me as I drank it greedily. When I graduated to fresh meat, she would let me have first bite, waiting until I have had my fill. She let me dress her, draping pearls around her throat or lacing up her dress, giving me a glimpse of the bare expanse of her back, as untouched as snow. While when I disappointed her, which was often, her words could be cutting, when we were lying together, her lullabies were soft.

And there was something powerful about walking in the woods at her side, knowing we were the real predators, hearing birds and animals fall still at our footsteps.

She got others, eventually. I didn’t care. I knew I was her favourite. I got the hardest jobs, the most trust, the most responsibility, the whispers in the ear, the knowing looks. I sat on her right hand side, and she would trace patterns on my hand with her nails, barely breaking the skin.

How could I leave her? It would be like this, for as long as she would have me. Me, her knight, protector, lover, soul mate. She, my bewitcher, owner, cause of life and cause of death. Heart of my unbeating heart. I loved her, and it was as simple and as complex as that.

Vampires in Edinburgh

The city looked best like this, spread out before them like a map, pinpricks of light like the stars so far above them. If he closed his eyes, he could see it like it was before, the electric lights becoming candles, becoming fires. Everything changed and everything stayed the same. The stone the city was built from was once the king’s castle, was once the foundations of the place.

He took a long pull of his cigarette, looking over at the woman beside him. She resembled him, the cut of her cheekbones, the haughty mouth, the wild black hair. She did not look much older than him, in truth. But she carried more weight, more history.  “Do you ever miss them?” He inquired, curious of her answer. She tilted her head like a crow, considering.  “I miss Guinevere, sometimes. She was kind. And Merlin, before all the unpleasantness.” Mordred could barely remember the queen, except that she had a gentle smile and soft hands. Merlin had made a worse and stronger impression. He still had a scar cutting up his back from the man, one he considered unjustified. He had never seen someone so full of violence, except, perhaps, in the mirror. Back when mirrors work.  “What about you darling?” He knew what the true answer was. That he missed all of Camelot, and its people. He missed Gwaine and his laugh, Lancelot and his peace, Galahad and their purity. He had grown with these men, loved these men, occasionally desired them. He missed feeling a part of something, before his magic bloomed like a poisonous flower and damned them all. But most of all, he missed his father. Arthur, who could have been so much more than he chose to be. He wasn’t sure what he mourned more, the man or the potential. 

He shook his head, knowing his mother wouldn’t appreciate that answer. Thousands of years and Morgana still hated him with a fury that frightened him. He wondered sometimes, when she fed, if she pictured Arthur’s throat underneath her teeth. A part of her had always resented that it was Mordred that slew him. It was her right, more than his.  She smiled, slipping on her leather jacket even though she hadn’t felt the cold in a very, very long time. He had pleased her, once again, by hiding his true self. He wasn’t surprised. This was how he had lived by her side for all these years.

They Call the Witch Blind, but They Will Never Know All the Delights She Can See but They Cannot 

It is considered common knowledge that things look different in the dark. And every child learns that looking at something sideways, upside down, or out the corner of their eye is one way to see its true nature. And yet, they all assume the witch sees nothing, nothing at all. She allows them their foolishness, because it makes them feel safe around her, makes them approach for remedies, advice and even spells. There was no danger of a pyre in this village.

In return, she didn’t tell them what was in the woods. 

Nobody but the most foolhardy went inside there anyway. They knew there were dangerous rivers, hungry wolves and poisonous berries, all waiting to murder the unsuspecting or stupid. Those dangers were enough to keep most out. 

So she didn’t have to tell them about the others. The things she could see in an ashy dreamscape that barely resembled the outside world. The flickering fae that moved from shadow to shadow, who could get inside yours and infect it, until you were nothing more than a puppet. The not-wolves, with legs too long and too spindly, their teeth dripping venom. Caves filled with wailing ghosts. The river sirens who bathed on the rocks, and pulled in paddlers by their ankles.

It was not all bad, however. Whatever God had deigned to take her eyes, had given her something else in return, in accordance to the way of the land. She could also see the leaf-fae, who looked like fallen leaves until they fluttered up, flying in dizzy spirals. And the wisps that could guide you anywhere in the forest, if you left the right presents. Flowers that glowed and would make potions a thousand times more potent. And even the sinister sirens were beautiful, their skin mottled like a seals, and their eyes huge and black. 

Give and take was the way of the world, and on balance, she was not sure she would take her eyes back. She loved this hidden world far too dearly.

Family Isn’t Always Blood

Ashley awoke with a violent jolt, her sheets soaked with sweat. She cursed, hoping that it hadn’t soaked through to the couch underneath. That was the last thing in the world she wanted to explain. She tried to avoid sleeping near them whenever she could, hence why it was a sofa, not a camp bed in one of the rooms upstairs. Silently, she slipped out the room and into the bathroom, running cool water over her wrists, and stripping out of the soaking tank top. She avoided looking at herself, as always, wringing it out in the sink and leaving it to dry on a towel rack. 

It wasn’t always the same nightmares, which made it impossible to predict. Sometimes it was like the Snow White forest scene, with tendrils of darkness whipping out to grab at her, pulling her hair or pinching her skin. Sometimes it was nothing, nothing at all, to the point where she couldn’t breathe, because there wasn’t even air. Sometimes it was looking in a mirror, her reflection not following her movements. Mostly it was the moment she opened her bedroom door, and saw the blood. 

She couldn’t quite explain why she couldn’t tell them about it. It felt shameful, like she had let mould bloom in some darkened corner of her mind. They’d be angry, or disown her, or worse, feel sorry for her. And she had seen how hunters could be when they didn’t understand something, or when there wasn’t an easy fix. It was always better to put a rabid dog down, right? Same with werewolves, vamps and basically anything else.

Not that she was any of those things. She was just broken in different ways. And having lost one family, she was hardly raring to lose another. Not. Not that they were her family. No matter how much she cared for them, she would always be a little distant, a little too far apart. She didn’t know how to pull herself closer, and she was fairly certain she would die before she figured it out.

Achilles & Patroclus' First Day at Sandhurst 

It was easy to see who was royalty. Not just by their manners and bearing, or accents and names. But by the way some others moved around them, like they were a planet and the rest were just moons. Achilles didn’t seem to notice. He sat at his table, posture dreadful, coveralls looking as inelegant on him as anybody else. It was good to know there were some things that even he couldn’t look good. The afternoon before, when he arrived in a suit, Patroclus’s breath had caught in his throat. The sun shining down on his golden head had rendered him divine, and Patroclus was suddenly more aware than ever of his ill-fitting suit, and the lack of his parents. Achilles was with both his father and mother, the latter looking about the crowd as if trying to find something valuable amongst it, to little avail.

He was in his platoon, and he knew, logically, they would have to work together. Not only that but fight together, help each other and bond together. Which sounded like a tall order at the present moment. Patroclus couldn’t even bring himself to sit beside the prince. Sitting beside him would invite comparison. And how could he ever compare? He couldn’t.

+++++++++

One of the first things he learnt was Achilles did not suffer fools. He rarely laughed, and seldom smiled, and didn’t join in the locker room banter, giving him quite a reputation. For either being serious, or being a dick depended on who you listened to. He split the opinions of the officers too. Half of them seemed to see he clearly belonged in this place of war, with its marble and history. The other half seemed to read his silence as insolence, which in all honesty, it almost certainly was. Achilles had trained in his own country for longer than most of these boys put together, and it showed. He had a quiet authority and assurance that Patroclus longed to emulate, often feeling awkward and out of place himself.

Which is why it surprised him so much when Achilles started to choose to sit beside him, whenever he could. They didn’t always talk. Sometimes it was blessed silence, and sharing fruit or a cigarette. Sometimes it was politics. Sometimes it was poetry. Achilles was a good listener, and something about him made Patroclus feel less homesick. +++++++++ He slipped into the room, quick as a shadow, carefully laying beside the bed on his towel. A sleepy head rose from on top of the duvet. “Pat? What are you doing?”  “I didn’t want to mess up your bed.” There was a low chuckle. “Get up here. Just don’t you dare get inside it.” Pat crept up, the bed barely big enough for the two of them. Their fingers interlinked, and they shared breath, just looking at each other in the dim light. “I can’t stay long.” “I know.” “But seeing you helps me sleep.” “I know.” He leaned forward to nuzzle him, his skin smelling of sweat and sunlight. Patroclus didn’t say what he was thinking, about how often it was worry that kept him awake. Worry they’d be separated. Worry about the war that was brewing that they’d be pulled into, whether they liked it or not. Worry about what his lady mother may think about him being tangled in bed with someone below rank. Achilles, as though reading his mind, reached out a hand and smoothed the crinkle between his brows.  “Just think of the now, Patroclus. Just think of the now.”

A little bit of debauchery never hurt anyone.../ The shadow in the water

Robert woke up and everything ached. The inside of his mouth felt like cotton wool. His clothes stank to high heaven of opium and tobacco smoke. Opening his eyes seemed like an almighty effort with very little pay off. The room was strewn with bodies in a similar, if not worse state than him. Bottles lay everywhere, the fire still burnt in the grate. Outside, the dawn was only just beginning to touch the sky. 

He shuddered into a sitting position, finding his cravat had gone walkies. At least his boots remained on his feet, and he could spy his coat resting on the back of a dining room chair. Slowly, he got to his feet, snatching a half-full bottle of wine as he went, swigging it in an effort to sooth the headache that was slowly building. He retrieved his coat, left a flower on the slumbering form of the host, and stepped outside.

He liked Venice best like this, all told. In the day, it was too busy, calls being thrown from gondola to gondola, the narrow pavements too thin to adequately transport the crowds, churches and bars alike trying to tempt you inside. Now there was nothing but the quiet whispering of the water, and the occasional distant footsteps from those who’s occupation kept them up. He often wondered if he would be happier if he took on a job, some good honest work. He was among the legions of the English who took residence here and did nothing but socialise. He had never worked in his life and he wondered it if it had damaged him in some way. His father certainly thought so, but then, his father would. 

The world was still a little wobbly around the edges. He was more drunk than he had realised. By the by, he sat down on a set of steps leading down to the water’s edge, still chugging the wine in his hand. He wondered if he should continue trying to find his way home, or if he should wait here until the first gondoliers began to stir. He stared into the water as he contemplated this lazily, considering the options.

And something flickered in the depths.

Not in of itself unusual. Even in these polluted waters, fish swam. Birds may dip in and out. But this was none of those things. It was bigger, and disappeared not by swimming away, but by swimming down. He squinted, leaning forward a little, trying to see it better. It appeared again, and disappeared just as quickly. He placed the bottle down with a soft clink. The stairs, as you got lower, became slippy and covered with slime and pondweed. He was careful not to let his shoes touch those stairs. The staining was a nightmare to get out. The last thing he wanted to do was fall in. 

It was a shame really, that he was so focused on what was in front of him. That wasn’t where the danger lay. He only realised this once he felt the hands on his shoulders and the hard shove that followed.

Romantic Autumnal Walk With Something Sinister Hiding in the Trees

She admired the clip of her new boots on the tree-lined path, in truth more enamoured of the sound than with her partner’s present conversation. He was perfectly pleasant she supposed, well spoken and finely washed. He owned a small house and a carriage, and worked in his father’s book keeping store and went to church on Sundays. He was respectable and kind, and she would do well to marry him. 

And yet.

He bored Felicity to tears. She didn’t give a toss about accounting, or herb growing, or the endless dirges he liked to sing. She liked novel reading, grand adventures, a life of excitement. Her older brother had went to Borneo with his ‘companion’ to catalogue the wild animals there, and it was her greatest sorrow she could not follow him. She treasured each letter that arrived from him, full of funny little illustrations and anecdotes, managing to swallow down her burning jealousy so she could enjoy them. 

But here she was, imprisoned in boring old England, land of drizzle and cemeteries and country walks. And heavens, did Ethan love his walks. Even in October, when the wind was gaining a sharpness akin to a knife. She had to clutch her shawl closed in one hand in order to stop it stealing off. 

She looked back down at her feet kicking through some russet leaves. The shuffling and crunching noise made her smile. They paused as he stooped to tie his shoe, the shuffle and crunch continuing. 

Wait.

There was nobody else on the path. Only the lonely wind which did not crunch, but rustled. Felicity peered up at the darkening sky, but no birds circled overhead. Ethan witted on, struggling now with his cuff links. She paid him no mind, now looking down the lane. She got careless, the wind whipping her shawl out of her hand and into the treeline, catching on a holly bush inside of it. She followed it at a brisk walk, determined to both have a break from the ceaseless chatter and not lose the damn thing.

Once past the first line of leaves, she paused. It was the eyes she saw first. They were reflective, like a cats, with a dark green sheen like a beetle’s back. She blinked, and then saw the rest. A girl, about her own age, with scandalously loose chestnut hair, blood red lips, and a midnight blue dress of a strange cut. Felicity was sure she had seen a similar cut in her mother’s wardrobe, from when she was younger. She was beautiful, but so still, Felicity wondered if she was an exquisite doll for one foolish moment. Her skin looked as smooth as porcelain.  But then she smiled, and Felicity could have sworn for a moment she saw a flash of something dark and disturbing. But then it was gone, and the girl was charming. “Your companion likes to talk.” Her voice was affected, sounding as if it originated not in the city, but a valley somewhere, perhaps even Welsh. It made you want to listen to it, and she found herself standing there, shawl in hand but not running back to the path.  “Rather.” “I like friends that know the value of silence. Do you know the value of silence Felicity?” She had taken a step closer, casually taking her hand and turning it over to expose the inside of her wrist, a surprisingly intimate act that left Felicity’s heart pumping hard.  “Yes. I believe so.” “Good. Here’s what you’re going to do. Stand right here, and close your eyes for thirty seconds, and hum your favourite song. I’m going to give you the gift of silence darling.” Felicity did as she was told, not even noticing that the last thing she saw was the pretty pretty girl slipping towards the path and Ethan.

[aprilrichardson]

I Know It’s Over

There are people to whom music doesn't matter. I often envy these people. My mom is one of them -- she's not really concerned with music, poetry, movies, or anything in popular culture. She considers herself a whole, satisfied person without these things in her life, free from any aesthetic crutches. I am not one of those people. I needed music. I need music. From a very early age, I needed music to tell me I was okay. I needed it to tell me I was normal, I needed it to tell me I was weird, I needed it to confirm that I'd be fine either way. I needed it in a dramatic way. I needed it in a mundane way, playing all the time in the background like wallpaper with a pattern you've stopped noticing. I needed to identify with it, I needed it to make me feel complicated emotions I'd never felt before; it could comfort me or repulse me, soothe me or force me to look outward, echo my own sentiments or expand my mind to fit new ones. Music (and the bands/people who made it) served as my mentor, my older sibling, my voice of reason and, at times, bad influence. When you're an only child from a fractured family, you spend a lot of time in your room. Your hobbies can become your closest friends. Music became my savior and my most time-consuming, all-encompassing, money-draining pursuit. My savings account would be at least triple its current amount had I not been so obsessed with seeing bands and collecting their records. Perhaps I would have created more things of my own if I'd not spent so much time fawning over the creations of others. My personality would have been entirely different if, early on in my youth, I had not blatantly lifted the clothes and mannerisms and styles of those I looked up to or had not read the books and watched the movies they had championed. For better or worse, art -- this specific form of art, music -- has been and continues to be a transformative force in my life. At the very center of this were two bands, R.E.M. and The Smiths, and specifically two people: Michael Stipe and Morrissey. My first two real heroes, with now only the former still on the pedestal I built when I was around 11 or 12. I moved to a new neighborhood and school district when I was in second grade, and became fast friends with a boy my age who lived one street over. Nathan and I shared a lot of the same interests, and as we started middle school, a deep obsession with those two aforementioned bands and frontmen (and, also, Depeche Mode and Dave Gahan). Nathan was gay before either one of us knew what that meant, and was often mocked for this -- I was made fun of, too, but for reasons far less difficult for me than coming to terms with my sexuality as an adolescent. But, for our own reasons, we were outcasts, seeking comfort in our chosen art. This was conservative Georgia in the late '80s/early '90s, a time well before the Internet, before easily accessible media, when role models were fought for tooth and nail, with plans having to be made on how to save enough allowance for cassette tapes, older friends or siblings bribed to purchase things with "parental advisory" labels we'd smuggle into our rooms later. I can barely put into words what hearing (and seeing!) Morrissey for the first time did to us -- did FOR us! For Nathan, in such an environment, Morrissey became a blueprint for queerness, the very first peek into the very POSSIBILITY of life as a grown man who wasn't either an alpha male jock, like all the ones at our school, or stern businessman with a briefcase, like all of our (step)dads. He was the first person to, with his mannerisms and his very existence, communicate to Nathan that it was perfectly fine (and cool even!) to, in the words of the bullies, "act like a girl." And the magical thing is, he somehow simultaneously did the exact opposite for me! As a masculine tomboy, I saw in him a person so easily blurring the lines of both! He made me feel better about the qualities I had so often been told "weren't ladylike." We talked about him constantly. We dressed like him. It goes without saying that his music was playing in the background nearly every time we hung out. I remember my mom allowing me to stay up late to watch Johnny Carson the night Morrissey was on -- I was 12, and I absolutely remember my mom getting angry, watching alongside me as Morrissey fans screamed over Bill Cosby (gulp) as he tried to talk. The next year, Morrissey was on Saturday Night Live, and my mom let me go over to Nathan's house to watch it (our parents became very close friends as well). He taped it on their VCR as we watched, and we immediately played it back. We watched it probably every day for months. We didn't have the money to buy all of his back catalog, so an older kid in my youth group at church let me borrow his Smiths CDs, and I dubbed copies on my tape deck for us. I sat and hand-wrote the lyrics down on notebook paper, carefully transcribing from the liner notes as the tape recorded. It's difficult for me to be eloquent here, and I always find it hard to convey these feelings to people who are, well, normal, who can hear a song and go, "That's nice!" and not have to immediately know its backstory, who wrote it, why they wrote it, what inspires them, what books they read, etc. Who don't feel their insides twist into knots when a turn of phrase meets a melody and the combination makes them feel understood in a way they never have, sets them at ease in a way that even the kind words of the closest relative couldn't do. That is absolutely how I felt the first time I heard The Smiths. When you're 12, at least when I was 12, the last people you feel like you can talk to about your feelings are your parents; and for Nathan, doubly so, as I don't think he could even articulate his until Morrissey's lyrics shed some light on what he'd been going through. So, for us, this guy was so far from "just a singer" -- he was a beacon, a mentor, he told us it was okay to be effeminate and okay to be masculine and okay that you didn't get invited to the parties because staying in your room reading books was more glamorous anyway. The world wasn't made for people like us and that should be worn as a badge of honor, not shame. Such a message was REVELATORY for a girl whose every male role model had let her down or left entirely and a boy who didn't want to play football or shoot guns. The obsession continued and deepened, and in high school, became full on reliance. Who better to help me navigate the emotional minefield that is the teen years than Morrissey? I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, I didn't do drugs, I didn't "party," I didn't even so much as hold a boy's hand until I was a couple weeks shy of 16 years old -- all of the things that kids considered fun and did on a regular basis were so foreign to me, until I got home to my bedroom and was soothed by the voice of a guy who also did not participate in any of the above. I didn't really know anyone in real life who seemed to understand my plight more than the man whose voice was blasting out of my speakers. To me, Morrissey was always absolutely the voice of the underdogs. The weirdos. The outcasts. The disenfranchised. Anyone who felt left out, let down, misunderstood, too sensitive, too sad. He was there to comfort us, understanding and empathetic to our needs while giving the finger to the system and the people therein who were keeping us down, shoving us into lockers, ripping the glasses off our faces and stomping on them in front of their domineering friends. When someone writes songs as seemingly personal as Morrissey's, you tend to think you know them. And in my case, having read so many books about him (and now some BY him), I felt that way, to a degree. I like to think of myself as a rational person (perhaps after reading this far, you disagree), but I definitely felt a bit like I "knew" him in the sense that I'd picked up on words he'd frequently used ("vulgar" and "vile" were personal favorites), had working knowledge of the causes that were important to him, and certainly knew his favorite bands and movies and authors. I'd even been lucky enough to meet him quite a few times, especially after moving to Los Angeles, where I'd see him at restaurants and shows, and he was always cordial (if not downright sweet) to me every time we spoke. Of course I'd heard stories about him "being a dick," but that never bothered me, truly, only because I think that's kind of relative, and perhaps a lack of manners or catching someone on a bad day is a bummer, and the "temperamental artist" archetype exists for a reason. Sure, it's ideal that someone you admire is nice to you should you ever interact, but a surly encounter would not cause me to write someone off completely. So, because of this, well, perhaps delusion, I was able to explain away certain statements, such as calling Chinese people a "subspecies" while addressing animal rights, because I knew of his history of exaggeration when trying to get his point across about that subject in particular, the one perhaps dearest to his heart. (And I won't pretend that white privilege didn't play a part; it's undoubtedly and shamefully easier to conveniently ignore something when you aren't the target.) This person's main place in my life thus far was almost as a therapist, so the possibility of him having anything other than the best of intentions seemed so unlikely. But the words became harder to parse, excuses harder to make. Playing the contrarian for the sake of it isn't helpful (or even entertaining) in times like these. You aren't at the Algonquin Round Table. You're courting Stormfronters. It's not funny or charming. I don't expect every artist I look up to (or even every friend or acquaintance in my life) to share my exact same views, but when your band wears T-shirts supporting the Black Panthers yet you voice your support for the likes of Nigel Farage, how does the cognitive dissonance not paralyze you? You change lyrics to songs to slam Trump, yet you basically share his views on immigration? You imply that a gay teenager -- arguably the demographic most deeply affected by your art -- is at fault for the predatory behavior of an adult? You've told anyone who will listen that you were raised on feminist literature, yet you claim the female victims of Harvey Weinstein -- a man who hired fuckin' BLACK OPS to spy on his accusers to make sure they never came forward, so calculated were his plans -- were just "disappointed" that their RAPES didn't result in career advancement?! WHO ARE YOU. Who is this person saying this? The very person who gave me the strength to stand against the establishment has become the establishment! The person whose voice soothed with empathy and compassion for outsiders like me has become someone I would have crossed the street to avoid. The bullied has become the bully. He has, for years now, exhibited the very closemindedness I thought he was trying to free us from. Is it just an inevitability that the spoils of success will change a person? If you isolate yourself and invite no one into your circle who will ever question you, is this the result? Contempt for the very people who supported you for so long? A quality I used to admire in Morrissey was his obstinance, but I've found as I've aged myself, standing by opinions for the sake of it, refusing to allow yourself to grow and change as more information becomes available, to never soften your heart and swallow your pride and apologize when you've realized you might have been wrong about something -- that's not admirable, that's cowardice. I appreciate it more when people admit they don't know enough about a subject to comment on it instead of making a statement just for attention. My heart is broken. The man I looked to as an oasis of sensitivity in a desert of toxicity seems, well, just plain mean and vengeful now. I refuse to be cynical, and I refuse to be someone who says, "That's what you get for having heroes." Perhaps the lesson here is just knowing when to let go. And that it was indeed the songs that saved my life, not the man.

Fifteen-year-old me in my bedroom.

[withasmoothroundstone]

I’ve been struggling with how hard it is to hold onto full consciousness that  I’m a human being equal to other human beings.

And understand that this is confusing.  So when I write about decisions I am making, don’t take them as judgements on people who don’t or can’t make similar decisions. And don’t assume that I am even totally certain I’m right -- I’m pretty sure  I’m right about the core idea, but the details are confusing as hell.  

In a lot of this, I feel like I’m in some kind of freefall.  People have dealt with similar things for a long time, and I’ve gone out of my way to seek them out and learn as much as I can.  But a lot of the learning is necessarily by analogy.  And there are paths I’m trying to take -- I’m certain others have taken them before me, but if any of them were able to write more than the most cursory maps, I haven’t been able to find them.  

Which is why it becomes important to record even my own flailing in the dark.  Because maybe -- it’s been the case before -- maybe it will help someone who’s flailing around in here with me, perhaps freefalling in the same place but we’re all unseen to each other, only sensed indirectly.

I have been writing a lot of things, none of which are finished yet.  I can’t really help the length.  I’m sorry in advance to anyone who (like me, believe it or not) has trouble reading long things.

Also understand why I’ve put photos throughout this post in various places.  Some things I can only say that way, and I find it important to remind people of there being physical real humanity behind all these words.  The words are just an attempt to convey things that words can only point to without getting there.  So you’ll also see things like this (and if I could do image descriptions I wouldn’t need the images -- all I can say for any of them is that they show my face as I’m writing different parts of this, which by the way was not written in order):

Being sick is a weird thing.  It renders me vulnerable to all manner of nonsense.  But it also pulls down my defenses against reality. We’ve all got defenses against reality. I’m perhaps more aware of mine than a lot of people, but still can only pull them down at will for short periods of time. (We’ve also all got defenses against unreality -- and those are incredibly important. Being sick makes it hard to defend against either one, so what happens is always a mixed bag.)

Right now can be almost unbearably painful.  Because I am aware of my full humanity, or as aware of it as I can generally get.  And that means being aware of how much of an unperson I am, and others like me are. And by the way -- if you see me as a person because I’ve proven it to you, but people otherwise just like me who haven’t proven it are not people to you, I’m not actually a person to you either.  Real people’s personhood is not conditional.

I’ve been thinking about a lot of things for awhile, a long while, and not been able to articulate a single one in a full post.  This is the first attempt that I think will actually make it. 

But what prompted this post in particular.

There’s a lot of people in my life who vary a lot in how much I’m considered a person to them.

There’s one person who, while they connect with me in certain areas of life we have in common, I’m still pretty clearly not a person to them.

I was thinking how they are a person to me. How I use the areas where we can connect to try to understand them.  How I am always trying to understand other people.  Not just intellectually but to have genuine compassion wherever thy are at and whatever they are doing.

And.  Okay.  I’m disabled.  They’re either nondisabled or at least... not in a way I know of, and not in a way that puts them at the mercy of the systems I depend on for survival.

And the most common roadmaps followed by people in this corner of the online world, would tell me to just ignore our common humanity.  To make things even more adversarial, more us-vs.-them, than they started out.  To protect my own and to hell with everyone else unless they did exactly as I wanted and expected, even if what I wanted and expected changed constantly and unpredictably.

But that’s not a viable way for anything to actually work.

And also...

Okay one of my posts is about a concept I’m semi-borrowing from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wind In The Door:  Xing.  In A Wind In The Door, there are evil creatures called Echthroi who try to X people -- to erase their entire existence across time and space, at the deepest level.

And I don’t accept all the parameters in that book.  I don’t think real Xing is possible.  But I think people try to X people all the time.  I think disabled people are highly subject to Xing and this is highly socially acceptable.  I also think that even attempted Xing, whether small-scale or large-scale, is the worst thing a human being can do to another human being.  And the fact that it’s socially acceptable in many contexts doesn’t make things better.

Xing is about trying to erase your soul, or pretending your soul never existed.  It doesn’t matter if you believe in no souls one soul, many souls, you frigging know what I mean, the part of you most connected to reality, the parts of you that make you real, the seat of your personhood, whatever you want to call it.  So please don’t bullshit me about my language being wrong or your own discomfort at what you see as a religious concept.  These things are hard enough to write about without having to second-guess every other word I write.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter what your mind or your heart tell you.  Your soul knows when you’re being Xed.  And it screams.  It fights to be taken as real.  No matter what choices you make.  No matter what cognitive abilities you have.  No matter how emotionally anesthetized you think you are.  Your soul responds.

And the thing about Xing is, it doesn’t just work one way.  When someone tries to X someone else, or participates in Xing someone else (often as part of a larger pattern that guides their behavior, such as working at an institution), they end up Xing themselves.  I don’t know how it works, I only know that it works like that every time.  When someone tries to X someone, the only winners in the end are the Echthroi.

So my instinct towards compassion for people regardless of what they’ve done, is not wrong.  And understand -- by compassion, I mean love, I mean empathy.  I don’t mean excusing people.  I don’t mean forgiving people, although that can happen.  I don’t mean putting me or anyone else in danger.  I don’t mean sparing their feelings or avoiding the harsh reality of what they are doing.  I don’t mean acting like compassion for them is more important than compassion for the people they are Xing.  I don’t mean talking endlessly about how ~understandable~ it is for a mother to commit premeditated murder against her disabled child, how people are supposedly wrong to be disgusted and angry.   I don’t mean ignoring who ultimately has power over who else.  Don’t get me wrong here.

I do mean that recognizing our common humanity is ultimately vital for all of us.

And when I say that Xing Xes the Xer, that’s universal.  So if I respond to a person who participates in my Xing, by trying to turn the tables and X her, then I am Xing myself as well.  I lose touch with my own humanity.  I lose touch with the humanity of others.  If we, as a group, respond to the constant threat of being Xed by trying to X the people Xing us, then we are destroying ourselves.  We are aiding in our own Xing.  We are losing touch with the humanity of everyone, and this also means that when we are in positions of power, we will participate in the Xing of other groups of people.

And the only things that win in such a scenario are the Echthroi.

No amount of theory, rationalization, justification, will change this situation.  This is a fundamental property of reality.  Encouraging people to find elaborate ways to ignore that encourages people to inadvertently destroy themselves.

And these are things I found out when I listened to my soul begging not to be Xed.

None of this stops the fact that a struggle will have to happen in some form or another.

But it changes the shape of that struggle.

It changes what is acceptable and what is not.

Because I refuse to participate in the worst crime against humanity that exists.  Even if it is a crime that will never be a crime, that can’t be legislated, judged, heard evidence for.  It’s still real.  

And nothing can get away from that.  There are certain things that are just part of how the world works, and even if we can’t make sense of them, we can’t make them go away when it seems convenient.  I say seems convenient, because I’m convinced that even when Xing people seems right, feels right, it’s never right, and will never solve anything for real.  

I don’t know how to go forward.

I don’t know how to fight injustice without making it worse.

I don’t think there is or can be a formula or set of rules for this.

All I know is that my friend heard someone screaming for help across the street.

And they could not help this woman.

She’s in a nursing home.

My friend doesn’t trust the cops at all -- but still almost called them to make sure this woman isn’t being physically or sexually abused.

And all I knew was I was suddenly terrified.

And I was reminded of something.

A woman in a nursing home.

She screamed for help every time I saw her.  Stood in her room, alone, yelling “HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP!”

A worker at the nursing home felt sorry for her.  Told me, “That poor woman, she has dementia.”

The worker was participating in that woman’s Xing the moment they made her situation one of sad inevitability, her cries for help solely the product of a malfunctioning body.

And I feared if the police went to that place, with this other woman screaming for help, they would possibly find no evidence of physical harm and would conclude “she has dementia”.

And I remembered the woman from my childhood visits to nursing homes.

And  I remembered that she didn’t just have dementia.

She lived in a small room with nothing to make it hers.

Her door was open but she had virtually no human interaction.

And she lived in an institution.  Institutions always X people.  

So she was being Xed in so many ways.

And her soul felt it and responded.  You could hear it in her voice.  There is a sound to a soul that is refusing to be erased.

I don’t know -- and honestly don’t care on one level -- how much she understood intellectually.  Whether she knew where she was.  Whether she knew who she was.

I don’t have dementia.  I do have wildly inconsistent cognitive abilities.  And I do tend to become severely delirious if sick enough.

I have been in hospitals and been too delirious to know where I was or even who I was. I’ve had time drag to a crawl in such a state.  And my only interaction -- if you could call it that -- was when nurses came in every few hours to switch my IV bags or sometimes clean me up.  This was not actual human interaction.  They were not acknowledging I existed.

And I felt it. My soul felt it. And my soul responded.  

So I know that you don’t need to have enough working brain cells to rub together to create conscious thoughts, to feel when you’re being Xed, and to respond on a primal level.  

This is the worst pain someone can inflict on someone else. And people do it to sick and disabled people habitually, put us in places that force people to do it even when they would not otherwise, and some form of this is completely socially acceptable in most cultures.

People act like I’m too stupid to know other people are even more stupid than me.

I think it’s pretty fucking evil to act like Xing people with cognitive disabilities doesn’t damage us or cause us pain.

I think this evil has become commonplace and acceptable.  This does not make it less evil.  Sometimes it’s impossible to evade a structure that forces you to at least partially participate in evil.  But it’s rarely impossible to try to do as much good as possible.

And that starts with knowing we have souls and that we can suffer and that our suffering from being Xed is not a sad but inevitable result of having a disability.  And that if we seem soulless and empty that is an illusion, and you can fight illusions if you know they are illusions.

What becomes horrible is when it’s too painful to know you have a soul and are fully human.

Because if you know -- really, deeply know -- that you yourself are human.

Then you can’t ignore the pain of your soul.  You can’t ignore the contrast between what other people see and who you are.

And that can be dangerous.

It can be dangerous to feel, to act on what you feel, to yell for help or to lash out or any of the other things that feeling your humanity under onslaught can make you want to do.

It feels safer to become numb.

It feels safer to accept that you are not a person, or are only a partial person.

Some of us learn this very young.

And we participate in our own Xing.

And when you begin to feel -- you can do things that put you in danger, that may even put others in danger.

Which is why some part of me deeply knows that the instinct to dig in, to make it us and them, to hate everyone who hates me, to X everyone who Xes me, to lash out in any and every direction... this instinct is wrong, it contains illusions, it is deeply understandable and deeply wrong and deeply ineffective but it can feel so right in the moment.

And as communities we sometimes celebrate and encourage that impulse.  We nurture it and let it grow into something that is ultimately both evil and ineffective but that feels better than doing nothing and that is sometimes partially effective.  But some part of it is doomed, it is dooming ourselves, it is dooming anyone we might have genuine power over, it is so very seductive and so very dangerous.

So is passively allowing ourselves to be subhuman or partially human, or acting like we must go through life never harming anyone on any level.

Giving in to that seductive impulse to X people, or the impulse to be so utterly passive we X ourselves, are not the only two options.

But the effective options... they’re confusing.  There’s not as many roadmaps.  There’s not as many people.  They look different for each person.  Nobody can do everything.  Everyone has a part to play.  Sometimes people do good things while doing the wrong thing.  There aren’t words for these situations.

But as many of us as can, we have to try.

We have to grope around in the dark, to try to navigate this freefall, to find and create paths for each one of us.

It’s hard.  And confusing.

And right now.  I’m looking at you.  Whoever you are.  One human being with a soul to another human being with a soul.

I see you.  You are real.  So am I.  We’re in this together.

Sometimes you need a reminder that each of us is a human being behind the computer screen.

I don’t know where I’m going.  Where we’re going.  But I know I have to try.  I can’t accept any system that Xes anyone.  Whether that system is an institution, or an attempted fight or philosophy for liberation.  I can’t.  I won’t.  I will always try.

I won’t accept that anyone is soulless or empty.

I won’t accept that my soul always has to be filtered through an ego that distorts its intentions.

I won’t accept being Xed.

Which also means I won’t accept having to X anyone.

I can’t always resist doing the wrong thing.  There will be systems outside me that push me in the wrong direction.  There will be my own ego and illusions steering me wrong.  There will be unintended consequences, both for good and for bad.  But I can’t give up and act like that doesn’t matter.

If you are out there trying to figure this out, trying to grope around in the dark, I am here with you.  Lots of people are here with you.  None of us are alone.

And... sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy.  Well I know I’m crazy in one sense.  But what I mean is -- my perceptions of reality, so few people voice these things, so many people participate in the Xing of me and people like me, that I wonder if perceiving our humanity and soul and everything is some kind of illusion.

And that I even wonder that -- that is a symptom of how thoroughly fucked up and pervasive the Xing of people like me has become.

I’ll probably talk about my perceptions of other people in another post.  That’s an entire topic in itself.

Also -- people often think there’s something special about my cats.  Because of the way they interact with people.  Because of the way you can feel that they have souls.

There’s nothing special about my cats.  I do my best not to X them.  They don’t learn to X themselves.  That’s the only thing different.  You can’t always do right by cats but you can try as hard as possible. 

I am like a cat who has learned to partially X themselves, but is beginning to listen to their soul.

One of the worst things for me is being conditionally a person.

It’s being a person because I can type in coherent English some of the time and people know it.

It’s being a person because I’ve displayed a real or illusory ability.  And people just like me who haven’t -- or who are assumed they haven’t, even sometimes have people deliberately cover up that they have -- aren’t people.  This is still Xing.  And it gets really insidious when people go, “You’re not like them, and they aren’t like you,” as if they decide.  As if, in the wrong situation, I am not somehow exactly “them”.  Real people’s personhood is never conditional.  

Or.

It’s people trying to make me a person.  I’m a person already.  You didn’t create my soul.   You don’t make yourself better by going through the motions of making me look kind of real.

Or.

It’s people saying I’m a person.  But not meaning it.  Not understanding it.  

Sometimes they gush endlessly about how I have a heart, a personality, but they treat me like a giant baby, and I am meant to accept this in order to make them feel better about themselves.

I can’t be that.  I can’t accept that.  My soul screams when I see it happening to other people.

You can’t make someone a person by celebrating that they are a mindless heart, or a heartless mind, or a bodiless mind, or a bodiless soul.  

All of us have whatever is meant by mind, heart, body, and soul.  We don’t all look the same, we are not all the same, but none of us are missing essential parts of our nature.   

You don’t have to compensate for the the ‘missing’ part by emphasizing some other part.  You don’t have to tell physically disabled people to ignore and disregard our bodies and cognitively disabled people to ignore and disregard our minds and autistic people to ignore and disregard our hearts and all combinations of these and more things.  “You don’t have a mind but that’s okay.” “You don’t have a body but that’s okay.”  “You don’t have a heart but that’s okay.”

No.  it’s not okay.  Our minds and bodies and hearts and souls may look different, may be different, but they’re not absent.

It’s not okay. It can never work.  It is not the answer.  It is not liberation.  It is not freedom.  It is not love.  It is Xing in disguise.

I have to be a human being.  I have to be a human being.  I have to be a human being.

Being a human being hurts sometimes.

It cuts so deeply to watch yourself being Xed.  To be isolated.  To be expected to be grateful for being allowed to exist.  To be expected to be grateful for Xing. To be expected to be grateful for partial or conditional personhood.

To experience this from people who are close to you, people who say they love you, people you love, people who love you in one way but not in another.

To have to figure out a way to accept the humanity of someone who won’t accept yours -- without taking away from the magnitude of the horror they are inflicting upon you.

To feel like you are doing this alone, or nearly alone.

To struggle into consciousness, struggle into awareness of your own reality, struggle to maintain that awareness even when every instinct tells you to shut down.  To struggle to maintain awareness of who you are without going crazy in a world that tells you you don’t exist.

I say it again -- I’m here with you.

I am a person.  You are a person.  Whoever and whatever you are.

I am looking at you to tell you that I am real.  But also -- this is irrevocably linked to that -- everyone is real.  Everyone like me.  Everyone.  

Including people who feel every inch of everything I have said and all the things I want to say and can’t, but who will never speak or write a single word that anyone can understand.  Including people who are in protective hiding from their own humanity.  ALL OF US.  

And I am not different or special here.  I’m not speaking only for myself when I say that I am real.  I am amplifying the message of lots of people saying the exact same damn thing without words.  I am amplifying my own message at times in the past when I have not been capable of words, at times in the future when I will not be capable of words.  This is all of us and always.  

Some people are pouring every ounce of their being into saying this but nobody hears, not even their loved ones.  Or they only partially hear, and can’t hear all of it.  So I’m saying it.

Some people are unable to risk doing that, even as their souls are screaming unheard.  Sometimes unheard even by themselves.  So I’m saying it.

I am telling you this is happening because right now I can.  I’ve never been able to before.  I don’t know if I will be again.  But right now I am doing my best.

I am also telling you that no matter who you are, I know that you are real.  I don’t have to know you personally.  

Also, to make it very clear:  I don’t have to like you.  I don’t have to trust you.  I don’t have to allow you to harm people.  I don’t have to totally avoid harming you if it’s the only way to stop you from doing harm.  If punching you in the face will keep you from killing someone I’ll do it, but I’ll do everything in my power never to do that just because I feel angry at you.  The world is messy and sometimes we have to make messy choices..  It doesn’t mean I don’t know or care that you exist.  

Also:  I can’t do this alone.  None of us can. We were never meant to.  No one person was ever meant to do every right thing.  It’s not humanly possible.  All of us are prone to particular errors as well as particular ways of getting things exactly right.  All any of us can do is figure out who we are supposed to be and be that person in the most active and committed way we can.  None of us will get it right all the time.  All of us have something valuable to give the world.  The best thing we can do is get out of our own way.

This is not like adopting a permanent unchanging moral code.  This is something each of us has to choose moment by moment.  Because we are living beings in a living world.  Pretending the world isn’t shifting and changing around us, and that we don’t have to respond to changes in the world and in ourselves, won’t help.

And even if we’re fumbling in the dark, in freefall, not really totally knowing where we are, the fact that we are trying counts for something.  There’s a reason that parts of the world got abruptly worse when “intent isn’t magic” became a meme.  

There’s a grain of truth there -- unintended consequences are real.  But in adopting that as a motto, people forgot something very important:  

The sincere and dedicated attempt to truly do the right thing can be extremely powerful even when we don’t always know what’s right or fuck up or cause problems for people.  Sometimes the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but total disregard of intentions is a surefire portal to hell on earth.

Knowing you have a soul is hard.

Love is hard.  It’s not a feeling.  It can cause feelings -- lots of them, not always pleasant either -- but it’s not itself a feeling.  It’s a thing, a surprisingly concrete reality, a constant action, a choice.

And without it I don’t think we can get very far.

And if we X anyone we X everyone.  And that goes well beyond ourselves, well beyond even just humanity.

There’s also been a lot of talk about whether humanity can physically survive at this point.

And I think we’re honor-bound to try, even if we can’t.  

And if we can’t -- even if we’re dead certain we can’t -- we have a responsibility to all the life that will take our place in the world when we’re gone.  

That’s something that applies on a personal level, to our own personal deaths.  And it’s something that applies on a large-scale level, to our survival as groups of people, as cultures, as species, as life.  

Even if we find out for sure we won’t be around, that not only doesn’t let us off the hook, it makes it more important we try to do right by whoever and whatever comes after.  Even if we feel kind of like this:

Part of the reason I’ve had this come up again and again in recent years is I really didn’t expect to survive this long.  Without certain medical diagnoses happening at nearly the last second, I wouldn’t be here.  Many times over.  I was in the ICU a year ago.  I have an aspiration-related infection right now that, even though it is going great compared to some I’ve had, still fucked up my pulmonary function tests this week more than I expected.  These things force you to think on this level.  

None of us knows how long we have, whether we’re healthy or not.  It’s important to remember that and to make the time we have count.  These are not fluffy platitudes.  They are intense, deep, difficult realities with complicated answers we may never totally find.  But it’s important to try.

So I’m here to ask you.  Maybe even to beg you.

To (if you have them in the first place) put down all the tools you normally use to pick apart and demolish arguments, to decide whether a person is espousing a particular ideological philosophy and whether that philosophy is an acceptable one or an unacceptable one.  

This isn’t about winning and losing, gaining points or one-upmanship morally or intellectually.  This isn’t about your ego, or mine, or the ways they can duke it out, or getting the words and concepts exactly perfect, or what team you’re on, or what team I’m on.  So put all that crap down just for a second.  And if you get hung up on ‘soul’ or some other word, read what I said above about that and put all that crap down for a second too.  And if you don’t personally like me -- you don’t have to, but please put that down as well.  For at least a moment.

And just understand, even for a second:

I have a soul.

People who are like me have a soul.

People who look like me have a soul.

Disabilities don’t ever get rid of that.

We can’t go around Xing people -- erasing their souls, or trying to, or pretending their souls don’t exist.

And we don’t have to -- can’t -- know everything, get everything right, be everything for everyone, avoid all conflict, agree, etc.

But I think we do have to try to keep in mind people have souls and do our best to always act on that.  Both towards others, and towards ourselves.

I don’t think I actually know that much -- but I think I know that, and that the years of effort it’s taken to say this mean something.  And understand as much as you can -- it really is years, I’m not exaggerating.  And that if you saw me on the street you might think me mindless or soulless.  And that it’s not my ability to write this (or anything) at this (or any) particular moment in time, that contradicts that assessment.  But my ability to write can make you aware of it, so I’m taking as much advantage of that as I can.

And I’m pretty sure it’s our reality that matters, and everything else is details we have to muddle through as best we can.  We need each other.

Signed,

One small but important part of existence, in one small but important place, like you.

[nickmakhonuk]

Reasons to Meditate

See, when you meditate, you put your guard down, let energy in, and get yourself out of a stressful self-defense mode, says Sonia Choquette, a meditation teacher with more than 35 years of experience. “It’s pressing a pause button and giving yourself room to breathe,” she says. “And when you have room to breathe, you access your greater potential and your greater state of being.” It can also even out your mood and energy levels, says Gabrielle Bernstein, a certified meditation teacher and New York Times best-selling author. “We experience more even-keeled energy," she says. "And that expands to how we show up in the world.”

With those kinds of benefits, why isn’t everyone (and their mother) meditating? Well, skeptics might be turned off by the negative—and false—stereotype that meditation is hippie-dippy and too good to be true. But there’s plenty of solid evidence to satisfy all the naysayers out there. And even better, science suggests you may experience the brain benefits related to the practice even when you’re not actively meditating . Plus, it may even help you save money on your healthcare .

Need more convincing? Here's 19 awesome, science-backed benefits of meditation!

1. Ditch depression.

Research suggests that 30 minutes of meditation improves depression symptoms (along with anxiety and pain) . In fact, the practice could possibly prevent depression and pain altogether—scientists discovered that people who meditate may have more control over how their brains process and pay attention to negative sensations (like pain) and negative thoughts (like depression triggers).

2. Stress less.

Nix those nail-biting moments already. When you meditate, you’re able to override a part of the brain responsible for the fear mechanism (which releases cortisol, the damaging stress hormone that’s responsible for a whole grab bag of health issues), says Korda. One study suggests that meditation can cut back on anxiety by almost 40 percent . And it doesn’t take a ton of time to reap these keep-calm-and-carry-on benefits. Just 25 minutes of meditation (done three times per week) may make tasks feel less stressful, according to recent research .

3. Relieve headaches.

Meditation may be an excellent line of defense against those horrible head-pounding episodes. Recent research finds that the practice leads to major relief of tension headaches (though it’s worth noting that the treatment program in this study involved both meditation and medication, like muscle relaxants) .

4. Be nicer.

Meditation may help you kill ‘em with kindness. In one study, the practice was linked with more empathy and laughter, being more social, and having a more team-oriented mentality (the meditation practitioners in the study used the word “we” more than “I”).

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5. Boost memory.

If your desktop is wallpapered with sticky note reminders and you often find your mind jumping from thought to thought, you may want to turn to meditation. It’s been shown to not only improve memory but to help cut back on distracting thoughts .

6. Get more out of your workout.

Exercise, especially HIIT workouts in full-blown #beastmode, can do a number on your muscles and your central nervous system But meditation allows you to rest your body and mind very deeply, removing stress from your physiology and priming you for excellent sweat sessions, says Ben Turshen, a former lawyer who’s now a fitness professional and qualified independent teacher of Vedic Meditation in New York City. With meditation's ability to reduce our stress levels, we’re able to perform our workouts that much better and enjoy them that much more, he says. And studies support Turshen's point. Plus, meditation might also help minimize sensitivity to pain (read on for deets on that!), meaning it might be just the boost you need to take on new fitness challenges.

7. Keep colds away.

No need to buy that jumbo 12-pack of tissue boxes. Research links meditation with having fewer respiratory illnesses, quicker recovery times, and needing fewer sick days from work .

8. Build better relationships.

Meditation will absolutely help you maintain healthy relationships, say Bernstein and Korda. Not only does it let you be more present in relationships, but it also helps you approach tricky situations with a calm mind and body. In fact, it may help you avoid big blowouts when dealing with a relationship issue (he/she said what?!). In one study, people who meditated and tried to problem-solve with their partner approached the issue with less hostility and a better mood .

9. Protect your heart.

Here’s a pretty great (and totally unexpected) way to boost your heart health—no burpees involved. Yep, we’re talking about meditation! In one study, patients with coronary heart disease who practiced meditation had a reduced risk of heart attack, stroke, and even death .

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10. Catch more Zs.

In a world where we take our phones and tablets to bed, shuteye has become a pretty precious thing. The problem? Quieting the mind enough to actually be able to fall asleep. That’s where meditation comes in. Not only does science suggest it may help treat insomnia, but experts believe that meditating can help keep your mind in check throughout the day and reduce stress, thus leading to a better, more restful night’s sleep.

11. Amp up creativity.

The possible cure for a creative rut? Meditation. “When you’re in a listening state of mind, you put yourself in a position to receive new ideas and inspiration that you weren’t able to receive before because you were guarded and protected,” Choquette says. So new ideas, solutions, and “aha!” moments will start pouring in. And science agrees: In one study, participants who practiced a particular kind of meditation were better at coming up with many possible solutions for a problem.

12. Improve your 9-to-5.

Here’s an argument for meditating on company time: Your on-the-job performance may benefit from the practice. In one study, multitasking office workers who meditated improved their performance and memory of the tasks they’d worked on as well as their emotional state and awareness.

13. Be more youthful.

The fountain of youth is as real as calorie-free cookies (insert sad-faced emoji here), but meditating may actually help make you younger. Because, science. Middle-aged participants who practiced meditation had younger biological ages than those who didn’t, according to one study . Plus, another study suggests that meditation may diminish age-related brain deterioration.

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14. Cut back on painkillers.

Stop the pill popping! Scientists suggest that meditation may thicken your brain (particularly the portion that regulates pain), slashing your sensitivity to any ouch-inducing actions, and any dependency on meds.

15. Pump up your GPA.

Looking for a totally by-the-book way to earn higher marks the next time a test rolls around? Here’s your answer. According to one study, meditation leads to better focus and higher scores on cognitive tests—all after just 4 days of 20-minute sessions . In another study, students who meditated before a lecture (and subsequent quiz) did better than those who didn’t. Research also suggests that the practice leads to a better attention span—an effect that lasts over time, especially in those who continue to meditate every day.

16. Banish burnout.

When you’re on the grind 40+ hours per week, it’s all too easy to feel overworked. Enter, meditation. Research suggests that taking time to quiet your mind leads to fewer feelings of work-related exhaustion. It’s even been part of medical students’ training at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center with this particular aim in mind.

17. Battle bad eating habits.

Disordered eating is a pretty scary and harmful thing. But there’s hope in the form of meditation. Research suggests that meditating may help you cut back on binge eating and emotional eating . While this is awesome news, it’s still important to consult a doc for an appropriate and effective course of treatment.

18. Add sizzle to your sex life.

Your time between the sheets could benefit from meditation—seriously. In one study, women that added meditation to their lives experienced a boost in arousal and satisfaction in their after-hours action—not to mention fewer difficulties in reaching the finish line. Big O, anyone?

19. Tone down your temper.

Feeling your blood boil on the regular is undoubtedly bad for your health. So don’t get mad, get meditating! Research suggests that the good-for-you-habit cuts back on anger and the tendency to dwell on angry episodes . And Korda agrees. “If you’re aware of your mind, body, and breath, you can calm yourself and step away from the initial reaction and begin to think of different ways to respond to the situation,” he says. “The more inner awareness you have, the less you’re going to be triggered by other people.

Kicking Off Your Practice

Now that you’re armed with knowledge and ready to pick up the practice, don’t get derailed by thinking that meditation will be a burden to your schedule—though you’re definitely not alone if that’s the case.

One of the most common excuses for not meditating is being strapped for time. “We have a culture of being busy, and a work culture of constant communication and accessibility,” Turshen says. “We live in a culture that has a false sense of emergency.” Despite this, the fact of the matter is that you do have time to meditate—just consider all the time you spend tweeting, snapping, stalking on Facebook, and browsing on Instagram.

Still wary? Remember that you definitely don’t have to invest hours upon hours to reap the good-for-you benefits we listed above. “Even one minute a day offers such a great gift,” Bernstein says. One of her quick-and-easy techniques? Follow this pattern: Breathe in for five seconds, hold your breath for five seconds, and then breathe out for five seconds, and continue moving through this practice for a full minute. And voilà: Meditation really can be as easy as that.