#because ive heard stories about people getting terrified of his presence

[purupurple]

one piece was my first experience with fandom when i was like 12 years old, but it was kind of considered "obscure", so seeing it everywhere gives me a surreal feeling. id have been overstimulated if i were still a kid and id expire like a small white rabbit hearing a car alarm. anyways, husbant and i are both going to be watching the netflix adaption out of, idk, morbid curiosity? happy one piece live action day, everyone

that being said

GET THE FUCK OFF MY PORCH

[angstew]

How to have a baby during COVID-19 pt. 3-The induction of Oliver...

So here we are.  August 4th 2020.  In the midst of the pandemic.  I thought I was going in for my weekly stress test & OB appointment, and now I’m being told that I am being admitted.  That my blood pressure is dangerously high & this baby needs to come out.  As much research as I had done through the entire pregnancy, the birthing process was not something I had looked into very much.  Basically because it’s terrifying and I just didn’t even want to know.  So now, here I am kicking myself because I have absolutely no idea what to expect aside from an entire human being coming out of my body & HE wasn’t the one who was saying it was time....I called my fiance in tears, told him what was going on, begged the nurses to let him come up & so the adventure/dream/nightmare began...

I get up to the room, waiting for my fiance, and I’m starting to sweat.  All I’ve been told so far is to get into the hospital gown and wait for the doctor...They hooked me up to the fetal monitor, all the machines for my pressure & pulse, a DREADFUL COVID test and after an hour, finally got an IV into my bicep(the joys of being a recovering IV drug addict)  While waiting for the doctor I had a meltdown, I begged my fiance to just take me home, to let the baby come when he was ready, that I’d stay in bed & be careful, bawling my eyes out all crumpled up on the hospital bed.  Thank God for him truly, holding me tight, giving me the strength I needed right then & throughout the entire delivery, never leaving my side. Because we weren’t ready to stay, he had to run home, grab the bags & get the house in order while I sat in the bed with my mind really spinning... Okay, so fast forward a little, because this is a long, crazy ass story....So, doctors come in, let me know that yes I have preeclampsia, they absolutely should have caught it sooner but now we’re here & we gotta get this baby boy out ASAP but as gently as possible...so let the induction begin.  Now, because I’m in recovery, I chose to not take any kind of narcotics, and my fiance made sure to remind & ask every single nurse & doctor with every SINGLE medication that it couldn’t be a narcotic. My gift from God that gave me my mini gift from God. 

The first thing they gave me was IV magnesium, which I guess helps to keep seizures from occurring due to the preeclampsia getting worse, but gave me the worst migraines I’ve ever had, and because of the IV, I was given a catheter because I couldn’t get out of bed. So while that was flowing, the first thing they decided to try was some type of balloon thing, I’m sorry I don’t know any technical or medical terms because I was barely even there, let alone paying attention to names of things, the only thing I was thinking was “please get your fingers & tools & whatever else OUT of my lady parts...”.  So thanks to google, I guess this balloon thing is a catheter & the balloon gets filled with some solution that causes dilation...needless to say, it didn’t work...got me to about 2-3 cm and that was it.  So the next morning, it just wasn’t working any further, so the doctors wanted to try something else.  So they decided to start the pitocin.  For anyone who doesn’t know, pitocin is a hormone & it’s used to speed up the labor, and strengthens the contractions.  Basically, it SUCKS.  The contractions grew, as did the pain, but I wasn’t dilating fast enough.  But finally, at this point I was ready for some relief(non-narcotic of course. ha.)  I do have to say though, what they say about them is true.  I was petrified of getting a needle in my spine as I assume most people are, but the amount of pain I was in, and the relief it brought, it was well worth it.  Unfortunately, the next problem that arose was the fact that the epidural kept wearing off.  Yes, wearing off.  I had to push the button for more relief several times, and that was scary.  “What if that shit wears off while I’m pushing?  What if they can’t do anything or give me anymore after a certain point?” It was just frustrating that every few hours, the pain was excruciating again.  My poor & wonderful fiance held my hand the entire time, while I was squeezing him to death, begging him to fix it & to make everything better...I know there was nothing he could do, but just his presence, just his touch, and just saying the words out loud for some reason made me feel like he was fixing it!  Weird I know. 

 Anyway, so, even after having all these things done so far, I still wasn’t ready to push.  I don’t know what this boy was doing in there, but he had absolutely no intention of leaving my body.  Now to be fair, up until this appointment, I had been telling him that he wasn’t allowed to come any earlier than my due date because I was absolutely not ready, and he for sure heard me & took it very serious because he was NOT taking all the hints that it was time to vacate.  Okay, so its now the second day of labor, nothing is working, but I guess they decided I was dilated enough to break my water...oh goody.  I wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to do that, but after everything so far, I had a feeling it would be just as uncomfortable as everything else had been.  And I was correct!  They used a long hook looking tool & broke it, it wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t fun.  Again, maybe TMI, but I was not a fan of having a hand jammed in my body every half an hour for 2 days....Now, once again the epidural had worn off so because it had been continuing to wear off, the doctor was called & came back in to give me a second one...lucky me.  Now, I don’t know if the doctor gave me a stronger dose this time or if it didn’t go in the right way or what happened...I had the craziest rush, my vision was blurry & no bullshit, I passed out for like 2 hrs afterwards.  It was insane & actually kind of scary...I was going in & out of consciousness, the nurse was telling me to pay attention to how my body felt, in case it was time to start pushing(I guess if it feels like you have to poop it’s time) and I couldn’t talk or tell anyone what was going on because I was so out of it.  My fiance was getting all types of worked up & nervous, because I couldn’t even answer his questions if I was okay or not...it was wild, and I felt the poop-pushing feeling but couldn’t tell anyone before I passed out!!

So now, finally, it’s August 6th, around 6pm.  I finally woke up & I had the craziest urge to poop/push.  So FINALLY, it’s time to get this stubborn little peanut out!!  This part was actually the “easiest” part...sorta.  It was the only thing that went the way it was supposed to go.  Push hard = baby out.  It took me one hour, and that entire time was spent trying to get his round little head down the canal.  Once his head was down, the rest of him slid right out!  Now, I’m not sure if this is standard but WHY on earth do they not put something behind your back or have someone hold you up?!  I truly was out of breath & was at the point of giving up SOLEY because of the strain from having to sit up & push like that.  Because of COVID, I could only have one person in the room, which of course was my fiance, but he being the amazing man he is, called my mom on FaceTime so I had her support through the phone & my fiance was there holding my hand(and at the end, literally holding me up so I could push!)  I told him I couldn’t push anymore, that they were going to have to cut him out of me if he didn’t come out at that point.  I gave one final push as hard as I could, and he came out.  At first I didn’t realize that he was finally out.  I was so tired, still out of it, and then all of a sudden I feel this weight on my chest & there he was.  This beautiful, purple, slimey, LONG ASS, handsome, perfect little boy was finally here on my chest, all 20.5 inches, 7lbs14oz of him.  Oliver Anthony was welcomed into the world.  

And then just as I thought things could only go uphill after all that, I was completely and totally smacked in the face by reality...because it got a whole lot worse for the week of hell that the 3 of us spent in the hospital.  

[overthefjords]

upon the winter winds, I hear you say you love me.

Co-written with Ana, this takes place in 1946 after Mathias ( @danmarks-styrke ) succumbs to the plague and passes away. Also featuring Bastian ( @stillewijsheid ). 

The room was cold-- the windows wide open to keep Mathias’ body cold for the time being, until he came back to them alive and well. Bastian shivered, pressing close to Aleks and sniffling quietly. “Fuck it’s cold,” The younger man breathed, taking small steps forward with Aleks’ help.

Aleks didn’t notice the cold or the frost slinging to the open window panes, slowly helping Bastian over to one of the armchairs sitting at the side of the bed. After a moment, Aleks stepped over to his suitcase and pulled a button-up sweater from inside, draping it around the Belgian’s shoulders. The Norwegian might not care about the chill, but Bastian did not need to catch a cold and not be able to get out from under it.

Bastian sank down slowly, murmuring a soft thank you in Norwegian to the Norseman as the sweater was wrapped around his thin shoulders, practically engulfing the boy in its warmth. He snuggled into it before reaching out and carefully took Mathias’ hand, noticing that someone had set an IV up with antibiotics and fluids, trying to keep his body in peak condition for when he would return. The presence of such lines, to know that Mathias was being so well taken care of, touched the Norseman.

Mathias lay prone on the bed with hands folded over his stomach, his ice-blue eyes closed. It was as if he was in a deep sleep, sans the absolutely pale look to his face, the lack of breaths, and the sheer absence of sound coming from him. “Think he knows we are here? In spirit?” Bastian raised the question quietly, glancing at the Norseman lingering at the back of his chair.

Aleks was doing his best not to look too closely at his husband; to ignore the leeching of colour from his lips and his cheeks as he took a seat beside the Belgian. “Probably,” he murmured, casting a glance out the window and seeing a flurry of black feathers streak by. “He’s likely listening to old stories from the Aesir themselves.”

“The Aesir?” Bastian asked, tilting his head to look at Aleks curiously. “Who are the Aesir?”

“Mm. So,” Aleks cleared his throat, folding his hands in his lap and looking down at his wedding band as he collected his thoughts. The Norwegian was always happy to share the stories of old, but this time they were far more bittersweet than comfort to him. “They are the oldest of the Norse gods. The ones who came first. There're roughly twenty or so, but the ones most people know of are Odin, the All-Father, Thor, the god of thunder and battle, Frigg, Queen of the Aesir and goddess of the skies, Loki, the trickster god, Tyr, the god of law and justice, and Heimdallr, the watchman and the guardian of the Bifrost.” Aleks let his gaze drift over to his husband, throat tightening and tears welling in the Norwegian's eyes. “Mathias never forgot them, no matter his conversion. Thor’s always been his favourite.”

Bastian scooted his chair closer to Aleks and rested his head on the Norseman’s shoulder, fingers intertwined with the Dane’s even though there was no reaction from him. He did not expect one, either. Mathias needed the time to heal, to recover, and rest; allow his body the time it needed to recoup fully now that the war was done.

“Then surely he is with them now, and they’re watching over him.” Bastian murmured thoughtfully, hearing the way that Aleks’ voice choked up. His heart hurt for the man. “What sorts of stories do you think they are telling up there?”

Aleks choked back a quiet sob when Bastian tucked his head onto the Norwegian’s shoulder, slinging an arm around the boy and resting their heads together. He would endlessly be grateful for the company because while this was not the first death he’d gone through with Mathias, this was the one that shook him to the bone with fear. “That’s all I can hope for because I couldn’t do anything to protect him down here.”

Aleks sniffled wetly, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his thin sweater. “Honestly, Matti is probably bombarding them with questions,” He laughed wetly, resting his hand atop Bastian’s as he held onto Mathias’. “There’s no guessing what he’s being told.”

Bastian felt his heart shatter into tinier pieces, and he wasn’t even sure that was possible anymore with how much he empathized with the horrors and pains Aleks was going through. So he snuggled closer, nodding against the man’s shoulder. “So if they’re taking care of him, then he’s watching over us until he can come home to you.” Bastian’s own voice cracked at the end and he swallowed thickly. “He would never leave you, not even in temporary death.”

A shuddering breath slipped past Bastian’s teeth and he swallowed hard again, turning his hand over so Aleks had a grasp on Mathias’ while Bastian's rested on top, smaller than both men’s hands. “Chaotic things, surely.”

Aleks had been doing so well until the chilled hand of his husband was laid into Aleks' palm, a broken sob escaping involuntarily from between his teeth. His hands were always warmer than Mathias’ up until now, holding it gingerly as if grabbing it too tightly would shatter it like fine porcelain. The Viking might be fierce and strong and could shoulder the pain of others without blinking, but this heartbreak crushed him like nothing else.

“I’m sorry, Bas,” Aleks warbled weakly, bowing his head as pained sobs tore through him, the dam of his denial and refusal to lean on someone else crumbling under the weight of his genuine, raw pain of losing the love of his life, no matter for how long.

Immediately, Bastian felt himself feeling impossibly small in the presence of such deep-seated heartbreak. No doubt only Christiane knew some of the pain that Aleks was feeling, to the degree he was feeling it. “Don’t apologize.” Bastian managed, voice shaky. “Don’t ever apologize for loving as deeply as you love Mathias. You’re hurting— and mourning— and you’re allowed to feel those things.” He squeezed both hands wrapped in his small one gently.

There were no words the Belgian could offer, and he lifted his head at the sound of thunder cracking, seeing the bright flash of lightning streaking across the sky. “Thundersnow?” He asked cautiously, looking to Aleks. The phenomenon was incredibly rare, to say the least.

The Norseman could feel the roll of thunder in his bones, lifting his head in time to see a bolt of bright light streak across those black storm clouds. The strangest thing was that Aleks felt more at home in storms than he did on sunny days, and it could be said even more right now. “Yeah,” he croaked in between hiccuped breaths, glancing at Mathias before looking back out the open windows at the oncoming storm. There was no rationale for what he was feeling, that need to chase the storm until it enveloped him in its wrath. “I… I think I should go outside.”

Another crack of thunder and a beautifully bright and expressive streak of lightning coated the sky and Bastian almost felt...safe. At ease. Like a certain Dane was soothing their worries, their sorrows, their heartache. “Go. Say hi to him for me.” Bastian let go of Aleks’ hand before taking Mathias’ in his own again, pressing the cool skin to his forehead briefly.

He looked at Bastian, rubbing his cheek in a tender motion before planting a kiss on his forehead. “Do you want to stay here, or do you want me to help you back to bed?” “I’ll stay here if you don’t mind.” He murmured, purring contently at the gentle kiss to his forehead. “Wanna keep him company.”

It warmed his soul that the young man understood on some level that what was happening had something to do with Matti and himself and all of this. Aleks hopped up from his spot, going to his luggage and throwing on a heavy coat and boots. Digging into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a set of mittens and a hat that seemed to have been lovingly handmade, ruffling the Belgian’s hair as he passed by. “I don’t think he’d mind his son sitting with him.”

He may not have understood the nuances of Norse mythology, but Mathias’ soothing voice cooing to him stories of Thor and Loki, the All-Father, legends of old, remained with the Belgian. He may have barely been holding it together, barely conscious, his mind addled with fever, but Mathias worked him through some of the worst of it. He could be with him now when Aleks needed him to be the pillar of support that Mathias normally would be for the Norseman.

He took the steps two at a time, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him as Aleks made a beeline for the garden door, pulling his hat and mittens on when the chilled air hit his face. “Mathias,” he murmured, ice blue gaze lifted to those dark clouds. “Having fun?”

“Aleks?” Antonio called, squinting as the wind whipped the door closed, slamming hard behind the Norwegian. The snow was driving now from the clouds, blustering around as more thunder rumbled and more lightning danced across the sky as Aleks spoke; as if saying its greetings to him.

Under the flashes of lightning, as they struck aimlessly through those looming storm clouds, Aleks’ eyes seemed to glow. A breathless laugh escaped him as the thunder rumbled around him, deafening and terrifying. Aleks was forged in bloodshed and found his most obstinate peace in chaos and violence, so the fact that his husband found a patron in Thor was probably no coincidence. Lowering himself to the snow, he laid back in the powder, arms outstretched as if to welcome the embrace of the storm itself. “I miss you,” he breathed, watching his huff of breath be whipped away into the snowfall.

Matthew looked up when he heard the door slam against the howling winds and the thunder shake the house, rising from his seat and going to Toni. “Wait, did Aleksander go outside?”

“Let him,” Bastian called from the stairs, half leaning down them, mostly for support, and partly so he could easily scramble back up to Mathias and take the man’s hand again. “He’s talking to Matti. He needs this.”

No one pretended to understand the logic of Aleksander running out into a raging blizzard complete with thundersnow, but no one was going to argue with the Belgian, either. He seemed to have a better grip as to what was going on.

More thunder rumbled, almost morosely, as if asking Aleks why he was mourning so deeply, that Mathias was in Valhalla— and that Matti would see him soon. Lightning made new homes in the clouds and the thunder rolled, echoing off the buildings and against the canals not too far from them, offering a blanket of comfort.

It was a relief to hear that he was actually within those gilded halls, that he was in the company of the ones that he’d followed for centuries, that it wasn’t all in vain. Not that Aleksander ever believed that it was, but with the conversions and the vilification of the ones he found so much comfort in, it was difficult at times. He never stopped doing his best on this gods-forsaken planet for them, and it seemed that they were taking care of the most precious thing to him. The gods were kind in their own ways. “He tried to kill you, permanently,” The words were lost to his ears in the screaming winds, the atmospheric pressure of the storm bearing down on him like the weight of that damned husband of his, and Aleks cracked a smile.

“Thor better let you come home to me, Mathias.” Aleks shut his eyes, just letting the cold wind bite at his face, the roll of thunder washing over him like a soothing spring breeze. He could hear the scream of ravens carried on the wind, and he had no reason to fear that Mathias was gone from him and this world.

Aleks was being soothed by the winds, driven snow, and rolling thunder of the blizzard. The lightning eased now that it seemed the Norseman’s fears had been almost assuaged, the wind now whipping itself around the man, as if it enveloped him in a bitter cold hug that was full of love and care.

Mathias was there for him in spirit, even if he wasn’t in body, and he had found a way to show his husband that the Dane was watching over them. Through the storm clouds, the rolling of the thunder, and the dancing of lightning, Mathias was comfortable in the Great Hall until the Dane's body was well enough for him to come home. Matti was watching over them.

Aleks just watched the storm rage on as he sat in the very middle of it, letting it bluster and batter at his coat. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this. People often describe love as searing, scorching, and bright like the sun. But, the Norseman found his love in the depths of a late winter storm, thunder loud enough to rattle the bones of the dead while the winds howled like the hounds of Hel. He found the thing he cherished most in what people fear, and Aleksander would trade every sunrise for this love.

The storm seemed to stall over the home, taking hours to blow through without a loss of intensity until it was nearly passed, the lightning fading into tiny flashes between the clouds and the thunder hushed until it just sounded like the crash of distant waves, and the Norseman was content.

The storm lets up with whispers of thunder and gentle, faint tendrils of lightning was as soft as Mathias sleepily whispering a tender “goodnight”, and an “I love you”, to his husband before sleepily stumbling off to bed. It soon faded to just the wind and driving snow, the powdery white crystals piled up all around Aleks, cocooning him safely.

The Gods wanted Aleks to know they were watching and caring for his love, and that in turn, Aleks himself was being watched over by Mathias, guarding them and protecting them from above until the time came for Mathias to return home.

It was only when the storm went out like a lamb did Aleks really start to feel the cold, tears long dried and his heart long stopped feeling like an open wound, stuck gaping with emotional shrapnel. He didn’t want to leave the mound of snow that had been seemingly hand-crafted around him, but it was late and he was tired.

[charlotteisnotthechosenone]

Star Wars Ramblings #3 - The Dark Side

Damn it Star Wars. 

Liking a villain is not a new concept. I have heard people talk over and over about how quite often the villain is the most interesting character in the story. They are the ones with the most complex motives and backgrounds and they are often the ones who you are left wanting to find out more about once the story has ended. It seems we are fascinated with the dark side. While I totally understand that view I have not ever, until now, really experienced that for myself. 

If you had asked me about the dark side pre my voyage into Star Wars I would have simply have dismissed them as a bunch of evil dudes in masks who go around attacking people. I would have also gone as far to admit that I was absolutely terrified of them! I have never experienced fear quite like the imposing, 6 foot 3 figure of Kylo Ren stood over me questioning my allegiance to the resistance in Disney’s Star Wars launch bay! I was very nearly in tears!! But what Star Wars seems to be able to do is to totally take those perceptions and turn them on their heads. There is absolutely no denying that these characters are not nice people and they should in no way be totally redeemable but I can’t help feeling some kind of emotion towards them that isn’t outright hate. 

I had very few feelings/opinions on Darth Vader for the majority of the original films yet when he died I got very emotional. I had such adoration for the rebellion that shouldn’t I have been celebrating when  they were finally able to defeat the Empire? Instead I found myself flooded with upset, not happiness. Darth Vader presents a very blank emotionless presence throughout these first three films and yet I still managed to feel some sort of sadness for him. The minute that his helmet was removed I found myself screaming at the screen that he was not evil, just misunderstood, and he didn’t deserve to die. Surely a connection like that should not have been my reaction. 

Fast fowards 30 years and there is a new brooding villain on the scene. Before I knew much about Star Wars my feelings towards the character I simply knew as the Kylo bloke with the funky lightsaber was how utterly ridiculous I thought he was. One of the things I loved about the villains in Star Wars was the fact that both the leaders and the storm troopers all wore these identity wiping masks and armour which only served to increase that air of fear and coldness surrounding them. It was this detachment from humanity that made them appear scary to me. Having heard talk of how attractive the internet appeared to find Kylo Ren I was confused. How could you possibly find someone who takes fashion/facewear advice from Darth Vader attractive? So when my friends joined this club insisting that we must meet Kylo Ren whilst at Disney because he was ‘fit’ I started correcting them. What you mean to say is that you fancy Adam Driver I insisted because yes, let’s be honest, his face is above average. That was very quickly denied while images from the movie were thrust in my face to me depicting Kylo Ren not only without his helmet but without his shirt! This is Star Wars am I right? A film series I knew for its action and adventure and not for its sex appeal. I was absolutely outraged that this was how they had chosen to depict this new villain. The whole illusion of these masked characters seemed slightly shattered to me. 

Believe me I have had many rants over my feelings towards Kylo Ren and his lack of clothing (I mean I still stand by the fact that losing the shirt is a little much). He is a character I really wanted to hate and damn you Disney - by taking off that helmet I am ashamedly melting a little inside towards the character I know is going to cause me so many emotions beside the hate I so know I should feel! In interviews Adam often refers to Kylo as being both reckless and unfinished as well as remarking that villains should not be seen as outright evil. They should instead be seen as someone who believes they are doing the right thing and this is what makes them all the more dangerous. From the outset I think it is clear that Kylo holds a lack of authority when it comes to the dark side. In episodes VI-IV it was Vader and no one else giving the orders and more fool anyone who questioned him. The dynamic within the first order however is totally different to that. It is both Hux and Snoke who appear to be the ones giving the orders around here which Kylo is expected to follow. While he may look tall and menacing that appears to be where it stops. A look behind the scenes reveal that it is really Hux who appears to be pulling the strings. 

It was however his interaction with Han that absolutely broke me and honestly made me such a firm believer in the fact that there is still light in him. Han is most definitely my favourite Star Wars character and I feel like his death should have been the one thing to upset me in that scene. What affected me most though wasn’t his death but the words Kylo says when he is reunited with his father. The minute he started to tear up I did too. It was like the whole Darth Vader situation all over again. Kylo tells Han he knows what he has to do but doesn’t have the strength to do it. He truly believes that by killing his father it will make him more connected to the dark side and I think that proves how conflicted and unsure of himself he really is. He previously remarks that he feels the pull to the light and that he needs Vader to show him the darkness, proving that he potentially doesn’t 100% believe in what he is fighting for. While he may believe it is the right thing to do it doesn’t mean he has to totally agree with it. We all do things we may not want to but we do them because we feel they are the right thing to do.

The prequel films did an excellent job of highlighting the transition to the dark side and what Anakin showed was someone who truly believed they were doing the right thing. He was convinced of what he wanted and how he was going to get it and he was going to let absolutely nothing stand in his way - hence the anger, destruction and hate so commonly attributed to villains. When comparing Kylo to Anakin they could not be more different. There is no doubt that by the end of Episode III Anakin is the embodiment of the dark side and those traits are absent from Kylo’s personality. He also remarks that he is ‘being torn apart’ and ‘wants to be free of this pain’. To me they definitely don’t sound like the words of somebody who feels as if they are in the place that they should be. By the end of this scene I was in tears and not because Han Solo had died. Yes that was upsetting but I found myself crying for Kylo, not because of him. I believe he is so conflicted within his own mind and that is what makes him so dangerous. He is a loose canon. While he appears to be the puppet Hux and Snoke are using as the face of the first order he is also acting on his own thoughts. This is evident in the scenes between him and Rey. Bringing Rey (and not BB8) aboard was his little moment of defiance and humanity. It is through the conversations they have together that you can see him cracking a little and his emotion finally beginning to surface. Rey also appears to bring out the more reckless side of him. During their lightsaber fight in the forrest Kylo continues his attack on Rey with pure drive and anger, even once he is injured. His moves do not appear at all tactical or thought through. All he appears to be doing is blindly wielding his lightsaber in her direction with only anger behind it. I do actually know where the story for these two characters is heading and I am very excited for her to bring out more of this human side to him. 

[gratitudeforshishou]

who wants some mob psycho tunes im back on my bulllshit

i made a list of pieces of music id use as character themes for mp100 characters and mentioned tweaking it so

here u go bud

Shigeo Kageyama – Einstein on the beach by Philip glass

i found this piece fitting to mob’s character, it’s a minimalist ‘opera’ (operatic nature is up to debate) with an ongoing theme of counting repeatedly upwards. there are occasional interjections of short spoken sentences in very monotone voices. i think this piece at face value fits mob as a character theme very well, appearing vast, almost empty and unknown in nature, but in further inspection it’s constantly moving, full and unpredictable (each performance of the piece ranges in time, hours longer or shorter than expected). i think the nature of this piece still does nothing to really reflect some of the best things about mob’s character - his deep rooted kindness, motivation and determination, his deep love for the people around him and unwavering respect - but i think as a basic character theme, it fits quite well. n to reiterate I think the counting thing is neat as hell lol

Reigen Arataka – Turkish Bath by the Don Ellis Orchestra

i adore this piece and i think it reflects reigen’s character amazingly! it gives off the overall tone of being plenty sleazy and absolutely ridiculous, with a fairly relaxed tempo and a clashing harmony – for example, when the melody comes in for the first time, both trumpets are very obviously out of tune with each other. what i love about this though, despite this piece giving off this shady and almost humorous vibe, it’s meticulously written and performed. the descending quarter tone scale on the trumpet is tough as hell to nail, for example. this whole piece emits such vivid reigen vibes for every reason, its so funky fresh

Ritsu Kageyama – Electric Counterpoint by Steve Reich

ill just link the third movement but if anyone wants to listen to the whole thing be my guest ! i think wit ritsu being a kageyama sibling, we gotta stick with the minimalist theme. this piece is performed by a total of ten electric guitars (two of which are basses), and is made up of a series of short guitar licks that grow and develop until the end of the movement. i don’t have a huge amount to say besides that the method of layering and adding guitar parts is organised, but additionally clever and complex,,,,,,,,,,,,just like ritsu,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, also haha electric guitars theyre pretty emo right

Serizawa Katsuya – Warrior by Hiromi: The Trio Project

when i made this list for the first time, the one i gave seri was a lot shorter and more subdued in nature. ive decided that nah, he deserves something much more bright and beautiful so !! heres this !! this un really makes me think of post-claw seri – the whole thing is absolutely flourishing, so emotive and it has such a large and captivating sound. it comes with moments of high and almost manic energy, some more subdued and relaxed parts, but is overall has such a solid and comforting presence. Is this my comfort piece ? perhaps

??? – Sacrificial Dance from Rite of Spring by Igor Stravinsky

hooooo shit buddy lemme tell u about this un. so rite of spring is a ballet about a pagan ritual that happens once per year in which a virgin woman is selected and given a red dress, who then has to dance herself to death as a sacrifice for a fruitful spring. Its stupid batshit but the reason i bring that up is because the specific part of the ballet id put to ???% is the sacrificial dance itself. basically this is the part of the ballet where the girl is given the dress and she loses control, going ham while the music gets choppy and violent. still it is more the music than the story that id put to the character – its terrifying because it’s so unkown and so unpredictable. rite of spring is notorious for being fiendishly difficult to play, and that’s because the timing and rhythms are so whack and random. the chords are clashing and sudden, as the piece nears an end it escalates and its impossible to know what is going where. but this being said, there are areas of ominous calm – still unpredictable in rhythm, but subdued. in one way it’s a polar opposite to Einstein on the Beach (the piece i put to mob) but in some ways i feel like that woulda been a good piece to use for ???% too

Shou Suzuki – Garage Drummer by James Campbell

tbh I don’t really know anything about this piece so i cant say much but i think itd make an interesting theme for shou ! aside from being weirdly sorta funky and unpredictable and not to mention with moments of going ham, the fact that its carefully written and practiced fits with the character as well – coming off as impulsive and brash maybe but in fact very thought out. also drums are the fucking cool

Kurata Tome – Fish and Chips by Grace Kelly ft. Leo P

guys…..its funky fresh….. high energy, use of improvisation and also Using The Instrument Not Exactly How It Says On The Tin. its short but sweet, bit ridiculous and completely unashamed which is some Good Shit !! I was also thinking of John Adams’s short ride in a fast machine – its also super high energy, fast paced and it gave me p vivid space vibes if u fancy checking that un out aswell

Teruki Hanazawa – Jazz Suite II by Dimitri Shostakovich

when i made the first list and put this un to teru, an amazing artist replied with this fantastic drawing of teru with the caption ‘lets dance!’ n that is p much exactly why i put this piece to teru. this piece is almost drawlingly sarcastic in nature, though i feel it fits teru as a sort of huge and boisterous dance !! u know how after teru loses his first fight w mob he goes through that whole “superiority complex about not having a superiority complex” thing ? i feel like this piece encapsulates that mood so well, but not just that !! in his moments of utter selflessness as well as those of bigheadedness, teru has such a large and loveable personality and I feel like this tune fits it so well !! teru if ur reading this…….i love u bro

Tsubomi Takane – Leila’s Birthday by Hanneke Cassel 

i heard this one for the first time when a scottish friend of mine was playing some trad tunes in the kitchen ! weve never known much about tsubomi, besides her old connection to mob and what we’ve seen of her personality in the later chapters. ofc i love that tsubomi shits on the “main character gets the girl at the end of the day” trope, and that she remains a loved and solid character of her own afterwards. shes a self respecting, take no shit and genuinely kindhearted girl and i felt this tune captures the sort of freedom i associate with tsubomi’s character well. plus in my personal experience, i don’t know much about scottish trad at all but i love to hear it and like to learn about if where i can – just like how we all feel about tsubomi int it

Dimple – Why Does It Hurt When I Pee? By Frank Zapper

i thought of this as a joke when i was really drunk the other day but it was like 2 am and i couldn’t sleep after that bc like…….spirits eat other spirits right……do they have to like……piss…….

[shaniahnoel]

Everything Has Changed: Chapter 7

Word Count: 2300

Warnings: Some mention of trauma?

Master List

It was hard to look at her father in the hospital bed. He was superman, but now he’d met his kryptonite. There was an oxygen mask on his face and tubes coming out of him in several places. His strong arms laid limply at his sides, one heavily bandaged. The blankets hid his lower body for which she was grateful. Each breath seemed to pain him, and Riley stared down at the hand she held, unable to gaze elsewhere. She kept a firm grip on Ellie in her lap who couldn’t contain her curiosity and had nearly pulled out her father’s IV twice.

“Do you want to do the mechanic work?”

“I want to help in any way that I can. I can do it.”

She meant to glance up quickly, but he caught her gaze and held it. “I’ll be okay, Riles.”

“I know,” she answered thickly, trying to stifle the tears. “It’s just… you look so…,” she nuzzled her face into Ellie’s shoulder to hide. Her father squeezed her hand firmly.

“It’s not permanent, sweetheart. I’ll listen to the doctors and be better before you know it. In the mean time I can’t think of anyone better to take over my spot.”

When they went home from the hospital, Riley felt numb. Ellie’s giddiness returned, and her mother was talking to her grandparents, organizing plans for them to come and help for the next few weeks, while Riley watched out the window, unable to get her father’s broken body out of her head. She went to bed without dinner and turned this way and that before finally falling into a restless sleep.

The next morning, Riley woke herself up crying, hopelessly entangled in her blankets. Her father’s face flashed before her eyes, covered in blood and unresponsive. She scrambled across the floor, barely turning the trash can before her stomach noisily lost its contents. Breathing heavily, she pulled herself into a sitting position against the wall. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him, and her stomach would shift again. Her mother found her there on the floor an hour later. She didn’t say a word but sat and gathered her up into her arms. Riley felt like a small child in her mother’s lap, crying silently as she stroked her hair.

“I can’t get it out of my head. There was so much blood. So, so much blood,” she choked out.

“I know, honey, I know. But daddy’s okay now.”

“He’s broken,” Riley mumbled. Her mother drew in a soft breath but didn’t speak for a moment.

“Your father is the strongest man I’ve ever met. Seeing him in the hospital bed is hard, I know, but he’s been through worse and he’s always come back better for it.”

Riley knew that was true, she’d stayed up late many nights begging him to tell stories of his crazy days. He’d been mountain climbing, snowboarding, and even skydiving once. She’d loved the stories and was even more amazed that he was still standing after each one. He’d felt superhuman, but last night she’d seen his humanness—saw the blood behind the scars and it terrified her.

“Why don’t you stay home today, sweetheart? You can get back to school tomorrow.”

“No,” Riley wiped her face, “I can’t sit here. I’ll be okay.”

Her mother nodded and pressed her lips to her forehead before moving to get ready for work. Riley took a deep breath to steady herself and then got busy, grabbing some clothes and heading into the shower. The warm water calmed her frenzied nerves and she took the time to carefully dry her hair and apply make-up. It had always been her way to compensate for feeling crappy. Ellie was jumping around the house chattering endlessly about the new story to tell her friends and asking their mom when dad would come home. Riley caught her arm and kissed the top of her head before grabbing her mom into a tighter hug than usual. She played her music a little louder as she stepped onto the bus, the numb feeling returning.

The trio was waiting at her locker, Iris and Kieran seeming anxious. Iris reached her first pulling her into a tight hug while Jake patted her shoulder, the usual grin on his face. Kieran wrapped his arms around her, smile faltering as she pulled away from his grasp quickly to turn to her locker. Jake started talking about the upcoming football game and she sighed, happy for the shift in focus. The steady tempo of approaching boots told her the Serpents were arriving and she wondered if there was a rule about always moving in a pack. Toni stopped with Sweet Pea and Fangs at her side.

“How’re you holding up?” Toni asked, reaching for her hand.

“It was a rough night, but today’s better,” she answered with a smile. “In a few days the shop will open up again, and I’ll be in the garage.”

“Still going to have a pissy cashier out front,” Sweet Pea asked, a taunting edge to his voice.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” Kiera said, immediately responding to the challenge. Sweet Pea stepped forward, straightening up and Riley closed her eyes. Coming to school had been a mistake.

“You’re not worth my time,” Sweet Pea said quietly, forced calm in his voice. Without another word, the Serpents broke away, Toni throwing an apologetic look over her shoulder. Kieran fumed beside her a moment more before strutting away with Jake and Iris.

Shortly after they headed off and Riley slipped into her classroom where she was surprised to find that Sweet Pea had swapped with the Serpent in front of him, placing him right beside her.

“Thanks,” she said tentatively, angling herself towards him. He remained facing forward, but the glare on his face seemed to lessen some.

“For what?”

“For stopping.”

“I figured one of us should acknowledge you,” Sweet Pea sounded irritated as he turned towards her slightly.

“What,” Riley asked but, Mrs. Dabney walked into the room, and Sweet Pea shushed her mockingly. The morning announcements were short, but she pulled out a homework assignment and pretended to check over it. Sweet Pea swung around to talk to the other Serpents and she focused on staying in the present. When the bell rang, he fell into step beside her and she noticed his presence felt warm again.

“So, you’re done being mad at me,” she said, trying to break the ice.  

“For now; people say I have anger issues, apparently.”

“Imagine that,” she said, suppressing a laugh.

“Riley,” Kieran’s voice rang out behind them. She stopped, turning in surprise at his harsh tone. Sweet Pea made as if to stand between them, but Riley touched his shoulder and inclined her head towards the end of the hall. His jaw hardened, but he strode into the classroom, sending a few students scattering in his wake. Kieran glared after him before turning the flames on her.

“I thought you weren’t talking anymore,” he asked, gesturing to where Sweet Pea had disappeared.

“It varies,” she said with a small laugh.

“Do you always walk with him?”

“Yeah,” Riley said, her confusion making the words a question. “We share first period and come from the same homeroom…?”

“Convenient.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Honestly, Riley, do you have any self-respect?”

“Excuse me,” her eyes widened in shock.

“Don’t play dumb. Everyone sees the way that you talk to Fangs and now Sweet Pea again. The rumors are spreading.”

“Yeah, and how many of them have you started? Because there’s nothing going on with either of them.”

“It doesn’t matter, Riley. You associate with people like that and your life will head down the tubes, right with ‘em.”

“Just because you’ve finally noticed that I’m datebable doesn’t mean you get to play Mr. Possessive.”

This time it was Kieran’s turn to appear taken aback.

“Don’t play dumb,” Riley mimicked, “You’ve got some sort of complex over the summer that’s made you decide you have some claim on me and keep getting pissed off at any guy that approaches. Hell, if Jake wasn’t dating Iris you’d probably be all over me for talking to him.”

“He’s not a--,” Kieran said, his voice raising.

“A what? A Serpent? Well that’s a shame now isn’t it,” Riley said, her voice raising an octave.”At least the Serpents have actually cared that my dad is in. the. hospital.”

The warning bell rang, and Riley shook her head, turning to her classroom. He made no attempt to stop her from walking away for which she was grateful. Every conflicting feeling was bubbling within her, each combining with the other in the most unpleasant way.

Sweet Pea was perched on the back of his chair, silently daring Mr. Kendrick to complain about his position—the students behind him had already shifted over. His taunting expression shifted to one of concern as Riley took her seat beside him, but she stared straight ahead, willing time to move quickly. Once the final bell rang, last week’s test was passed back and the torrent of emotions she was feeling found their place to break free. Tears rolled down her face silently, and when the period ended she made her way slowly to the front of the room.

“Can I have help sessions,” she asked quietly, as the last students trickled out of the classroom. Mr. Kendrick’s look was pitying, and Riley tried not to focus on how much she hated it. He glanced over his calendar and nodded.

“Come in early on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s and I’ll see what we can do. You’re a good student, Riley. These formulas don’t come easy to everyone.”

Riley nodded her thanks and walked out of the classroom, the second failed test curled in her hand. To her surprise, Sweet Pea was leaned outside of the door. She was sure that he had to have heard the conversation, but he didn’t even acknowledge her presence save for turning to walk alongside her.

“I’m sorry if I caused problems,” he said quietly, as they approached her next class.

“Problems?”

“Walking with you. I’m sorry if I pissed off your boyfriend.” The words almost sounded effortless.

“He was never my boyfriend,” Riley started, trying to control the fire in her voice, “and, please, I’m done with games. Just be real, Sweets, I like you better that way.”

He paused for a moment seeming confused, but then a smile crossed his face.

“I am sorry if it added to your stress buttttt,” he said, extending the word, “pissing him off is one of the highlights of my day.” The cheeky smile he gave her earned a begrudging smile in return.

They’d reached her class, but Riley hesitated. Her heart hurt, her head was pounding, but she was smiling. All because of Sweet Pea. Without thinking she wrapped her arms around his waist, briefly enjoying the smell of leather and grease lingering on his chest. His arms draped loosely around her, patting her back awkwardly. She stepped back, feeling warm.

“I’d like to be friends,” she said quietly, walking into her class.

When free period rolled around, Riley checked her phone to find a lengthy apology text from Kieran. Before she could read it, she found Iris pacing in the courtyard. She was muttering to herself and it looked like she’d been crying. Probably a fight with Jake, Riley thought, rolling her eyes. The twins were more trouble than they were worth.

“Hey beautiful,” Riley said in greeting, bumping into her hip. Iris looked up, blue eyes vibrant against the strained red. Mascara smudged under her water line and she swiped under her eyes once more.

“Hey, how’re you holding up,” Iris asked.

“I think better than you… what’s up?”

“Jake and I had a fight.”

“Must be the day for fighting the twins. What were you fighting about?”

“Nothing important,” Iris said, keeping her eyes averted. “Did you say you had a fight with Kieran?”

“Yeah,” Riley answered slowly, wondering what Iris was hiding. “He told me I didn’t have any self-respect for hanging out with the Serpents. I told him that just because he finally took notice of me doesn’t give him exclusive rights.”

“You’re not usually so assertive,” Iris said, voice laced with pride, causing Riley to laugh.

“Yeah, just another Serpent influence. If I wasn’t assertive with Fangs around I’d have nine tattoos and alcohol poisoning.”

“Sounds like an evening out with Jake,” Iris said with a strange bitterness. Now more than ever Riley was aware of the sadness hovering over her friend. She threw an arm over her shoulder and pulled her towards the gate.

“I could use a break. You?”

Iris nodded in response and allowed herself to be led out into the parking lot. A substitute teacher stealing a smoke break glared at them but said nothing as they weaved through the cars. There were a few other students who shared their sentiments and it was no surprise to see a band of leather jackets among them. The surprise was when a pair of leather jackets turned and called her name.

“Yo, Evans, you leaving too?”

“Only with you, Fogarty,” Riley called back with a grin. Turning to Iris, she asked, “Wanna live a little dangerously?”

Iris looked up in surprise, “Assertive and flirty. Here I thought Sweet Pea was the contender.”

Riley couldn’t contain the laughter that bubbled over. She shook her head, looking at Fangs and back at Iris. “It’s just how Fangs’ is y’know? It means nothing.”

“Ouch,” he said in mock hurt, hearing the last words.

“Your ego will heal,” Riley said, “Toni, Fangs, this is my best friend Iris who is in desperate need of a pick me up as am I. Help some girls out?”

Taglist:  @ella-full-of-secrets @my-ships-have-sunk@54fangirl@everheart12@inspiredbynewt@poolpartyingwithjaws@southsidesserpent@lynniev @karleedaniels27 @the-greatt-perhaps @lilybellsworld @cherylblossom-komwonkru @oldestfairytale

[hopeymchope]

Random thoughts about bad/dumb/good things that happen in the back nine episodes of ‘Darling in the Franxx’

This post is long, and it’s mostly me griping about how Darling in the Franxx failed to stick its landing. I’ve got a lot of bullet points about what annoyed me, as well as some points about what I still liked in the back half, and eventually I’m just like “yeah, fuck this.”

That’s the short version: You had a lot going for you but ultimately blew it really bad for me, so like... fuck this.

Damn right Mitsu-WAIT, I forgot when Mitsuru had this much emotion! WHO DIS?!

The long version is more complicated, though, and I feel like rambling/ranting on, so here it goes.

There is no way to stress enough that Zero-Two literally transforms into a giant part-human part-mech creature that Hiro literally rides inside of. She becomes a skyscraper-sized girl that you can climb inside the skull of, and EVERYBODY IS OKAY WITH THIS AND DELIGHTED BY IT. There is NOT a moment where Zorome cries “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUUUUUUUCK?!?” when she appears, flying in space, at a mass so large she could easily swallow the whole team in one gulp. Nothing like that.

This is not adequately set up, but it IS understandable with some thought: I mean, we are told in a previous ep that the franxx are essentially just recreated, retrofitted klaxosaurs. We also have seen how klaxosaurs are part-organic, part-mechanical beings, and we are told by the Klaxo Princess they are, in fact, the new version of the organic klaxosapiens, now retrofitted for war. In addition, we know that Zero-Two is part Klaxosaur - a clone of the last klaxosapien. So you see how the idea that Zero-Two could somehow “retrofit” or “transition” into a giant cybernetic war mode similar to how the klaxosapiens somehow did the same thing... you could justify that! Once I thought it all through, it kinda worked. But none of this is laid out for you, and it comes off as laugh-out-loud ridiculous in the moment that it happens. Only later, when my brain was piecing the evidence together, did I get somewhere that made sense out of it.

The Nines remained bitterly loyal to Papa when we last see them in Episode 20, snapping at Squad 13 for not showing due respect. When they return in Episode 23, Nine Alpha is suddenly on the side of Squad 13. Because Papa turned out to be an alien, you see. But like... you’ve been fighting klaxosaurs and feeling extreme loyalty to Papa your entire lives up until like, yesterday, so seeing you suddenly join the pro-klaxo side of the war is perhaps too hard a turn. Granted, a lot of time passes off-screen during this period, but still it’s sort of “Hey it’s me, Alpha. Remember how I was never anything but a total asshole to you guys? Remember how I hated emotions and shit? Yeah I wanna help Hiro reunite with Zero Two now.” Um. Okay?

Mitsuru’s speech to Kokoro about how “I want to be with you not because I love you, but because I believe that I did love you once, and I don’t remember that feeling anymore, but I still believe it existed, and I want to respect it!” is literally the worst, least-romantic declaration of non-love I’ve ever heard in my life. The music swells romantically and Kokoro seemingly weeps out of joy over it. I prefer to think she’s crying because it’s so fucking awful. It is actively offensive to real emotions and logic

Remember when Mitsuru talked about he always wished he and Hiro could co-pilot a franxx together? Remember his debilitating rage at Hiro for forgetting their promise to become soldiers together? It really feels like we had a gay or bi character here, and that maybe we were setting something up for his character. but the entire fixation on Hiro is utterly ignored once he gets reduced to “Kokoro’s sperm donor.” I mean, jeez, “my homosexual fixation on Hiro has filled me with an incoherent rage” just gave me flashbacks to Juzo from Danganronpa 3, and that’s not good, but at least it was more personality than he ultimately got.

WHY are we left with the strong sense that Ikuno is dying of the accelerated aging (she is the only one who loses ALL color in her hair and the only one we last see in a hospital bed on an IV drip, so it’s pretty blatant) even though literally no one else in the squad is suffering from it anymore, supposedly thanks to HER research?!... I assume because she’s gay. After all, the extremely gay Nines were all killed off by a mysterious ailment due to a lack of “maintenance” so we might as well kill off Ikuno too, right?! BURY YOUR GAYS. And FUCK YOU.

Goro somehow gets together with Ichigo. We do not get to see how/whether he won he over. Given that the final episode includes multiple scenes of her really missing Hiro along with a scene of her not caring much that Goro is going to travel the world without her (repeatedly), it comes off as though Itchy settled for Goro because he was the best available penis. I AM NOT ENDEARED.

We are also told that Goro has “really changed’ since the beginning of the series. There is no evidence to back this statement up. In fact, he is acting exactly the same in this scene as he always has. Granted, he had a moment in the previous episode where he got pissed and punched Hiro, and that was a big change... but he apologized and it’s not discussed again, so um. Huh. The thing that seems to be a sign of his “change” is his desire to go out alone into the world in an act of self-sacrifice for the good of everyone. Which is LITERALLY THE GORO WE’VE ALWAYS KNOWN. File his change under “informed attributes.”

By the end of the series, Hiro is full-on turning more into a Klaxosapien than a human because... honestly, I’m not sure. It’s possible it’s because he’s been “plugged into” Zero-Two, but it seems like the process is mostly done by then, because he’s immediately able to live without food or water or sleep once he plugs in, and he already had his horns glow with rage in the ep previous to this. So I think he transformed due to the fact that one time, as a kid, he licked Zero-Two’s blood, and as a teen, he’s kissed her a bunch of times. Which is... pretty goddamn extreme. I mean, I know fluid transfer can be a powerful experience — just ask Sandra Bullock — but this is some real next-level shit.

We waited all series for shit to “get real” and someone in Squad 13 to die. It takes until the very last episode for it to happen, and — in a desperate bid to make us care about what’s happening — it’s the two characters who got the most development and who most people care about. The two leads. Which comes off as too little, too late for me to even feel it, seeing as how they’re only vaguely human or relatable by this point. But I AM weirdly bitter that they kept alive everyone else, even the many people we didn’t give much of a shit about (Zorome? Miku?), so that none of the battles in the series EVER had to have real consequences for our heroes. I hate to sound bloodthirsty, and yet....

Hey, speaking of Zorome, remember how him being exposed to the “adult” in the first half of the show made her get sick? Remember how she was also immediately fascinated by and kind to him and it made you wonder how that would affect the other adults? None of this goes anywhere, because the adults all get spirited away as souls to be part of the VIRM hive-mind, so whatever, they’re gone now.

Why are these people all standing around a statue and screaming at the sky and praying? Most of them don’t even know who this girl was. This doesn’t come off as “moving” so much as a terrifying parable about religious fanaticism in cult groups. You see a group of people screaming and praying at idols you don’t understand, and gradually, more and more people just copy the behavior without understanding it. *shiver*

Was there EVER a hint that the adults watching over the squad were friggin’ IMMORTAL?! Because I don’t think there was. I’d need to go way back into earlier episodes to be sure, though.

It’s not that the ENTIRE back half of the show is awful, really. There are some legitimately excellent moments.

Good Stuff

Right when we first come back after episode 15′s big midway point in the story, the subtle way that Zero-Two discovering the gray hair on Miku’s head was handled - during a warm, lighthearted scene to boot - really made it hit home.

The overt anger and defiance of Hiro in the face of “Papa” and APE really made me like him even more. He had some great moments there, including possibly the greatest episode-ending dialogue when he declared just how fucking DONE they all are with their so-called “Papa.”

Zorome’s inability to fully embrace the idea that “Papa” could be so wrong and bad was another good touch.

The big “backstory” episode served to make me really care for Dr. Franxx in a surprise late-game twist. He goes from being a shadowy sinister presence to becoming one of the more sympathetic characters... right before getting killed shortly thereafter.

The big promise scene between Zero-Two and Hiro, where they swear to always come for each other... that one really pulled at my heart.

Also, Hiro’s dedication to caring for the ailing, zombie-like Zero-Two was both devastating and touching. It’s one of the final bits that actually hits any kind of emotion for me in the series.

I actually didn’t mind the alien twist with the VIRM very much like so damn many people did. APE was long portrayed as this unknowable higher power that was clearly hiding something while simultaneously enforcing a 1984-esque obedience and loyalty... and there’s only so many places to go with such a setup, honestly. Much more shocking, to me, is how little is done to build up to/justify the true origin of the klaxosaurs.

But, well, yeah. Like most, I wound up feeling like DitF had a couple of really excellent characters in the lead, and then proceeded to go nowhere worthwhile once it got them to finally be together. Ultimately, they didn’t even get to grow up or have real sex or face the new world. They just get shuffled off into weirdness and death so we can have a bigger cycle of disappointment.

This one has a lot of themes that feel unexplored, and maybe further analysis would make it all gel together more comprehensibly. There is definitely a lot of effort put into thematic hints and worldbuilding in the first half, some of it done in a subtle background way that recalls my favorite aspects of The Future Diary — a favorite anime of mine that ALSO admittedly fails to adequately explain some parts of the world it builds, but it keeps most of its logic intact and is so emotionally engaging that I ultimately went along for the ride and was willing to explore the background justifications and themes later in order to fully grasp that world.

In comparison, I don’t really want to put in the effort to glean the underlying details of DitF. It didn’t leave me feeling like the writers put in the work to keep me invested, so why would I?

[dekiiru]

okay sorry it took so long for me to write and post this, but im home now and in the silence to be able to gather my thoughts and the peace to be able to write them down. a lot of this is me working through my own thoughts as i write it so im sorry its so long, but im still a little bit confused on how to feel about this, largely, i think, due to shock.

i had no clue about almost any of the stuff julie did or said to people. i knew of the miles thing to some extent (i didnt know why miles was uncomfortable with him, i only knew about the aftereffects) and i knew about the vague story surrounding why maddy, jay and marina didnt like him, although i had never actually spoken to them before.

my initial reaction to the callout was to get defensive, because that was someone i considered my friend and although somewhere i think i knew or had some inkling that he was like this, i chalked it up to mistakes and people jealous of his popularity because i wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. but the more i read the callout (i never finished it, partially because i had to take screencaps of the posts and painstakingly slowly read through them because the nature of my work makes it very difficult to focus on things for more than a few seconds at a time and partially because by the time i stopped, i had already made my decision regarding him) the more i realized that defending his actions isnt something i can, should, or would do.

and regarding the “sc/hool sho/oter” post, i live in america. in fact, i lived about 5-15 minutes away from where one of these sc/hool sho/otings happened (i lived for several years in roseburg, oregon, and the sh/ooting at u.c.c. happened a year or two after i moved to where i live now). i knew people who went there. i knew one person who died. the day it happened i broke down in the middle of marching band because i had no idea whether or not the friends i knew for three years were alive or dead and that fucking terrified me. and when it happened, i told julie over discord (because i was working when i heard about it) that i did not condone his actions or words and that it was wrong of him to say, but (and i still stand by this), it is not the place of anyone who was not even indirectly affected by a shooting to decide whether or not someone is worthy of redemption. no, julie should not have reblogged that post and while it is totally fine for you to be uncomfortable to interact with him because of it, i think only people who have been directly affected by sc/hool shoo/tings have the right to decide if he is worthy of forgiveness - for that. the rest of it is a different matter.

a few months ago i actually went through this with someone else. i wrote a callout post for daisy, a mercy blog in the overwatch fandom who deleted shortly after i wrote it. (if any of you want to see that callout, let me know and ill send it to you. i will admit here and now that there was something i shouldnt have added in there, but it was added with good intentions, but regardless, daisy’s callout really has nothing to do with the situation with julie and nothing to do with what is happening now. shes gone. im just making a connection to this situation.) it was a very similar situation; manipulation, hypocrisy, turning people against others, saving face and caring more about reputation than anything else. and while i was absolutely terrified of daisy’s situation happening again, where i get really really close with someone and then find out they manipulated the fuck out of me, i was also scared to lose friends, and i think thats a big part of why i wanted so badly to match or whatever, because i really really really wanted a place to belong, where i felt special and unique and yet part of a group and in the end that really fucked me over and made me blind to what was happening. i defended him (albeit not for long, ive only spoken to him for a few months now) for things i shouldnt have defended him for because i was terrified of losing people and im so sorry about that.

as for the callout itself: i will say that i do think there are two sides to every story. im not saying julie is a victim in this or that he is to be sympathized with, because at the end of the day, he hurt a lot of people and its good that the word was spread before more people got hurt. i dont agree that it is “a cis persons responsibility to make sure people know they are cis” because that kind of mindset will only lead to a witch hunt, but im not going to make a fuss about this because i know some other genderqueer people are more uncomfortable about cis people than i am and at the end of the day that is a personal opinion. i think some of the callout was worded with bias which probably, in some situations, did slightly twist the truth, ONLY because it is a callout and it is really difficult not to twist the truth in them even when they are written as formally as possible, HOWEVER while most of the time i disregard callouts (because a lot of them are written entirely based on personal bias because someone doesnt like someone else rather than on an actual need for people to be warned), this one was written very eloquently and very well. as someone who has been on that side of things, im really really proud of the people who contributed to it, especially those that werent afraid of giving their names out, because that is a really really hard thing to do, especially when its for someone really popular. i remember when i wrote one for daisy, i was almost sick to my stomach with the anxiety, and really pleasantly surprised when it was received much better than i expected. i am really proud of you guys, and thank you for letting me and everyone else know the truth of what happened.

however, that callout was not an attack, nor was it intended to be, and by people sending julie hate, youre just making the situation worse. i believe, in my personal opinion, that the best thing to do is to block and move on. we can come together as a community, and while julies actions wont go away, hopefully we can heal and understand from them. and i really want to thank manny for that post, because similarly to daisy, it is the people closest to the person in question who are left most in the dark. as julies friend, i had no idea about almost anything that was there and honestly, im glad now that i do. thank you for understanding that the people who associated with him are not always aware of what he did.

anyway this is really disorganized and im sorry, thats just my thoughts on the matter (as much as i can think anyway), and i hope it makes some sort of sense. i will be hardblocking julie on all of my blogs and changing the urls to both my izuku blog and my ouma blog and my icon for this blog. if you choose to continue to interact with julie, thats on you and i wont reprimand you, block you or unfollow you for it. please do not associate me with him anymore, though, add me to any groups anywhere with him, or tag me and him in the same posts.

and, as i said before, because i really want to get this point across, if you are uncomfortable with me because i interacted with him so much and so intimately and wish to hard or softblock or unfollow me, that is perfectly fine and i understand completely. i only ask if you softblock me that you let me know so that i dont accidentally follow you again, because i dont want to make anyone uncomfortable with my presence.

[u-r--lovely]

My Story In Seven Chapters: “Underneath The Marks”

Ch.1 Flowery Sheets

Sometimes late at night I’d pretend to fall asleep on the bottom of my mom and dad’s bed just so my dad could carry me in with his strong arms and warm heart. I remember my childhood as an old movie playing on the screen of a projector dropping in and out of my consciousness. Growing up in a large family I was often overlooked, and quiet, so if you could imagine it was easy for me to feel invisible. From a young age I’ve learned to pretend, to disconnect, to venture into a world of my own. I had imaginary friends who were fairies that followed me everywhere. I hid under books, and stuffed animals as my older brother shot up heroin and older sister got drunk in the upstairs attic.Cop cars lights were a common presence in my driveway but I didn’t mind because at least my brothers and sisters would be safe from the drugs that way.  On the hard days, I remember the flowery pink sheets I kept myself in, the silhouette of my own hand comforting my soul. I remember holding my bunny tight as my mom sang me Amazing Grace as I fell asleep. I remember begging my brother Jeremy to open the bathroom door when he was shooting up Heroin one time, and the day he stole my babysitting money for drugs. Then, came the day I asked where he was and my mom freaked out because she had forgotten about him and suddenly... he was gone. Actually gone. I was twelve and didn’t know much about death (I mean what twelve year old should), but I knew that he had been sick for a really long time and that he was finally finally free and that made me happy and sad at the same time.

Ch. 2  Scratchy Beards

When my dad told me he got sick with Cancer, I sort of thought it was okay because that meant he’d be at home more. That meant he would actually make us real dinners instead of having hot pockets every night and cold burnt spaghetti. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen I filled my life with making origami, twirling, and writing songs about pretty girls, fairy dust and sunshine. I hated when my dad came to my school because he had to carry around this huge oxygen tank with plastic wires creeping out of his nose, and I pretended I didn’t know him. I still feel bad about that to this day. The most iconic thing about my dad other then him being secretly gay (which I didn’t know about until now), was his scratchy beard and large tattooed forearm. I miss his hugs most of all, maybe that’s why hugging people feels wrong at times--no one’s hugs are quite like his were. My mom and dad left for Europe to seek alternative cancer treatment the last year he was alive. This just so happened to be when my sister got sober. As she was parenting her own baby boy out of wedlock, she also was supposed to be parenting me. In a flash of an instant,  me and all my siblings gathered around his hospital bed and sang Amazing Grace to his subconscious mind through the rumbling of the machines keeping him alive. Walking out of the ICU each of us said “see you later’ because we all knew it wasn’t goodbye. I guess, not really. On the Christmas morning before tenth grade,  he had left us and I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. I had told myself a few days before that if he didn’t call me beautiful one last time, then something just something was wrong with me. I knew exactly how I was going to change that.

Ch. 3 Safety Pins

I forgot to mention, that while my mom was saving my dads life in Europe I had decided to try to change my own, in the only way I knew how. I decided to stop being the good invisible quiet christian girl and become someone who was seen. At the time, I believed I just wanted to make friends, yah know..be a part of something-- but in a desperate need to distract myself from the losses I endured I had to find a way to become alive again. I self harmed for the first time at fifteen and didn’t think much of it, I thought it was cool and something other people in my friend group did. I didn’t know safety pins weren’t all that safe, I didn’t know hurting myself would become an addiction I’d struggle with for the next six years of my life. I thought that if people saw the pain on my body they could hear me asking for help. Even as I hid under long sleeves and smiles and laughter I started to feel the deeply distant darkness pull me away from myself. Even though I thought I didn’t want anyone to know about it, I felt as though I was screaming yet I wouldn’t allow any sound to come out.

Ch. 4 Porcelain Bowls

A few months after my dad died my mom ran off to Florida every weekend with her new but old boyfriend whom she had been with before my dad 30 years earlier. At the cost of losing my dad, and subsequently losing my mom, I found solace in toilet bowls and diet colas. My friends and I had sort of made a game of it, we’d talk about dieting and then talk about feeling bad for giving into the diets and then feel bad for feeling bad. What started off as a game between friends, began to become a dangerous game of Russian roulette. I remember high school as a blur of calories, cheese puffs, and washing my hands in sinks. I kissed boys that I pretended to like behind tennis courts and eventually began treatment for my eating disorder and self harm during my senior year of high school. I got better ( or so I thought), but beneath the perfect recovery girl I created, laid a deep fear of still not being seen, still not being heard.

Ch. 5 False Safety

I went to college and fell in love with a girl I didn’t pretend to love and went to therapy twice a week.This is a time in my life I like to call “False Safety” because although I felt somewhat okay, I was relying on others around me to take care of me, I never learned to do it myself. I ran around college from club to club pretending to be the recovered girl I thought I had to be, but others couldn’t see what was truly underneath. During therapy I was being seen and loved and everything felt okay... but outside of that small room I believed I was alone. I mean, I  thought things were better, and they were... yet I continued to run from the pain through self harm. I craved so much attention from my girlfriend that if I did not get to be her world, I felt I couldn’t be with her at all. I was so scared of her leaving me like my mom did, I left her before she got the chance too. Back when I was ten, I waited for hours and hours for my mom to pick me up at camp and as each car passed by  and it was not her my disappointment grew deeper. In my adulthood I learned to instead stop waiting for her--or anyone,  I decided to run away and never be found because then I wouldn’t have to face being abandoned.

Ch.6 The Pink Room

It was a month or so after the breakup and I hid behind doorways so I wouldn’t have to see her look away from me. I hid in bathrooms during panic attacks and cried into my cereal in the back of the cafeteria. My world stopped when my therapist told me she was moving (leaving me is what I heard). I had completely attached myself to her and I felt that the one person in my life that truly saw me was leaving. Leaving. People are always leaving me I thought. I decided to fill up the hole she left with alcohol in coffee cups and pills and more cuts and more fake smiles and more “recovery” articles and speaking engagements. It wasn’t enough. None of these things were ever really enough. In the week my therapist left me, I decided to get as drunk as I could and pretend to be happy and flirt with boys I didn’t know because that would make everything better right? I didn’t know the boy with black hair was seven years older than me. October 13th October 13th October 13th. I didn’t know he’d be so mean and when the drinking game got out of hand I didn’t have the capability to say yes or no. I didn’t know walking drunkenly into that pink room, he’d hurt me the way he did. It wasn’t rape, but it was terrifying, violent, awfully painful physically and emotionally.  He was a giant dog playing with a glass doll and he shattered me into a million pieces, he shattered my fake smile right off my face.

Ch. 7 Letting Love In

From October 2017 to May 2018, everything was a blur. A blur of multiple treatment programs for depression, anxiety, and the sexual assault. The Eating Disorder came back stronger and more powerful than ever and this time I was determined to run as far away as I could from that pink room and from the therapist that left me. After a week in the psych ward I thought I could get better on my own with the eating disorder, I thought that I could control my out-of-control-ness. In February 2018, I told my mom I was going to go to treatment, but would wait until Monday. Suddenly, I had a thought, an urge, a quiet voice in the back of my head telling me to go that Friday instead, which I did. I entered treatment for the millionth time and was quickly rushed to the ER for low potassium. It was late at night and no one in my family was picking up the phone. I was in an unknown ER, half asleep, half dead and I still didn’t feel sick enough. There was an IV stuck in my arm and doctors telling me my levels were life threateningly low and I still didn’t feel like I was ‘that bad’. I don’t know if I’d be alive right now, if God hadn’t told me to go that Friday. He truly saved my life. From that point on, I started listening to that quiet voice. A month or so of running from God, one suicide attempt and many family therapy sessions later I decided to go to Selah House. I finally decided to give up the demons that had become my identity. I decided to let love in again. I decided that I could only be free if I let myself be. I could only get better on God’s terms. I know now that I had to fight the ED, Depression, Self harm, PTSD, Anxiety, and Addiction with God by my side only. I know now that what went on in that pink room was not my fault, and I don’t have to be ashamed of it or put blame on myself in any way. Here at Selah is where I’ve found hope. Here, I’ve found healing. Here, I’ve found love. Love between God, others and myself. I know now that it was never actually about the food, the numbers, or the marks. I know that I have a future, a future of helping others heal in the same ways I did. A future full of laughter, crying, heartache, touch, and love. All of my life has really been what’s in between. In between moments of exhale, of tears running down my face, of dad hugs, and Real smiles. These things are all a part of my story but they are not at the core of who I really am.  My life was never meant to be a sad story because I’m not that girl anymore. I am healing, I am tough skin made of scars, I am endless nights crying and glorious mornings shining like nothing bad has ever happened. I am becoming free, becoming Real and I have so much yet to learn about the spaces in between.

[mei-be]

I decided that this year, I will make a resolution. This in itself is a bit revolutionary, because I’ve always been the anti-traditionalist, anti-precedent, just anti-. This year is different, because it started off in a fever pitch, whined to a rotten crescendo, and now is whimpering to a close. At the literal beginning of this year, my mental and physical health had taken a major shit in the proverbial bed. I started the New Year terrified, and sick with worry. I had been hospitalized against my will, in a psych ward, and found myself creeping through a very real life version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I had a delusional roommate, haunted by The Man, who watched her and hurt her. Hurt her though food, through medicine, invaded her life, drained her bank accounts, made it so she couldn’t sleep. Now that I was her roommate, he was watching me too, and I couldn’t close any doors, take a shower, or shut my eyes. There was the drooling, heavy lidded non-verbal man, who shuffled through the hallways attached to an IV, and had one hand permanently lifted and dangling. There was the angry kid, who yelled obscenities, and complained about the bullshit, his medication, how he was treated, only to periodically break down in tears and screaming, and had to go into the Quiet Room. The Quiet Room was a very small space, complete with bed decked out in restraints. The only thing missing was the padded walls and the straight jacket. But that would be undignified. A nurse stood behind a little window, distributing drugs at specific times. I asked her why she broke the pills out of the blister pack, into a paper cup, and tipped the paper cup into my waiting hand. Why not just break the pills from the blister pack into my hand. It’s the same amount of touching by the both of us, and then they could reduce that additional waste and cost. My mind works like that. She didn’t know, that’s how they did it.

That week felt like a month, just like this year felt like a new lifetime. Since then, I’ve been going to therapy, seeing doctors, paying attention to my diet, getting regular sleep, and working on the rats nest that is my brain. It’s what you do, and it’s all good and healthy and mindful, and positive. But what I’ve been really struggling with, is the anxiety. My anxiety rips through me like a cancer. It denatures and decays every day, no matter when it arises. All the good I ever did is wiped away, and I’m left with grime and ash. It used to stay in my head, but now it’s ventured out mycelium-esque threads into my body. It makes me weak, it takes the ground out from under me, my heart machine over heats, my fulel expels and lays wasted, my body-cage aches...

It is what it is.

I am circling the drain. I’ve been here before, I’ve seen this movie, and the ending does no justice. Leitmotifs are small, recurring, characteristic of a composition; so much so that they become the composition. I don’t want to be this ring-cycle, I wont cement this reality through repetition. And so, I’ve decided to wage an attack on this misery. An attack in the form of a Happiness War, to make the goal of happiness as if it were a life or death situation. To furiously, religiously, and zealously seek Happiness with an intensity alike to terror; only matched by the ferocity of the terror inside.

So I make a stand, I screw my courage to the sticking place and screw my fear and stick it to my panic. I choose, I chase, I become a champion of happiness. It is the only choice. I remember a story I once heard. A man was telling his friend about hunting rhino in Africa. It had been a long hunt, and he had finally come to meet his prey. The rhino was a dense, black, death machine of a beast. He fired, but missed. His second shot jammed the rifle. Panicked, he looked around, there was nothing but grass in every direction. No weapon, no tree, no rocks to climb. Just grass, heat, and angry rhino. He could hear the rhino’s approach like thunder, he could very nearly feel the animals hot breath on his neck. Entranced in the tale, his friend asked, “So what did you do?” “I climbed a tree right in the nick of time!” He said. “What tree?”, the friend asked, “You said there was no tree!” “Don’t you see?”, answered the man, “There has to be a tree, there is always a tree, you have to look for it, but that is the point of my story. There is always a tree. Find the tree.”

I take constant support and inspiration from this story. Where there is life, there are more stories. So you do the damn thing until it’s dead, or you are. Never give up, never surrender. There is always another way, even when the rhino is upon you. It is always darkest before the dawn, you just hold on. Find the tree.

Part 1. Gratitude

I did an informal poll, and asked my friends on social media some questions about Happiness. It’s a pretty banal question, and definitely leads to a lot of cliches and derivative content. But even though the question has been asked so many times, to the point of being historical, it still echos in the collective heads of many. So here we go, here we go, here we go again. The way that I research and make decisions is such: I read as much as I can about my subject, and disregard the biases of each individual body of work, even though I know that there are definite biases. Instead, I look for repetition. Despite people’s stance or mediated perceptions, I believe that there are certain, close to absolute truths that will emerge, if given enough experience or exposure. This way of digesting information began when I was grade school aged, and learned about the Free Marketplace Theory. Basically, you give everyone a chance, and the quality items will rise to the top, and prove themselves by their worth. No monopolies, no deceitful practices, no bull. This sounds like a great way to go about scholarly work, but you can imagine me trying to buy sponges, or find recipes, or, most everyday things.

So, one of the threads of commonality that I noticed when asking people about their Happiness, is gratitude. Either as a precursor or an after effect, I see a theme of being happy because of what you have. Interestingly enough, it seems that gratitude is interwoven with a sense of, “It could be worse, but it isn’t”. This strikes me as odd, because it seems that a sense of misery, or acute un-Happiness, is necessary for Happiness to exist. One of my friends wrote this, “Hammocks without spiders. Water when I’m thirsty. Really cold soda on a hot day.” This seems like a simple, light-hearted, cute statement, but look at the profound presence of suffering. To experience the relaxation of a lovely hammock, she apparently had previously experienced a hammock that came with spiders. Good god. That seems like a nightmarish exercise in vulnerability. Yet, it is that horror, that leads her to appreciate each spider-free hammock session, and even more; to list it as one of the top things that make her happy. We run from misery, we avoid it, we do everything we can to keep it at bay. But it’s the other side of happiness. To experience Happiness, apparently you have had to sit in the Shit for a while. I’ve thought about the Shit before, and have come to this similar conclusion. When you are faced with the question of, “Why is this happening to me?” Or the ever-popular, “ Why do bad things happen to good people?”, perhaps the answer is, “So they can learn to be very fucking Happy”.

Two key takeaways here: 1. Caveat- The bad things, the Shit, cannot kill you. If it does, then the conversation is over. Don’t let it kill you, if you can. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Where there is life, there is hope, and more story. For those of us who suffer from suicidal tendencies or ideation, this is a point that needs to be made, for we are the ones in the strange position of being both powerless, and the only one with the power over our lives. 2. The Shit cannot become your life. If the Shit is all you see when you look around, you can never gain perspective. You won’t be able to learn from it if you can’t get some sort of distance. Distance, or progress, is the very mechanism of the story. The shit is your conflict, and conflict is the very catalyst that moves the story, into its rising action and climax. In other, plainer words, that Shit has to move, man. A story that ends before or at its climax is bullshit. It’s an artsy literary move, but for me, that’s just lazy writing. Having your audience choose their own ending saves you from having to write THE ENTIRE REST OF THE STORY. Work that Shit, move through that Shit, don’t let it be everything. That’s just shitty.

2. Progress

A therapy that I’ve just began exploring is ACT, or Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. If you’ve ever even dipped a toe into any sort of counseling or self help, chances are, you’ve come across some form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It’s like the Gold Standard of psychological treatment. It’s based on the idea that your psychological and behavioral issues are based in faulty thinking and or behavior. It’s rooted in repetition, an endless cycle of catching bad thoughts, and turning them into better ones. Often, you literally find the opposite of that negative thought, or look for evidence to support or deny it. You also try to find origins or deeper causes of the negative behavior. The idea is that if you do these exercises long enough, the repetition forms new connections, and new habits. It’s super boring. It works. ACT takes a lot of the same models found in CBT, with one difference. Instead of fighting your negative thoughts, you first accept them. It’s in the name. So, you still go through the rigamorole of identifying your negative thoughts, and trying to find their origins and evidences. However, one deviation that I’ve found really helpful is that there is no way not to choose. By not doing something, you are choosing NOT that thing. Given that you’ve already made a choice, acknowledge that choice. Now that you’ve made a stance, decide the quality of that stance. If you are someone like me, who’s fight, flight, or freeze sympathetic nervous system most often chooses to freeze, and when frozen, reconciles itself into the form of a panic attack, this mode of CHOICE makes a huge difference. Let me lay it out for you in this example:

Conflict: I don’t know what to do with my life, I’m aimless, unmotiviated, torn. It’s too late for me, I can’t do it, I’m not good enough.

Assuming you’ve already gone through your basic reframing thoughts, positive thoughts, SMART goals checklist, you might end with something that looks like this.

I don’t know if getting a Nursing Degree is right for me. It makes sense, and I’ve already put a lot of effort into it, but it’s not what I love. I love foraging, herbalism and dietetics. However, those fields are not sustainable, feasible, or a good fiscal degree. I don’t know what to do.

But today, right now, I am currently not actively pursuing a nursing degree. So, today, I’ve chosen not to pursue a nursing degree.

For some people and some situations, this in and of itself, brings a deep clarity, a relief, and a resolution. But if it doesn’t...

Acknowledge your choice: For the next week, I choose to not pursue a nursing degree. I’m not going to exert energy thinking about it, arguing with myself about it, it is a non issue. I am not pursuing this. What’s left? The foraging, the herbalism, the dietetics. This is your stance.

Now that you’ve made that stance, think about the quality. What kind of herbalist am I going to be? How far am I going to take this? What opportunities can I find?

The idea here is that you’ve redirected the energy you would have spent arguing with yourself, and instead are now pointed toward a more productive path. You may circle back to the original decision, but now, you’ve moved forward in the journey instead of being stuck at the beginning quandary. You’ve expanded.

3. Presence

[kuriquinn]

A Hole In The World [2/?]

Blanket Fic Disclaimer: 

Title: A Hole In The World (continuation of this prompt)

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: SasuSaku

Beta Reader: Not beta-read; check back at a later date for edits

Author’s Note: I was going to put this up a few days from now just to space things out, but a lot of people seemed confused about whether this was a time-travel fic or not, so I decided to post this early to give you guys a better idea of where I’m going with this.

サクラ

Sakura awakens to the sound of beeping monitors and an itch in her left hand that suggests someone has put an IV in. She frowns, not used to being on this side of the scenario.

“Sakura-sensei?” Ando asks, unnaturally tentative.

“What…happened…?” she begins, her mouth painfully dry. Her brain takes a few seconds to remember the prelude to her unconsciousness, but when she does she pnaics, shooting into a sitting position. “The poisons! They have hallucinogenic properties, and could be airborne! You shouldn’t be here, you can’t risk exposure!”

“It’s fine!” Ando cries, holding up a reassuring hand. “As soon as we got your message we locked everything down, and a team was sent in with protective gear to retrieve you. The room was completely quarantined and the science team even checked the air quality before going in for you. But it was fine. You just passed out.”

“Did you scan me for poison?” Sakura demands.

“It’s not like I’ve been working here for months or anything,” Ando grumbles, but at Sakura’s warning glare he quickly adds, “There’s nothing showing up. According to our tests, your vitals are find. If there was anything, it passed out of your system before we got there. You probably healed yourself. Though I have no idea why you passed out…do you do that a lot?”

“It was probably the energy expended healing,” Sakura muses with a frown. “Though I’ve been through much worse, it shouldn’t have hit me like that.”

It suggests whatever was in those containers was a much stronger poison than she expected.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” Sakura prompts.

“I’m sure. You’re fine. A little overworked and your make-up could use a touch-up, that’s to be expected after being unconscious for five and a half hours—”

“Sarada!” Sakura gasps in realisation. She swings her feet around, scrambling to get out of bed. “I have to pick her up!”

“You don’t have to worry about her,” Ando assures her. “Your mother called when you didn’t show up. Your daughter’s fine. In the meantime, you should stay overnight and sleep a little more.”

“I can’t, I have to be there to pick her up…”

“Ehm…maybe I’m not saying this right,” Ando hedges. “Your mother said if I let you come home without getting a full eight hours of sleep, she was going to…um…do something rather unpleasant to some rather important body parts.”

Sakura narrows her eyes. “And what do you think I’ll do if you don’t let me go?”

“No offense, but your mother scares me more than you do. You’d at least come for me face to face…I think she’d kill me in my sleep.”

“One of these days I’m going to have to figure out how my mother has managed to terrify every man in this damned village,” Sakura grumbles, sitting back on the cot. She huffs and then makes a dissmisive motion with her hand. “Fine. But if I’m going to be here, I want you running every test we have. Something happened to me, even if I’m not showing symptoms anymore. I want to know what it is.”

“That I can do,” Ando agrees.

サクラ

There’s a backlog of tests being run in the lab, and although Sakura could use her clearance to speed up the process, she doesn’t like to flaunt her privilege unless she has to. There’s nothing wrong with her at the moment, and she’d prefer the labs be working on the sick and dying than her.

Instead, she heads home to shower, then goes to pick up Sarada from her parents. She ends up agreeing to stay for breakfast, which as it turns out, is a good idea; she is surprisingly ravenous.

“I don’t remember you eating this much in ages,” Mebuki remarks as she shovels more steamed rice and natto into Sakura’s bowl. “The last time you had three servings of breakfast was when you were training with Lady Fifth.”

“You’re like a hungry clock,” Kizashi adds. “You’re keep going back four seconds.”

“Grandpa,” Sarada groans, though there’s a tug at the corner of her mouth; just like Sakura used to do at that age, she pretends to find her grandfather’s jokes lame.

“Actually, the last time I ate so much was when I was pregnant with this one,” Sakura says, absently reaching over to wipe a speck of soy sauce from her daughter’s cheek. “She really liked natto…”

“Mama!” Sarada protests, craning away from her.

“Well if you weren’t eating so quickly, you wouldn’t get food all down your front,” Sakura reminds her. “What are you in such a hurry about, anyway?”

“I have training to do,” Sarada insists importantly.

“Not until you finish your breakfast, you don’t,” Mebuki returns before Sakura can do so. “You need to eat enough to keep your energy up. And that means eating slowly, so you don’t get an upset stomach.”

Sarada opens her mouth to protest, but Kizashi agrees, “Many a true word is spoken ingest.”

This time it’s Sakura who groans, while Sarada folds her arms in front of her chest. A lump forms in Sakura’s throat because she looks so much like Sasuke when she does that!

She’s even becoming more like him, in terms of attitude.

These days, Sarada has become very quiet and withdrawn, devouring the books in their house and at the library related to the shinobi arts. She knows Sasuke is a talented ninja, because of all the stories she’s heard about him; Sakura has always told her everything about her father that she could without alluding to his mission or the darker parts of his past. And it was never a question that they would raise her as a shinobi, so in many ways this sudden studious interest is a good thing. It will serve her well when she starts the Academy in a few months.

But Sakura suspects it has more to do with Sarada trying to feel close to her father by living up to the standard he set.

One of Sarada’s tomes on well-known techniques among the clans of Konoha is always open to the chapter on Shurikenjutsu; Sakura has watched her daughter determinedly try to master it in their yard. Sometimes she wonders if she should teach her Katon, if only to help Sarada feel closer to her clan’s traditions, but she can’t get past the feeling that Sasuke must be the one to do that. Not just because he’s Sarada’s father and the patriarch of the clan, but because for him it’s such a personal thing to share.

But that brings us back to the fact he has to be here to teach it, Sakura thinks sadly.

None of them expected Sasuke’s mission to take as long as it is, and she thought he would be back before it really had an effect on their daughter.

Some days, no matter how important she knows his work is, she wishes she had argued more, or that Naruto had refused to let him go. Not that Sasuke responds well to ultimatums, but ever since the war, when Naruto offers him an opinion, he considers it. Seven out of ten times, he’ll even agree; it’s the other three that are so tricky.

It’s a rare day off, and so she tries to put all of this and the issues from the hospital out of her mind, instead running errands with Sarada in tow. They pick up groceries, shop for new shoes and clothes for Sarada—she’s growing like a weed!—and stop in to see the newest Princess Yuki movie—one of the many sequels to the Princess Gale films Naruto was so crazy about when they were kids.

All the while, Sarada remains quiet.

Later that evening, long after one of their usual quiet suppers for two, Sakura wonders if she ought to speak up. She doesn’t often ask Sarada what’s wrong directly—much like Sasuke, Sarada will insist there’s nothing wrong—and prefers a tried and true method of wordless coaxing to encourage her daughter to open up.

Just as Sarada climbs into bed, Sakura opens her mouth to ask, only to be interrupted with a question.

“Mama, what were Grandmother and Grandfather like?”

Sakura pauses for a moment, confused, and then realises that she’s being asked about Sasuke’s parents.

“I…well…” she considers. “I never met them before. They died a long time ago.”

“Oh.”

“But I think Grandma did know your Grandmother Uchiha a little bit. Maybe she could tell you a little more about her,” Sakura suggests.

Sarada’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Maybe,” Sakura repeats. “I don’t think they knew each other very well. But…it’s still more than I did.”

“What about Uncle Itachi?” Sarada asks, sitting up eagerly in bed. “You met him, right?”

Sakura hesitates here.

Neither occasion was exactly optimal; in one he was a deadly enemy who would have killed them all if their presence interfered with his elaborate plans—the other was in an alternate universe where it wasn’t technically their Itachi Uchiha.

“Briefly,” Sakura says. “He was a good man and a loyal Konoha shinobi.”

“What was he like?”

“You’ll really have to ask your Papa that when he gets back.”

Sarada sighs, unhappy. “So, I’ll never know.”

“Don’t say that,” Sakura chides, tapping her daughter on the forehead in affectionate reprimand. “Papa will be home soon. And you can ask him all of this.”

I hope…

“Now, it’s time for you to go to sleep. I have to be at the hospital for the morning shift, so we’re going to get up early and bring you to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

“I don’t wanna get up early…I’ll be tired all day.”

“So you can take a nap later.”

“Naps are for babies!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot,” Sakura laughs, and begins to rise.

“Mama, can I have a story before bed?”

She sits back down. “Which one?”

“Indra and Shachi.”

Sakura’s heart clenches a little at this.

“Don’t you want to wait for Papa to come home and tell you that one?” she asks gently. It’s always been their special story, even though Sasuke is careful to end it before it becomes too dark. Sarada isn’t old enough yet to hear the entire thing.

“You tell it better,” Sarada insists, a stubborn look on her face that is painfully reminiscent of her father.

Sakura sighs, because every day, Sarada is a little more critical and a little angrier about her father’s absence.

And yet, she always asks for this story, so as angry as she is, she still misses him an awful lot.

The whole things is beginning to affect her socially, which has Sakura worried.

She practically grew up with Boruto Uzumaki; they were inseparable. And how could they not be, given who their parents were? The amount of times Sakura would come pick Sarada up from the Uzumaki household to find Boruto, Sarada and Himawari curled up under a blanket on the couch, snuggled up like little puppies. She’s taken an embarrassing number of secret photos to show Sasuke when he returns.

But…that’s just the problem,

He left; Naruto didn’t.

Boruto and Himawari could go home at the end of the day to a mother and a father; Sarada couldn’t. And Sakura’s daughter noticed, because of course she did.

She stopped wanting to be around them, to the point where she’d pick fights with Boruto, and throw a fuss whenever Sakura tried to bring her for playdates. Not long after, the same thing happened with Inojin, who Sarada suddenly proclaimed was too weird. Ino mentioned that she started getting distant when Sai began to teach their son his Chōjū Giga.

As if it’s any mystery why that would upset her…

“Mama?”

Sakura shakes her head, coming back to the present, and says, “Alright then, if you’re sure.”

She begins to relate the familiar tale, stroking her daughter’s hair as she does until the child drifts into slumber.

When she rises, her thoughts are jumbled. She usually tells the story without thinking much about it—she’s told it so many times, and considering she’s already lived it (after a fashion), it has the same consistency in her brain as a well-loved memory.

Except it makes her think about what happened in the lab today.

The last time she started to have strange dreams without warning, she spent months reliving a past life.

That was triggered by my pregnancy, though, and I’m not pregnant now.

Honestly, it felt more like that time she and Naruto were dragged into that parallel dimension of Obito’s. Except, in that case she was actively pulled through a portal and stuck there until Naruto got them out.

So what was it? Could it be work stress?

She doesn’t sleep well that night, her mind puzzling over the mysterious contents of the box, and analysing every detail she remembers from her dream.

Or hallucination.

On top of all of that, Sarada’s worries needle at her. With that sense of helplessness in the face of her daughter’s questions, an overwhelming longing fills Sakura, for the man who has carried her heart so very far away.

サクラ

The next day, Sakura wakes dizzy and nauseous; it feels like she remembers the flu feeling, though it’s been many years since she’s been sick. Ever since she unlocked the Byakugō she doesn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.

She brings an equally grumbling daughter to her parents’ house, and heads to work, feeling like her head is a wind tunnel. The whole day she slogs through her work, delegating as much as she dares to. It even comes to the point that she is forced to hand over the C-section to one of her most promising subordinates, although she observes from the gallery in case of emergency.

At the same time, she marks down observations about her condition in a notebook, trying to find some common symptoms that will clue her in to what’s happening. Halfway through the procedure, Ando wanders in with a folder that has her name on it and hands it to her. “All of the tests we ran came back negative.”

“That’s not possible,” Sakura snaps. When he flinches, she sighs and apologies, “I’m sorry. This is just frustrating…”

“I’ll keep looking.”

“Thank you.” He begins to leave, and then pauses, a startled expression on his face. “You’re…you’re bleeding.”

“Huh?”

He points to her face and she raises her hand, touching her face just beneath her nose; her fingers come away red.

Alarm bells ring in her head.

“Do the tests again,” Sakura says quietly. “Leave no margin for error, and if there’s any test you haven’t thought to run yet, run it anyway. Even if it’s completely unrelated. Whatever’s going on might show up in an unexpected test.”

“Y-yes, boss.”

He runs off to do just that and Sakura reaches for her notebook again, jotting down another symptom.

Nasal hemorrhage…never a good sign…could the contents of those vessels have had a slow-acting neurotoxin, or—?

All of a sudden, her body seizes.

Her limbs go rigid and her head slams backward in her chair as the operating room and gallery vanish around her.

サクラ

Sakura’s world jerks and she is suddenly standing in the middle of an unfamiliar street, stumbling forward.

“Sakura!”

Someone catches her and when she looks up, there’s Sasuke again—the Sasuke from her dream. He isn’t dressed in the police uniform this time, but a high collared shirt similar to the one he wore as a genin, and neatly pressed trousers.

“What’s going on?” she demands, looking around. “Where are we?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, his brows drawing together incrementally.

“The…I was in the…?”

Sakura continues to look around, noticing tiny details about the place that tell her she isn’t in a completely unfamiliar location. She’s been here before, only…only it was a lot emptier. Her attention pulls away from her panic long enough to consider the people wandering past; people who look familiar but aren’t. Her recognition of them is based on traits that she has come to know personally in the past decade.

Dark haired, fair skinned, black-eyed people, wearing the clan crest she adopted almost seven years ago.

“This is the Uchiha district,” she says, swallowing against the subtle, panic-induced tightening in her throat.

“Last time I checked,” he agrees, sounding wary. “Sakura, what’s going on? Is this that “pregnancy brain” you were telling me about?”

She doesn’t answer him.

“This is wrong,” she murmurs to herself, watching several children wearing uchiwa symbols on their back chase each other through the street. “This…this can’t be here. I can’t be…am I unconscious?”

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” Sasuke interrupts, his tone anxious and accusing. “You said you were fine at the hospital.”

“I have no control over what Dream-Me says or does,” she shoots bag, aggravated and short-tempered in a way she rarely is with her Sasuke.

“That’s it,” Sasuke shakes his head. “We’re going back to the hospital and getting those tests you didn’t want. And you’re calling Iruka tonight and telling him you’re not coming in tomorrow.”

“Iruka? Why would I talk to Iruka?”

“They can find a substitute for you. They should already be looking, since your leave will be starting soon anyhow,” he continues. “This is why we talked about you taking it earlier—”

Right. In this world I’m a teacher, apparently. And—

“Hold on,” she snaps. “I don’t know how things work in this universe, but there is no reality where you get to boss me around.”

His eyes widen a bit in surprise, and then he sighs. “Hormones.”

Sakura narrows her own eyes. “You did not just say that.”

Her impending murder of her Not-Husband is interrupted when someone suddenly calls out his name.

They both turn around, just in time to see an older couple saunter out from a nearby storefront. Sasuke curses under his breath, probably unhappy that their discussion is being interrupted. But he turns and bows his head in respect.

Hold on…what? When has Sasuke ever…?

“Uncle Teyaki, Aunt Uruchi,” he greets them, allowing the woman to draw him in to a hug with an expression of uncomfortable tolerance.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you, boy,” the man says, and then turns clever black eyes on Sakura. “And who is this?”

“This is my wife, Sakura,” Sasuke explains.

Oh, good, I’m not expected to know these people.

“Er…pleased to meet you,” she says for want of anything else.

The couple exchange what is clearly an uncomfortable, significant married-couple look, as well as a silent conversation, and then paste smiles on their faces.

“Ah, yes, we had heard you got married,” Uruchi says. “Congratulations.”

“Bit of a rush, wasn’t it?” Teyaki chuckles nervously, glancing at Sakura’s middle. “I suppose we know why now.”

Catching the implication, Sakura opens her mouth to snap back at the person, but Sasuke’s arm squeezes around her shoulders in warning. She intends to shrug him off, but finds his hold on her is heavier than expected.

Frowning, she tries to pull free, only to find that she can’t.

She has no strength.

What kind of world is this?!

“Now don’t mind him, he’s being rude,” Uruchi speaks up. “We all understand that circumstances don’t always work out the way we hope. You make sure you come by this way more often, dearie, you seem like a nice girl. And we make the best senbei in the village. It won’t upset your stomach or the little one’s.”

She smiles kindly at Sakura.

“That’s assuming they come back,” Teyaki points out, and then raises an eyebrow at Sasuke. The gesture is eerily similar to Sakura’s husband’s; she really isn’t used to seeing his mannerisms on anyone else but her daughter. “I take it you’re here to speak with your folks?”

Sasuke grunts in reply—at least his dislike of sharing personal information is the same.

“I just want to know what’s taken so long,” Uruchi harrumphs. “You and that father of yours are so stubborn—”

“Well, if it isn’t the runt of the family.”

Someone appears by their side, so swiftly and silently that Sakura suspects he used Shushin; he’s curly haired, and with a smile and a casual, friendly demeanour that reminds Sakura instantly of Kakashi.

“Long time no see, little cousin,” he continues, and then ruffles Sasuke’s hair in a way Sakura has seen her husband break ribs over when Naruto used to try it.

Instead, Sasuke simply jerks away, shoving the other man and snaps, “Knock it off, Shisui!”

Shisui…I think I know that name…

Sakura tries to remember what Sasuke told her about him, long ago; an older cousin, his brother’s best friend and something to do with Danzō Shimura.

“Forgive me, princess, I didn’t realise you still took offense to having your hair messed up,” Shisui replies without a hint of bother over Sasuke’s attitude. He faces Sakura and offers her a friendly smile. “Hello there. Allow me to introduce myself since my favourite cousin is too emotionally stunted to do it.”

“Shisui,” Uruchi chides.

“That’s my name.”

“At least you know that much,” Sasuke grumbles.

Shisui doesn’t seem put off by Sasuke at all. “Hey, when are you going to stop kissing ass at the police force and come join ANBU like your brother and me?”

“About the time you quit.”

“Ouch. I’m hurt. And here I thought it was because you preferred the cushy, safe jobs,” Shisui muses. “Or has uncle taken you off the roster already?” Sasuke grits his teeth at him. “Ah. I take it that’s one of the things you want to discuss with him tonight?”

There’s something entirely too innocent about his tone.

“Does everyone but me know what’s going on here?” Sakura asks out loud.

Sasuke suddenly turns to face her, eyes wide. “Sakura!”

“What? I’m just pointing out the truth here—”

“Catch her, before she—”

“I’ve got her—!”

The world tilts like she’s being shaken and Sakura tries to fight it. “Sasuke, what the hell—stop!”

But then the familiar swooping sensation of being ripped from her sleep overtakes her, and the world shifts.

サクラ

She awakens on the floor of the gallery; Ando has been trying to rouse her, apparently, and when she wakes the first thing she notices is his inability to disguise his fear.

Ando stands over her, unable to disguise his fear.

This isn’t going away in a hurry, she realises as control returns to her body.

“Book a lab and make sure no one but you and I have access to it. And tell no one about this—I don’t want to start a panic until it’s necessary,” Sakura tells him grimly as she pushes herself to her feet. “We have work to do.”

つづく

Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, I have a ko-fi button at the top of the page, or you can find my tip jar here.

Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

[mysteriousjim]

Day 12: Uncle Ecks

(much, much longer today–not because I wrote more, but because I am choosing to add the section I had written prior to contextualize the new bit I wrote. I realize that perhaps doing bits of this before might have made other entries clearer, but it’s only just come to me! Ive put a break before I get into what I wrote today though, if you just want to read that, since there’s so much to read from everyone and I know I’m so terribly behind keeping abreast of everyone’s stuff!)

I met Uncle Ecks and saw him die in the space of just two months, back when I was eight. Even at that age, it was obvious to me that Uncle Ecks was neither my real uncle nor even liked by either of my parents.

He appeared on our doorstep one february morning and had told us that he needed a place to stay for he didn’t know how long.

If there were ever any deliberation over whether or not it would be a good idea to house Uncle Ecks, it must have been done very quickly and very quietly, because he had moved in and had become my “Uncle” by that very evening.

Thinking back, I can only imagine that he must have lent my parents money some time before I could remember, and they were merely paying their dues.

My father collected old boxes from our storage room and redistributed them throughout the house until there was a space clear enough for Uncle Ecks to lay down some foam to sleep upon.

We would later buy a cheap twin-sized mattress for him, that my father took to the landfill shortly after Uncle Ecks had died, even though he had hardly slept on  it a dozen times.

We had given him some old clothes, a pack of disposable razors and some soap and as far as I could remember, those were the only possessions Uncle Ecks had, because he had come to our door with his arms swinging.

He must have been a man of simple means, because even though he would leave the house regularly, he never seemed to return with anything of note, and when he died, simply returning the displaced boxes to the workroom was all it took to erase every trace that Uncle Ecks had ever lived with us at all.

Even now, I can only remember him as half-a-person, more of a presence or a ghost than a real flesh-and-blood person who shared that house with us so many years ago.

Uncle Ecks did not resemble anyone in our family—he had light skin, though always badly sunburned, and he was fat in strange places—especially about his jowls and shoulders, so that he looked like he was constantly wearing women:s shoulder pads.

He reminded me of an ogre and I was glad when my parents told me to leave him alone and to stay out of his way. But of course, that was impossible.

The first time I was forced to interact with UNcle Ecks, it was in the kitchen, it was late at night and I had expected him to have been asleep in his room, but there he was, fiddling with an apple.

I immediately regretted having come upon this stranger who seemed to have been waiting on me, and I wanted to back away, but he had already locked eyes with me and had called me over to his side.

I was afraid that he was going to hurt me.

“Look what I have here,” he said, “Can you believe it?”

Uncle Ecks had a way about him: it was as if English were not his first language—because he always fumbled with it, laboring to put simple sentences together and to turn his feelings into words. He had a constant wonder for ordinary words and phrases as if he was constantly learning them for the first time.

“Can you believe what I found?” he asked again, thumbing his apple.

I was scared and unimpressed.

“You can’t grow these here, you know. It’s far too hot. But there it was: I found this in the St. James market.”

I had never thought of where our apples had come from; but it was true: I had never seen an apple tree in our country.

“Do you know what someone told me once? They said ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’—how about that?”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know! Where do you think this apple’s tree is? Very far from here, I think. So I don’t know what to make of a saying like that.”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“No one important. But you know what? It didn’t sound like it had a nice meaning.”

“Can I use the fridge please?” I asked.

“Of course,” Uncle Ecks said, “Don’t let me get in your way.”

But Uncle Ecks barely stepped aside, and I had to squeeze and brush against him to get to the fridge. And by then, I had lost my appetite. I tool out the water jug and poured myself a shallow glass and went back to bed to dream about apples.

Another day, and Uncle Ecks had a new fascination: he seemed to disappear into his room whenever my father was home, but on those afternoons when I would chance home early, I would see him outside, leaning against our door, smoking a cigarette.

He called me excitedly one day, as if he had a deeper relationship than we did—as if he really were my uncle.

“I heard something today—something truly wonderful. Do you want to hear it?”

I did not want to talk with Uncle Ecks and the scent of his cigarette made me sick.

He ignored my body language and continued:

“Che sera sera,” he said.

He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled away from me.

“Have you ever heard anyone say something so wonderful before?”

I hadn’t.

“I had heard people say it before, but only today did I learn what it meant.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“Absolutely nothing! It is just something to say when you’re stuck for words. If something happens and you don’t know what to say, you can just use that—che sera sera—and people listening will understand.”

I was confused.

“For instance, what if I were to tell you that someone you knew was about to die?”

I was terrified again.

“What else can you say to that, if it can’t be helped?”

His eyes were twinkling as he asked me that question.

“Just that: you say che sera sera and I would know that you didn’t know what to say, but that you wanted to  say something very much. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Uncle Ecks must have seen that I was upset, because he quickly clarified:

“Of course, no one is really dying, That was just an example. You can use that phrase whenever you want—and for happy things, too.”

And I could tell that he was wracking his brain to come up with an example but they all escaped him.

“Well, look at that. My mind’s gone blank. Che sera sera! No?”

I nodded and ran inside, waiting on my father to return, at which point, Uncle Ecks would disappear into his room, where I preferred him to be.

Another day, not long before he would die, Uncle Ecks called me over again from the other room. This time, my mother was in the room with me, reading her book. I do not know whether he had known that there was anyone else in the room. But my father’s previous edict remained clear: top stay away from Uncle Ecks.

My mother glared at me like I was responsible for his calling. I looked at her helplessly.

She narrowed her eyes and called back to Uncle Ecks, “We are reading, Ecks.”

Uncle Ecks, if he had known that my mother was there, was unperturbed. He called back.

“You will appreciate this, then. It is something lovely I read today.”

He entered the room and I remember that it scarcely seemed like he had discovered anything wonderful. The skin around his eyes was tight and he seemed pale.

“Maybe,” he croaked, “You have read far more complicated things than I have. But I am a simple man so simple things interest me. Listen to this: ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”

There was a palpable tension between my mother and Uncle Ecks. I was afraid.

“We don’t have swallows or summer here, Ecks.”

“It’s true. I didn’t understand the connection at first, myself. But I went to the library today to do some research and do you know what it means?”

“Ecks,” my mother said, “Travis learned these things in school years ago when he was only five. He doesn’t need to hear it again from you. He only listens to be polite, even though we have told him that it isn’t necessary.”

Uncle Ecks’ eyes twinkled and he shrank a little.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And as he turned to walk away, I noticed that his hair had thinned around his crown. He looked sick. I didn’t know what the phrase had meant at the time, but I suspected that, like his other fascinations, that it was a sad phrase too.

Uncle Ecks died the following week, though I never learned how. I only remember returning from school and having my father tell me very plainly, “your Uncle Ecks has passed.” Even though I knew what the phrase meant, I did not understand at first; at that time, I had never known anyone to die before and not thought of death as something that happened to people you knew. My father remained standing in front of me after he gave me the news, perhaps not knowing what to say, because he did not like Uncle Ecks, and he knew that I did not like him either and yet, we seemed to have been the only people in his life. I think that we felt something like the same emotion that day: the guilt of feeling nothing for the sake of someone who felt everything for you.

We stood in silence together, my father and I, for some time until finally, he broke spoke, asking that I help him return the displaced boxes to the storage room. My father had already taken the mattress out to the landfill during the day, which must have meant that Uncle Ecks had died not long after I had left for school. Everything was back to the way it had been before Uncle Ecks had come into our lives within a half hour.

My mother calling us to dinner finally broke the silence, and I genuinely do not remember our family ever speaking about Uncle Ecks ever again. I suppose the poetic thing to have said at that time would have been “Che sera sera” but one doesn’t really think that way at that age. But the good thing about the phrase is that it really does suit those stories with no point, or an untidy resolution, to so that whole episode of my childhood, it suffices to say: Che sera sera.  

[thejokersenigma]

Joker x Reader - One Shot Request - No one disrespects the Queen.

Hi guys,

Some I' really excited for this piece of writing because it's my very first request! Thank you to whoever posted this for me to do by the way - I like writing for someone!

This was the request:

Could you perhaps write a oneshot fanfiction with Joker where the reader is badly anorexic? I know it's a touchy subject it's just I personally am struggling with it and feel unlovable. Most people tell me I'm a skeleton and look disgusting. If you are willing too I'd really like to read something like that as I adore your work and reading your fanfics makes me happy. If not it's understandable... Like where J realises she never eats and sees how deathly she looks and tries to help her?

First of all, I was more than happy to write this because I myself have been through anorexia and so I really wanted to cheer this anon up in anyway I could. With that in mind I do apologise if you can't relate to this fic very well, I'm sure everyone who has anorexia goes through things differently, but ive written it the way that I went through by using what I felt and what I experienced.

Other point to make, this is not exactly like what the request asked for as it focuses more on the lack of energy etc. side of it and more of just before help, not the help techniques. If you would like a one shot more on what you asked for feel free to let me know and I'd happily write it but I got caught up in this storyline in my head and didn't want to make it 10,000 words by putting in anymore than what ive done here.

But like i'd said, I'm happy to carry it on if that's something people are interested in.

Sorry about the really long blab above ^^^ I'll get on with the story now.

MASTERLIST

One-shot MASTERLIST

 WARNING: TRIGGERING! Please do not read if anything about anorexia is in anyway way triggering!!!! You have been warned! Pls don't put yourself through pain to read this! xxxxxx

You've been warned!

When I looked at my phone, the clock read nearly 4:30am.

There was a dim light in the room, the summer sun already having risen. I could feel a presence behind me as I lay in bed, and a quick glance over my shoulder confirmed my suspicions – my boyfriend was home.

He hadn’t been 2 hours earlier when - yet again - I had woken up, but now I turned over to watch him, his green hair - usual so neatly styled – dishevelled and fanning out around him on his pillow, his pallor face peaceful, and, though the rings under his eyes still dark, the features on his face were softer somehow.

He was beautiful in his own way, I thought as I admired him lying there. To some people his appearance was terrifying, others found him almost intoxicating. I was one of those. His vibrant red lips, only a short distance away, were addictive and even now I wanted to reach out and trace them. His eyes, hidden though they were in the dark under his eyes lids, were a captivating blue that could pierce into you and I had to stop myself from waking him just to see them.

I didn’t get to do this often. Just be with him. He was always busy doing something, sometimes I wondered if he acknowledged my existence at all or if I was just a convenience, available when he needed me, but otherwise not there.

When we were together I still didn’t feel like we stopped to savour anything, he was always such an urgent person, he didn’t savour many things. So I liked times like this, even is he wasn’t really part of this. I felt like I could step back and just admire him.

As I revelled in his perfectness, I couldn’t help the thoughts now turning to how much I wasn’t perfect. How I was nothing like the man before me. Personality or beauty.

So why was I here?

Why was I the one lying next to him in this huge queen-sized bed in his penthouse?

Was I just a convenience?

I was always waiting for the day he didn’t bring me back here. Or the day he just turned a gun on me. You’d think I’d be scared that this was technically a possibility, but it was weird, I had never felt in danger with him. He clearly trusted me, I thought as I watched his chest rise and fall rhythmically, or else he wouldn’t put himself in such a vulnerable position with me.

But why?

There was nothing about me particularly enticing, nothing to draw someone in – I was a plain girl, untalented, chubby, ungraceful and nothing compared to what he could have.

The minute I once more turned my thoughts down this path, I could feel the invasive thoughts taking other once again, That’s right. The voice said to me, you need to be better. They were right and I was now painfully aware of how many hours I had been lying in the bed. I had to be better.

I rolled back over, sitting up and about to swing my legs over the edge when I felt a strong, muscular arm wrap around my waist and pull me backwards.

My head landed on the Joker’s solid chest and I heard the sleepy mumble close to my ear. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Can’t sleep.” I replied, pulling against his restraint. The voice in my head was louder now. Demanding. I needed to be on my feet now or else I was lazy. Failing.

I pulled against my restraint, almost violently, and J wasn’t expecting it so he released me. I moved back to the end of the bed, immediately pushing myself to my feet. I hugged my arms against myself, instantly freezing when I got out of the warm bed - even in the middle of July. I noticed movement behind me and I turned to see the Joker making a move to get out of bed as well.

“No J.” I told him, leaning over my side of the bed and placing my hand on his chest – immediately the invasive thoughts were back, battling with each. Was this bad? Am I using energy if I’m not supporting my full weight on my legs? But I’m using my arm muscles to keep myself up – so that’s alright – I’m just using different muscles. “You need to sleep.” I said, trying not to show the inner battle inside me.

“And so do you doll.” He retorted grumpily.

“I went to bed early.” I lied, watching him carefully, begging him in my mind to believe me. “J, I’m fine.” I insisted, “Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t me you shouldn’t.” He stared back at me, his eyes clear and penetrating even in the darkness of the room and I was worried he would see through my lie and put up a fight.

He dropped back down onto the bed without a word, turning over so he wasn’t facing me. That hurt a bit, but I was glad he was letting me go. I didn’t hang around, leaving him to get some rest as I walk out the room in silence, grabbing and jumper and then closing the door as quietly as possible behind me.

I wandered from room to room slowly as I pulled my hoody over my head – it was 2 sizes too big for me now.

I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I had all these extra hours now that I didn’t sleep as long, yet nothing to do with them.

I tried to remember what I used to do, but few things appealed to me anymore.

I remembered I used to read a lot, book after book – sometimes finishing a huge novel in a day if I got really into it. Now nothing seemed to hold my attention for long – it was too much effort to get invested in a book and pay attention to it.

I remembered once wanting to write. Now had no imagination, and no will to sit at a computer for hours at a time. Besides I couldn’t now - I would have to stand.

Instead I turned to one of the few activities that I found myself enjoying now – so much so it was what usually got me through the day – watching the cooking channel.

It sounded lame, but for some reason I loved it and found it fascinating. I made my way to the living room, switching on the TV, not surprised when it was already on the right channel (J didn’t watch much TV – he was too busy). And so I watched rerun after rerun of a cooking competition, enthralled in the concoctions and the food porn on the screen.

I didn’t sit on the expensive sofas that graced the high-end flat though, instead I stood, leaning on the back of the chair until I realised maybe I ought not to be leaning – the voice telling me that it wasn’t doing enough –  and I reluctantly pushed myself up so that my leg supported my full weight, my feet already protesting.

No pain, no gain, I thought, shifting my weight from foot to foot to try to relieve the ache a bit. After a while I pulled out my phone and returned to my second favourite pastime – looking at websites for health tips, weight loss tricks and recipes.

I don’t know how long I stood there flicking through tabs and watching Jamie Oliver teach me to roast a Turkey just right (it was a Christmas special on in the middle of July) – probably at least an hour before I couldn’t ignore the pain in my feet anymore and I needed to move.

So I switched to the last thing in my repertoire of hobbies – cooking.

So the rest of the my very early morning was spent cooking up a breakfast for J and any henchman that had to stop by the flat for business.

The oven clock read 8am when I finally allowed myself to have my first meal of the day. (I was ready to eat at 7:56, but it had to be exactly 8 before I allowed myself anything – otherwise the voice told me I’d get too hungry too quickly). I prepped my food – an apple – cut into the thinnest slices I could manage so I felt like I was eating more – and weighed it – 50g = 26 calories. I typed this into my calorie counting app on my phone then proceeded to remove 10g from the scales and threw them into the bin - just to be safe that I wasn’t definitely eating no more than 26 calories.

When I had remeasured the food at least 2 more times to check it was definitely the number I had read I finally allowed myself to sit down on one of the kitchen stools and eat.

I ate away at the thin pieces of fruit, trying my best to eat slowly and make the most of the food, cursing to myself that I couldn’t have waited until later to eat. The problem with getting up early was I had to acknowledge the hunger earlier -  if I managed to sleep later, I could eat later. That then meant that got hungry later and might even be able to skip lunch.

I suddenly felt a shiver wrack through my body even with my oversized jumper and thick pyjamas, and I yearned for a hot drink to warm me up a bit. I could smell the coffee beans that J had from the other side of the room. Even as I considered the temptation of making a cup I was doing the calculations in my head. I couldn’t afford the calories – all 2-9 of them (depending on who you asked) I always counted each cup as 18 calories because that was the highest result I had gotten when I had searched it and I couldn’t risk being wrong.

So instead I stood back up, my feet immediately sore again, and boiled the kettle, pouring myself a mug of hot water. This would do I thought as I sipped at the hot water. It felt wonderful.

My breakfast finished, and still no movement from J, I thought about what to do now. Today was my day off my usual work out – but that didn’t mean it was my day off exercise. I didn’t want to wake J up, but I needed to get out of my pyjamas so I dug around till I found the pile of laundry, clean but not ironed.

I changed in a bathroom down the hall, pulling a fleece over my goosebump riddled arms. I couldn’t believe it was July. Must be global warming or something.

I took the private elevator down to the ground floor and then headed across the large entrance way to the exit. I got a few weird looks on the way out of the building but most of the people around at this time of morning on a Tuesday were business men rushing to meetings and I was too self-conscious to keep much of my gaze higher than the floor immediately in front of me.

I said I would go for a walk. Told myself I would. But I knew I was really going for a run. The good thing about running was – besides the obvious calorie burning – I could run past people before I caught them staring at me.

I started running the minute I stepped onto the pavement. I ran and ran until I couldn’t anymore. Then I would slow to a walk for a few moments before I ran again. I continued this the whole run. I couldn’t run any less than the last time – it always had to be the exact same or more. If it was more – then I would have to meet that next time.

I ran for a good hour. 1:13 to be exact. I did a circuit so I ended up back at the suite.

It was only when I walked back into the pent house, still catching my breath, that I realised the door to the bedroom was open and, when I looked in, the bed was empty. J must have finally got up and probably now working – I wondered if he found the food I’d made him.

I moved to the bathroom, turning on the shower and undressing, having to pause for a moment when I felt a wave of light-headedness wash over me. I sat on the side of the large bath tub, soon letting myself slip off and sink to the tiled floor, my knees folded into my chest and my head in my hands as I tried to breathe evenly, momentarily terrified something bad was happening to me.

I kept breathing myself through it – maybe I’d been overdoing it recently? After a few moments, everything felt fine once more and I pushed myself wearily to my feet – the voice in my head only justifying that I could sit that long thanks to the run I had just done.

Standing upright made me feel woozy again but I persevered anyway, slipping into the shower and moving slowly until I felt a bit better – though it was probably the speed I always moved. Everything I did was now was slow. But everyone had days like that right? When you didn’t have the energy or motivation to move any faster than one slow pace. That was just life – I just happen to do it a lot lately – but was it really slow after all – was I just being silly?

As I stood pondering this I felt cold arms wrap my stomach. I flinched at the contact on an area I felt sensitive about, gasping in surprise, at jumping at the cold touch. “Jeez, doll, this water is boiling.” I spun around to come face to face with the Joker still fully clothed, behind me.

“What are you doing?” I asked in disbelief looking at his shirt which hung open as though he had been in the middle of getting dressed, the water now soaking into the sleeves.

“Trying to see if my little kitten wanted to get hot in a different way then pouring lava on her skin.” He growled teasingly with a wide grin on his face, his hands trailing over my skin and making me goose bump in a non-sexual way. I couldn’t help but shiver against him.

“Ooo doll, do that again.” The Joker purred, pulling me closer so I was pressed against his muscular chest, his cold skin against mine seeming to pull the heat from my body.

“No, J.” I said almost harshly, pushing away from him and stepping back under the powerful shower, hugging my arms to myself and embracing the heat that washed over me.

“Excuse me, doll?” Asked J incredulously, his grin dropping and his eyes becoming dark – like they did when anyone refused him something. But I trusted him to control himself around me.

“I’m sorry J,” I apologised none the less - I didn’t like disappointing him. “I’m just not in the mood.”

He grumbled something indistinctly, his eyes still dangerous, and left in a huff. I was left standing alone in the shower, even colder than before.

  We didn’t really clash for the rest of the day – mostly, I believed, because J did his usual of shutting himself away in the office all day as he carried out his business.

Our relative peace only lasted till that evening however, when J asked invited me to go with him to the club for the evening.

“No thanks, J.” I said, giving my familiar answer as I lounged on the sofa (my first sit down in over 2 hours).

He frowned, his eyes darkening immediately again, not that I noticed – I wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t say anything in reply but he didn’t move either. I had expected him to get his answer and leave – maybe in a huff, but I didn’t have the energy to care. When he didn’t however I turned my head to look at him, frowning at him in question.

“It wasn’t a request this time, doll.” He growled at me in warning.

I was shocked by what he was saying, was he forcing me to go out? “I don’t want to go, J.” I told him calmly, but with a sternness to it.

“I don’t care what you want, doll.” He purred dangerously.

“You can’t force me to go out with you.” I told him, but my voice faltered slightly under his gaze and I knew I could feeling my pulse under my skin. He was starting to scare me.

“Kitten,” He warned, “you’re pushing me and I’m not sure you want to.” There was no smile on his face, his lips a dark red and pressed into a thin line, his eyes looked fierce.

I was frightened now, J hadn’t been like this with me before. Had I pissed him off? I was always worried because of my low mood that I was being moody or annoying to people, but I couldn’t never seem to do anything about.

Now I was stuck in my own mind. I hated that I was letting J down by not wanting to go with him, but I was tired – physically and mentally exhausted. The voice seemed confused too. If I went to the club then I the movement was burning more calories than staying here. But I hated the feeling of exhaustion I got when I was out in public and the fact I would have to make it through the whole night trying to look alive, whilst also coming up with a new reason why I couldn’t have one of the club’s cocktails. J had already asked me several times if I was pregnant. I wasn’t willing to say yes to that to get out of a drink – not yet anyway.

But I hadn’t been to the club in over a month now. J went nearly every night to one or another of his businesses.

I didn’t know what to say to J now. He was still frightening me and I was scared to push him further and unsure what I could say to placate him. All that was running through my head at the moment was the same lame excuses as to why I didn’t want to go – I’m too tired, I don’t even drink, you don’t need me there, it’s not like I’ll do anything but sit and wait for you to finish anyway. I knew J didn’t care about my excuses.

I couldn't meet his eyes anymore, keeping my gaze down. He couldn't stop glaring darkly at me and - if I looked at him now - I was sure I would see the anger darkening his eyes to a stormy blue.

When the silence between us became too much, and I had to look up at him just to try to gage what he was feeling, it was worse than I thought. I was worried what I was seeing was not truly anger, but hurt, as though he was in some sort of pain.

That sight burned me, broke me, and I had to look away, concentrating back onto the thick carpet under my socks, tracing the pattern with my eyes.

“I’m sorry, J” I mumbled at the floor.

“You’re sorry?” He whined, mimicking me cruelly. “You’re sorry?" he asked again. “Your apologies are like cheesy pop songs doll, they just keep playing till people are sick of them!” He sneered.

I didn't know what to say to that - clearly an apology wouldn't be right - so I continued to stare at the floor. It was comfier like this. I liked the fact my neck hung loose, no energy needed to hold it up. I liked the fact I was collapsed on the sofa, all day I wished I could have done it.

“Look at you.” he snarled venomously, gesturing to me as I sat - probably looking like a rejected puppet collapsed against the arm of the sofa and lost amongst the many layers of baggy jumpers and hoodies I wore, "pathetic."

"You’re weak.” He spat, “No spark, no flare, no energy. What is the use of you anymore?" he demanded.

I shook my head at the carpet, each word stabbing and shooting through me like he was firing the weapons I knew were in his pockets. What was the point in me? What was my use anymore? I could feel the tears forming in my eyes and I tried to hold back the tide that now threatened to overwhelm me, covering my face with my hands as if somehow that might help to hold it all back.

“Pathetic.” He snarled again before he spun around and stormed out of the room, leaving me curled into the sofa, no longer able to hold back the emotions. I let out one hiccupping sob and then everything poured out until I was blubbering into the expensive sofa arm.

It wasn’t long before I heard the roar of an engine and the screech of wheel that told me the Joker had left and a new, more intense wave washed over until I was gripping fists of my hair and pulling in misery and frustration.

In a moment of mental clarity, I had a thought.

What was happening to me?

I went to bed early that night, unable to concentrate on anything but on low I was feeling. How nothing was right. How I was starving and wanted food. How I was in pain and hated my workouts, dreaded them every day. How I hated that I hurt people around me – especially J. I didn’t blame him for going off on me, everything he said had been true. I was weak, I was pathetic.

With all these things replaying in my head I slept fitfully that night – never seeming to manage for than 30 minutes before I was awoken by my own mind.

That was why - when the Joker finally returned to the suite at 4am the following morning - I was lying awake. Hungry, thirsty, depressed and stressed, yet too exhausted to anything about any of these things, I just lay staring up at the ceiling in the dark.

When I heard the front door open I knew it would have to be him – security was tight around here, very tight. Not even a henchman was allowed up here if he wasn’t here. None the less I panicked and my every sense focused on his movements through the pent house as I tried to detect when he was getting close to the room.

After a few long agonising minutes, the hallway light was switched on illuminating the outline of the door directly in front of me. I heard the door open and one crack of light enlarged as the bedroom door opened to reveal J’s dark shadow in the doorway. I blinked at the sudden brightness that filled the room.

The silence between us stretched on. I didn’t move and neither did J.

I could have pretended to sleep. Delayed the conversation, maybe even removed the chance to have it.

But I was tired, achy, depressed and starving.

“Help me.” I whimpered into the dark.

I thought the shadow would leave me then. Turn and walk away from the pitiful girl lying on the bed, unable to find anything within her to even sit up. All I do was wait for the shadow to leave the doorway and for the sound of receding footsteps.

But they didn’t.

The shadow moved, but not away. It came into the room, his steps softened by the thick carpet underfoot. I closed my eyes, no longer sure I wanted to do this now.

The next thing I knew I was being scooped up by strong arms and pulling me upright with very little effort until I was cradled in his arms. His chest was hard and cold, but I found it comforting and solid.

“I thought you would have left.” He murmured so quietly I almost couldn’t hear.

I shook my head – hard as it was to do when I was pressed so tightly to his chest.

“The one time, kitten, that the I’m glad you’re not like you use to be.” He said, and I pulled my head up to look him in the eyes, frowning with confusion.

“The old you would never had let me get away with the shit I said to you, doll. You would have up and left whilst preaching about some right you had or something.” He chuckled quietly to himself.  I just cuddled back into his solid chest, showing him in my own silent way that I had no intention to leave. His arms tightened around me even more.

We stayed like that in silence for a while, happy to be in each-others company. It was what I had always wanted between us – for him to slow down for a moment, and I guess I needed to as well. It was a rare kind of sincerity with the Joker.

“I just want to be perfect for you J.” I finally admitted, lifting my head slightly so I could speak.

He didn’t say anything and I wondered if he heard me. I buried once more, embarrassed for confessing something so personal when he didn’t even care to listen.

“You think I would waste my time on someone who wasn’t already perfect?” He asked, and I felt the vibration of his voice through his chest, it comforted me.

I pulled myself away from him again so I could look up at his face, “But your always around all those pretty girls at the club – I’m nothing like them.” I pointed out.

“You don’t think I know that, doll?” He demanded with a frown and I let my head drop – he was annoyed that I wasn’t like them then. “I’m glad you’re not, doll. I’ve been around those sorts of girls for a very long time and none of them have ever come home with me.” He told me, “The first night I saw you I made sure you did.” There was a another pause of silence, both of us lost in our own minds. “That was a long time ago though.” J reminisced, “A time when you looked very different.”

“But why - ?” I pressed, confused by what he was saying – it didn’t make sense to me.

“Because doll, I chose you for more than you’re looks – which I hasten to add are more than adequate!” He said hotly, as though annoyed at my continual denial of this, “And I’ll be sure to correct you when you say otherwise.” He added. “But doll, the first thing I saw with you wasn’t your killer dress or your murderous curves,” He purred teasingly, running his hands up my body as he still held me upright and I squirmed under his touch, uncharacteristically trying to hold back giggles, “it was your personality, your humour, your energy. All of which you are now severely lacking in, kitten.” He pointed out.

At least words any happiness I had built being with him crumbled. “I’m a failure.” I blubbered, feeling myself close to sobbing again.

“You’re not a failure doll,” J said, almost softly, though there was firmness to his voice, “I’m afraid you’re just sane.” He said solemnly, “It’s a terrible disease that grips you – it makes you care too much, it makes you gullible, it makes you greedy for something better and never content to revel in the present.” He rattled off passionately. He switched his arm placement around me so he supported me with only one arm, the other he brought up to my face and tenderly wiped away the tears on my cheeks, “It’s a terrible disease,” He repeated, “It always makes you look for the reason to cry, not to laugh.” He added with a sad smile that I could just make out in the poor lighting.

I gave him a weak smile in return, probably looking a state even in the darkness, and my smile dropped again at the thought. J must have noticed because he moved his hand from my cheek to my chin, tilting my face up so I looked at him in the eye. “That why I’m here though, doll.” He said with a small smile, “I’m the opposite of you, you’re my sanity doll, and I’m your crazy.” He purred lowly, tilting my face more and pulling me up as he leant down and he kissed me.

“I’ll help you.” He promised, “No one disrespects my Queen, especially not the Queen herself.”

tags: @carouselcurls

[angeltriestoblog]

The One With All The Books: My favorites + tips on how to get out of your reading slump!

Ever since I was a kid, I've been obsessed with books: while most children I knew then were preoccupied with Barbie dolls and battleships, I immersed myself in fictional worlds and found trusty companions in protagonists who embarked on adventures that transcended the limits of the physical universe. Back then, I would sleep with them under my pillow, read them in the backseat of our family car even on rather turbulent road trips, and turn to them during boring class discussions.

Over time, they ended up shaping my opinions and world views, fueling my hunger for knowledge, and inspiring me to put my own thoughts down on paper. It's safe to say I wouldn't be the person I am now, had it not been for my love for the written word. Which is why I find it odd that I haven't made any of the standard recommendation posts that would normally be found on the personal blog of someone like me. In an attempt to fix that, I'm sharing with you my eight favorites of all time, not only to give them a fitting tribute (that will still not be able to do their profound impact any justice), but also encourage you to pick up a good read! Who knows, maybe it'll change your life as much as it did to mine!

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

As a kid, I loved both science and fiction, but always saw them as two concepts completely opposite from each other. When I found out that they could marry and live in perfect harmony in a genre of their own, I was over the moon. It was exciting enough, getting to teleport across universes by folding the fabric of space and time, encounter terrifying creatures who somehow parallel actual people on Earth, and learn about obscure scientific concepts. But, the fact that it manages to tie in the triumph of good over evil, and the power of familial love was just the cherry on top for me. I brought this with me everywhere I went for a solid two months, obviously with good reason.

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

My mom had recommended this to me in high school, and I put off buying it for so long because I originally thought I was "too old to be reading stuff like that". Much to my surprise, what was practically disguised as a children's book, with its simple prose and watercolor illustrations, served as both as a moral allegory and criticism of the way adults operate in today's world. Though its length can trick you into thinking it's a fast read, most passages demand to be looked at a second time, reflected on, and shared to the nearest person—if you're the type to protest against annotating, you might have to rethink your stance.

Inkheart by Cornelia Funke

When I was in grade school, my parents had this rule where I was only allowed to buy a new book during special occasions, to control the growing number we had piling up in our house. I remember seeing this in the NBS branch in Glorietta, and having to wait until the end of the quarter to ask my parents to get it for me. Oh, well: as the cheesy saying goes, "True love waits." Although if there is anyone who loves books more than I do, it's Meggie Folchart, as she has inherited her father's gift of bringing fictional characters to life. But, when disaster strikes, as it always does, she must learn how to harness this special power and save her family. The world-building and imagery is unbelievably rich, Funke doesn't just paint a picture in your head: she creates a whole ass movie. No wonder eight year-old me put her up on a pedestal.

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (the entire series, but maybe the third was my favorite) (ok it was, don't tell the two others) by Jenny Han

The blurb at the back of the book certainly doesn't do it justice: I remember finding this at a nearby Fully Booked and putting it down instantly, dismissing it as another cliche YA novel. Sure, Lara Jean Covey has to deal with all five of her unsent love letters to her crushes being mysteriously sent out, but she also grapples with important issues such as identity, family, and—in the third book—the future. I read Always and Forever, Lara Jean during the summer before I entered university, and every single line resonated with me so much I paused at the end of every chapter to take a crying selfie. Plus, Peter Kavinsky is my literary dream boy: if I ever expect my future significant other to take me on a cross-country road trip to go antique shopping, they'll only have him to blame.

Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler

We're taught that we shouldn't judge books by their covers, but I'm glad my twelve year old self decided to brush that aside when she bought this. Although I didn't end up reading it until five years after, I devoured the thick hardbound in a day and a half, and was reduced to a ball on my couch shortly afterwards. I know the book has the most self-explanatory title, but it's just that it takes on the universal experience of first love and heartbreak so authentically. The stream of consciousness writing style and slow pacing may be an issue for some, but I reckon it adds to its charm, as it allows Min to take readers through all the motions of a relationship in a way so relatable, entering her headspace feels like slipping into a second skin.

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens by Sean Covey

A friend of mine in high school had complained to me that her mother had made this required reading for her, and I suggested I'd take it off her hands for a bit. I ended up going through her copy thrice in a month. (Ah, what I would give to go back to the days when I could still afford to read on school days.) An issue a lot of books that claim to "change your life" have is that they elaborate on these supposedly groundbreaking ideas, yet fail to break them down into doable action steps. Fortunately, Covey shares his practical advice in a structured manner, complete with examples, illustrations, and the occasional dad joke, freeing it from any preachy or condescending undertones. I don't know how to say that this is the only self-help book you'll ever need without sounding like someone from the Home Shopping Network.

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi

This paperback intimidated me from the moment I first saw it on a shelf, because of the metaphorical title and steep price. But, good thing I got around to buying it eventually: this harrowing story is told by a promising doctor with his whole life ahead of him, who turns into a patient as soon as he is diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. Reading this was difficult, because I knew that no matter how hard I tried to dissect and reflect on the questions of life and death being posed by the author, I could never come close to understanding how he felt. But, that didn't make the experience any less necessary.

Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert

Creativity is a rather difficult concept to talk about in depth, because it seems so abstract. This is why the author advises readers to treat it as a living entity: one that bestows the best of ideas to those who nurture it, complements the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, and demands our full participation despite the looming presence of fear. I finished this on a school bus ride home from school, and the minute I got home, I marathoned Gilbert's TED talks and keynote speeches on YouTube: there is a distinctly tender, somewhat spiritual quality in the way she speaks about her craft, that easily makes you hang on to and follow every word she says.

Now I know books aren't everyone's go-to when looking for a way to pass the time: I've heard people say that they can't find time for it, that there's nothing out there that piques their interest, or they simply don't have the patience, given that social media posts and Netflix shows practically hold our attention spans captive in this day and age. While all are valid points, they can clearly be worked around! I was in a funk during the start of my Christmas break, because I hadn't touched a non-academic book since the new school year had started. But, I managed to finish four in the span of a month, and am currently on my fifth, as of this writing. Here are some tips I have, just in case you want to kick your reading slump in the ass as well.

Start small. Like with any habit you want to build, introduce the behavior in small increments: five push-ups, five minutes of meditation, fifty pages of a novella. Then, once you're starting to get the hang of it again and you don't feel your two brain cells shrieking for help because they can't figure out if "lived" is an actual word in the English language, you can increase it depending on your progress. This happened to me when, thanks to a notably bad case of tsundoku, I had amassed 14 (!!!) unread books in a year. I decided to tackle as soon as my vacation started, so I kicked it off with a rather easy read: Matilda by Roald Dahl, 232 pages thin, with numerous drawings.

Read something you'd actually enjoy! It's gonna be hard to stay engaged in something that doesn't excite or entice you: reading is supposed to be a hobby, not a household chore. Find something written on an interest of yours, a field of study that you've always been curious about, a person that you've looked up to for forever: I truly believe that there is no topic that hasn't been written about at this point in time.

On a somewhat related note, don't be afraid to DNF books that don't satisfy you. A lot of us pick books up because everyone else loves it, and are afraid to put it down for the fear of being othered. But, if we've all come to believe that we should sever ties with people who no longer serve us, what makes it any different for books that just don't touch our lives? I remember reading The Bell Jar when I was 13 because it came highly recommended by someone on Instagram who I found really cool. It was far too heavy for me, but I couldn't find the heart to shelf it especially after how much it cost me.

Remember that physical copies are not the only way to go. Thanks to the presence of audio and e-books, one can now enjoy stories anywhere and any time, without the daunting feel of several pages, or the burden of lugging around heavy hardbounds. (Although you are missing out on one of the best parts of reading: new book smell. Your loss.) One might find it easier to process the information this way, or even appreciate whatever the author has to say.

Talk about it with a friend! They could help keep you accountable in following through your reading goals, give you solid (and sometimes even personalized) recommendations, or accompany you in mourning over the death of a major character. It's always been a dream of mine to start or join a book club for these exact reasons, but I'm afraid this post is possibly the closest I could get to that right now. Nevertheless, I'd love to hear your suggestions and give you more of my own! Drop me a message here (or here, here, and here!) if ever you're interested.

Love and light,

Angel

[pansyp]

you’re what keeps me believing the world’s not gone dead

Over time, Vincent learns how to feel again and Cid learns how to trust. A love story in seven parts.

Commissioned by @strifescloud​ who is in dire need of Valenwind content, hint hint y’all.

(read on ao3 or under the cut)

i. lit up by a machine (more than i can afford)

 Vincent believes that his friendship with Cid could be wholly summed up in two words: comfortable silence. They have a routine, have had one since they first began their association, and it is one that has continued despite all the various disasters and calamities that seem to befall their troupe. Vincent sits wherever Cid is working, out of the way so as not to inconvenience but indisputably present, and he thinks to himself while Cid works. It began as a mutually beneficial arrangement even if the benefits were never voiced – Vincent doesn’t have to be alone, and Cid isn’t bothered by his crewmen (who remain terrified of Vincent, despite Cid’s attempts to convince them all that the looming shadowy figure who stalks through the ship is actually a big softie).

Vincent knows where the routine began, but he doesn’t know where they are now.

He’s in his usual spot, watching Cid spot-weld a fault in some crucial piece of metal. This is nothing unusual, but the feeling – the high, swooping feeling­ – that moves through him as the light from the blowtorch illuminates Cid’s face, making him glow, that is something very strange. He is no stranger to emotions, despite what many people would think of him, but he hasn’t felt this specific one in so long that he had figured on it being gone entirely. He looks at Cid Highwind, who is still welding, cursing and doubtless getting tiny burns from the sparks that are kicking up, and he finds that spark of attraction and blows.

He is under no illusions – the chances of reciprocation are so small as to be negligible, and he does not think he could find it in himself to be a partner to anyone, even if the affection he’s feeling grows into something stronger. But he would be lying to himself if he said that he did not like the warmth, the way his hands get a little sweaty, the way his heartbeat picks up just a touch. He has been coming around to a different way of thinking in the last few years, and there is no harm in basking in the light of a good thing. He won’t say anything – there are some things that he will always keep close to his chest, and matters of the heart are certainly one of those things – but he can enjoy this nonetheless.

Cid has been a good friend to him and he knows that this is where the feeling comes from, and this too is a novelty. He has a few friends now, but none so close as Cid, and it is both surreal and completely sensical that he would come to have feelings for him. He has always been fond of strong-willed people, and of people who understand him well enough to provide him with space. He has never had preferences on gender, or even really on physicality, and Cid is attractive by anyone’s standards. He wants to examine the affection closer, and he will later in the evening, turning over the feeling in his head, but for now he wants to sit in the silence he has come to associate solely with these sojourns with Cid.

He sits in his usual spot, and watches the lights dance over his friend’s skin, and if anyone had seen him there they would have sworn he was smiling.

(and they would have been right)

 ii. you are timeless (i am a fool in love with time)

 When Cid thinks about Vincent, the first thing he thinks of is not any of the things you would immediately notice. He doesn’t think about the hair, or the way that the red of his clothes catches on the eye, the vivid hue of hearts blood. He doesn’t think of the sheer mind-bending terror he felt the first time he watched Vincent fight, because the terror turned very quickly to gratitude that the man was on their side. He doesn’t think of the way every single member of his crew still backs away from the man when he walks the halls, because he’s tried to convince them that Vincent’s not that bad and they just can’t get past how intimidating he is. He doesn’t think of Chaos or of coffins or of how menacing the metal gauntlet is.

The thing he thinks of when he thinks of Vincent is this: there was a moment, when their friendship was new and tenuous, when he’d made a shitty joke that was barely worth a laugh from his crewmen, let alone the man he’d come to think of as humourless. But he’d been on the right angle to catch the expression on Vincent’s face, and he’d seen him smile. Cid is crass, not stupid, and he’d known in that moment that he was probably fucked, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking of that smile whenever Vincent is mentioned. He’ll argue with anyone who derides Vincent in his presence, and he’ll claim friendship as the reason for his defence, but if he’s honest – and he never is – the reason is that smile. Cid is crass, not stupid, and he’s been gone on Vincent for what must be years now, and maybe that actually does make him stupid, because it’s never ended well for him before.

He’s got a close and comfortable relationship with jadedness that he’s not quite willing to give up on yet, but he feels like they’re growing apart with every day he spends with Vincent. He knows that everything is changing, even if on the surface all that’s happening is that he’s getting older and gaining more scars. He knows that there’s a softening under his skin that he can’t stop even if he’s fighting as hard as he can. He knows that there are some things he isn’t willing to risk, and that Vincent is now firmly among those things. He knows that he dreams as often as he has nightmares, and that the dreams have been of one thing and one thing only for months. He knows that sometimes, he has to remind himself that there’s a reason he doesn’t do relationships anymore, and that it’s a damn good reason with years of evidence to back him up. He knows that the last time the ship got boarded by pirates (which happens depressingly often) the first thing he’d thought of had been Vincent, which is monumentally stupid because if there’s anyone on the Highwind who can handle themselves in a fight it’s him. And yet he’d felt worried anyway, and wanted to see for himself that Vincent was safe, even as he was dealing with his own situation.

When Cid thinks about Vincent, he thinks of that smile. And he knows, in his heart, that he’s vulnerable, and that all his years of hardening his heart have done nothing to stop what’s happened to him anyway. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt even as it’s the best thing in his damn life.

 iii. on this dark day (in plain view)

 The first time Cid asks him about his scars, it’s three days out of a terrible little port where two of their crew nearly got arrested and four more got in a bar fight. Cid is in a terrible mood, glaring off into the middle distance, and Vincent knows an attempt at self-distraction when he hears one.

“You know where they’re from, Cid. I’ve told you the story.” he says, because he has, and he’s not entirely comfortable going over it again.

“I know, I know. I just…are you alright with them?” Cid asks. He refuses to make eye contact, and Vincent knows there are layers to this question that he can’t discern.

“Are you comfortable with yours?” he asks.

“Most of ‘em. Some of them I got because I was being an idiot, or someone else was and I didn’t stop them. I regret those ones. Most of the time, though, they’re okay.”

“I…differ, on this. My scars are reminders of a time when I had very little control over my life, and of when I did things that I regret. They are inextricably tied to events that changed the course of my lives and many others, and not for the better. I cannot see myself ever being neutral towards them, let alone positive.”

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.”

It takes all of Vincent’s considerable self-control not to arch an eyebrow at that.

“Look, I’m not an expert on moving on from bad shit. I suck at it. But have you considered trying to look at them as, I don’t know, maybe more of a reminder that you made it? You had a fucking awful time, and I don’t want to diminish that, but you killed Hojo, you got revenge, you saved the world. I would think that if everyone else who got affected by all that can move on and not blame you, you can too.”

“…I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say to me at once,” he says, and he does raise an eyebrow this time. “I’ll think on it. I appreciate that you’re trying to comfort me.”

“Don’t say it like that. I just –“

“I appreciate it, Cid. Just accept the thanks.”

“Fine. But don’t go spreading word about this, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“And I’m sure it’s well on it’s way to being tarnished, seeing as you forgot to close the door and there are three crewmen outside.”

“Ah, shit.”

He does think on it, later that night in his quarters. He said he would, and so he does. He has forgiven himself for many things, and he knows now that his sins were not the only thing that caused all the ills that have befallen Midgar. He thinks about his history, about history in general, about how Cid has his own scars and sees them as testament to survival. He wonders whether he should tell Cid that when he had gotten the scars, he had not wanted to survive. He looks down at his scars, the marks and red raised lines where the trauma of his past is clearly delineated on his skin. He thinks about Cid, and the way his voice had wavered, unsure of his words, but clearly believing them. He thinks about the way he has gained new scars since Hojo, and how he has never once thought of them in the same way as the scars from his unfortunate rebirth. He sits, and he thinks, and with hesitation he brushes his fingers over the one high on his chest, under the dip of his collarbone. For the first time in years, he focuses only on how it feels physically, on the sensation. It feels just like the rest of his skin.

 iv. i will tell them (i’m with you)

 When it happens, it happens because Cid is many things: bitter bastard, inventor, captain. But he has never been a man of restraint, and he’s loved Vincent for years now but they’re still closer now than they’ve ever been and the lack of distance is making things difficult. He watches Vincent, and it’s distracting now – the way his hair falls in his eyes, the way you can only tell he’s amused most of the time by the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way their conversations feel like playful banter half the time and how affectionate it makes him feel even when Cid feels like he’s missing the joke.

Sometimes he feels like Vincent is waiting for something. Cid looks at him, and the closing distance between them, the way there’s less of a gap every day now when they walk beside each other or talk to each other on the deck. There’s tension where there never was before; he feels like he’s twenty years younger sometimes, the same physical sensations that he felt when he was a teenager and has his first crush on someone out of his league but who he’d still get to talk to sometimes. He trips over his words occasionally – reveals parts of himself he’d thought long buried in conversations that should never have become sentimental. He feels unmoored. He feels like any minute he’s going to fuck it all up and tell Vincent how he feels, and it’s going to turn out that the tension is in his head and that Vincent didn’t reciprocate, that the difference in interactions is all down to Cid crossing lines in the sand that he didn’t see for all the infatuation fogging up his head.

There is so much that he can’t read on Vincent’s face, despite the years being around each other, and there is so much that he thinks he might be misreading, and he’s so damn unsure of his footing that he feels like he’s going to fall over at any moment.

So when it happens, it happens because he’s desperate for something, anything, to happen – it’s because he’s been pining for years and suffering under what may well be a delusion that those feelings are returned for months, and he can’t do it anymore. Inertia is something he’s never tolerated well, and if it isn’t inertia then it’s happening so slowly that it’s unnoticeable, and Cid can’t cope anymore.

They’re on the deck while the crew’s on shore leave, and Cid’s leaning up against the railing while Vincent stares out at the city below them, and there’s only two inches of space between them and all Cid’s been thinking for the last ten minutes is that it would take no effort at all to reach out and hold his hand. His bones are aching and the cold has seeped into his joints and he should have gotten back into the warmth a half hour ago, but instead he’s standing with his best friend and wishing he could hold his hand. Vincent looks down at him, then, and he’s doing that thing where he smiles with his eyes and the left corner of his mouth ticks up almost unconsciously, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it, and Cid is – overwhelmed. He loves this man, knows it like he knows this ship and the maps in his cabin, knows it like air and the wind that’s blowing past them, and this might be the worst mistake he’s ever made but he makes it anyway. He breathes in and then out, summons up the willpower that resides deep in his soul, and instead of using it to fortify all those carefully crafted defences he casts them down. He brushes their hands together, leans up and kisses the left corner of Vincent’s mouth where that stupid smile was forming, and when Vincent kisses back he has never felt so young.

v. like a falling star (i fell for you)

 It is not easy, but it is simple, and Vincent has always enjoyed the challenges that come without puzzles to figure out. They are both men with histories. They are both men for whom time has not been kind, and more than once Vincent has woken from a nightmare to find Cid caught in the midst of his own. Sometimes his old scars ache, and Cid will spend time rubbing ointment into them, soothing the pain that comes when the weather is stormy and cold. He’ll tell stories, to try and distract Vincent from unbidden memories, and Vincent will listen, to try and distract Cid from worrying about Vincent’s traumas. Sometimes Cid will come to bed with burns from his hands slipping while he worked on machinery, and Vincent will hold his tongue, because Cid’s ship is his child and there are some things where his concern will be taken as censorship. Instead he places his hands on the bandaged places and draws him in, embraces him. He is still unused to physical contact – Cid is the first person he has hugged, let alone done anything else with, in many years. This, though, is becoming easier. Giving comfort is one of the many things in their relationship that Vincent thinks of as coming under that category of not easy, but simple. They both struggle with it, and they both do it for each other nonetheless.

He asked, one night while they were lying together, about how long Cid had felt affection for him. Cid had laughed at him, and had explained that his feelings for Vincent had been present if unacknowledged for years. There is a part of him that wants to regret that honesty on both their parts would have given them more time together; there is another that reminds him that his own feelings only arose recently, and that he would almost definitely have not been conducive to a relationship. That is another thing he struggles with, the term ‘relationship’. He doesn’t know the right word for what Cid is to him, but many of the terms he hears others use sounds woefully inaccurate at best and inadequate at worst. He hears crewmen refer to them as boyfriends, and that feels absurd – neither of them are anywhere near the age where they could be considered ‘boys’. Partners is another term he hears, which is better and yet still not right. He resigns himself to not having the language for it, and defines it by his own terms instead.

Simple, but not easy. Comfortable silences, giving and taking affection and support where it is needed. The way Cid tries to distract Vincent when he is hurting. The sharing of nightmares in a dark room at three in the morning, sleeping the rest of the night with a dim light on and lying face to face so if they wake they’ll see each other before any of the strange shadows the light can cast. Finding flowers in a vase he’s never seen before when they leave from another shore town in another country, and knowing they’re for him. Cid kissing his scars in hazy morning light, and refusing to care about where they came from. Reading when he can’t sleep and waking up with the book on the bedside table, bookmark carefully placed. The realisation that there is someone, now, who knows everything and loves him still. The realisation, at three in the morning after a nightmare, that he is not alone in this anymore.

 vi. i will always love you (taking it in stride)

 Sometimes, when Cid wakes up in the morning, he can’t believe that this is his life. He has always believed, after a certain point in his history, that he would be jaded and bitter for the rest of his time on the planet. That by being the way he is, he had given away his chances at happiness. That he would remain what he has always been: a failure. And now, he wakes up, and he feels the weight of someone beside him. He turns over and sees the face of the man he loves, and in the morning light he looks soft and untouched by the things in his past, and he loves him. He loves him when he is awake and laughing, he loves him when he has nightmares and Cid has to spend hours distracting him. He loves him when he’s cold and calculating and insulting someone through thin lips, he loves him when he turns quiet and angry and needs time alone, he loves him when he buys Cid things and pretends it doesn’t mean anything. He loves him, this impossible man who has decided that his time is best spent with Cid, and he may still be bitter and jaded but it’s getting harder to hate the world when the world has Vincent in it.

He doesn’t think he’s ever going to be the man he could have been if everything in his life had gone well, but he’s pretty sure that man wouldn’t have met Vincent, and he’s pretty sure Vincent wouldn’t have loved that man anyway. He asks, one day, why him of all people, and Vincent had told him that there will always be a certain kinship between people who have been through awful things and lived in spite of it, out of spite.

And there are times when he wishes he could have done more, done better, and then Vincent reminds him that he helped save the fucking world (without the expletives, of course), and if that’s not good enough for Cid then he’s holding himself to standards no one could ever reach.

It amuses Cid, a lot, that Vincent helps him stay positive and that he helps Vincent do the same, because everyone they know who finds out they’re together immediately assumes that so much misanthropy in a partnership would just inspire more. That they’d feed into each other’s anger and just become angrier. He doesn’t know why they think that way. It seems obvious to him that any relationship has to be founded on affection to work, and if he’s honest that’s why all of his have failed in the past, and misanthropy doesn’t tend to jive well with affection.

This is what Cid’s life is now, captaining his ship with the man he loves by his side, and every morning that he wakes up and remembers what he’s waking up to, he can’t quite believe it. But he tries.

  vii. it’s all for you (cause that’s what you do)

 They settle down, after a while, in a town not far from the sea. They eventually restart the space program, though under a different heading, and Cid sends off his designs to them in the hopes that he’ll be a part of it even at his age. They accept the designs, use them in a ship, and Vincent and Cid travel to Rocket Town to watch the launch. If anyone had asked Cid how he felt when he watched it he would have played it off, but Vincent knows that he cried when the launch was successful, and they’d stayed in Rocket Town for a week reminiscing so that Cid could be around for the post-launch celebrations.

Afterwards, they go back to their little town, and Vincent starts a garden. The town is nice and sleepy, quiet. They have good neighbours and when they first moved in a lovely older lady from down the road makes cookies for them and brings them over. Cid spends his days inventing, creating designs and sending them off to people who can utilise them, and on warm days they walk on the beach together and look out to the sea.

They’re still a little jaded, and neither of them will admit it to each other but they both feel so lucky that this is something possible in their lives. They’re not used to this – to being allowed to be happy, to feel safe, to feel loved.

There are still the comfortable silences. There are still the moments where it’s simple, but not easy – where the weight of their pasts seems too heavy, where they feel like they could be crushed under all that has not been said. There are still the soft mornings, the unsettled nights.

But there aren’t any battles to fight anymore, and Cid can sit outside and watch Vincent garden and help him tend to the flowers that he’s growing -  beautiful and fragrant things that he can’t remember the name of, though Vincent tells him their names and meanings sometimes, before tucking them behind his ear. It seems silly to Cid – like an indulgence he’s not allowed. But he lets it happen, because he likes the way he feels when Vincent does it, when he smiles like he genuinely has nothing to worry about.

They stand in the garden that they’ve grown from nothing, in the warm sunlight with the smell of flowers in the air, and this? This is both easy and simple. This is as easy as breathing.

[piamii]

Maybe I, I can never fly 저기 저 꽃잎들처럼 날갤 단 것처럼은 안 돼 Maybe I, I can’t touch the sky 그래도 손 뻗고 싶어 달려보고 싶어 조금 더이 어둠 속을 그냥 걷고 또 걷고 있어 행복했던 시간들이 내게 물었어 너 넌 정말 괜찮은 거냐고 Oh no 난 대답했어 아니 나는 너무 무서워 그래도 여섯 송이 꽃을 손에 꼭 쥐고 나 난 걷고 있을 뿐이라고 Oh no But it’s my fate It’s my fate 그래도 발버둥치고 싶어

Maybe I, I can never fly I can’t fly like the flower petals over there Or as though I have wings Maybe I, I can’t touch the sky Still, I want to stretch my hand out I want to run, just a bit more

I’m just walking and walking, among this darkness My happy times asked me this question You, are you really okay, it asked me Oh no I replied, no, I’m so afraid Still, I hold the 6 flowers tightly in my hands I, I’m just walking, I said Oh no

But it’s my fate It’s my fate Still, I want to struggle and fight

this song has made me cry many times... i’m still astounded that jin was able to tell part of his story through this song.. the fact that he was able to give voice to his struggle is amazing and it inspires me every day these thoughts about jin have been a few weeks in the making and i think i need to process this in order to move forward into postdoc properly. because i feel like jin is no longer who he was when Awake came out, even though his feelings were very real and will always be a part of his story. i will always cherish Awake in a special way even though i really like all the members and all the different eras of BTS. in the same way, the feelings that plague me now about this new year will not be around forever, they will eventually fade as i continue to choose to struggle and conquer each coming day, and be a beautiful part of the narrative that fell upon me as postdoc in my overall arc of growth and becoming an adult

because im a new bts fan, ive been trying to catch up with all the content from 6 years and trying as best i can to go in order so i can understand the progression, i’m still in 2013 hip hop era when jimin was the cutest mushroom alive and jin was pretty much in the background of everything. like in AHL he didn’t really get much chance to improve his singing or dancing other than in Jenny Kita’s challenge when hoseok taught him. im a much more sensitive person than most but i think anyone would be bothered being highlighted as the worst dancer over and over again anyways, before i listened to awake, i was like: who is this jin guy? why does he keep calling himself handsome? does he even do anything?

after i heard this song, i got mad because i started listening to all the bts songs i knew and rewatching the MV’s and realized that jin had very little lines. i found myself asking myself - hmm, why does jungkook/jimin always get the opening/catchiest parts of the song? (i understand, they are the best at singing+dancing simultaneously, etc). taehyung as well but less so. i started listening to jin’s lines a lot and trying to analyze whether he had a good voice, etc etc.  i can undrstand in 2013 when bts had a much more harsh, hip hop vibe, jin’s voice didn’t suit their sound at all... plus he honestly did not know how to dance. JK+JM+V could all belt to suit the BTS sound at the time. i haven’t gotten too much farther than 2013 era yet so i dont know how their sound evolved to the way it is now. i’ve listened to a good portion of the bts world soundtrack and it’s kinda crazy that they’ve gotten to this point soundwise it definitely seems like jin has gotten much more recognition lately, i don’t follow the fandom closely so i don’t really know if it’s equivalent to the other members now HOWEVER i think if we zero in on the period of time in which awake came out, we find jin in this very painful section of his life. it’s clear that he loves being around his groupmates very much and yet he is constantly struggling In many of the earlier vids, jin is definitely silly whenever he gets a chance and continues to take care of everyone (e.g., cooking, etc), but he doesn’t seem carefree or happy like some of the others. it’s interesting to watch 2013 stuff because even suga/jimin/v all seem much more hyper and giggly and cute than the few things i’ve seen from more recent. mostly the recognition he gets on the earlier shows and such is getting called out for being a bad dancer. [which is why i was happy that Jenny Kita praised him for improving so much in the dance challenge] i think the reason why i love jin so much is because, first, i really like all the members of bangtan. namjoon and suga, lyrical geniuses with very cute and quirky personalities, i could continue but this rant is about jin. jimin, my gateway drug into BTS, just amazing in every sense of being an artist. jungkook, excelling at every part of what he does since day 1 of BTS, all while being simultaneously innocent, unassuming, and confident at the same time. V, sultry voice impulsive cute boy who is incredibly silly, bright, and talented. and hoseok, the light of the group, well-rounded as hell, bringing the energy and the smiles and just an incredible dancer. i like jin because it was really hard to tell what jin was about from the beginning. i have yet to unravel the narrative that bts’ journey has painted about jin since i’m taking my time getting through the content, but listening to jin’s live solo performances & some of their more recent performances with substantial jin parts like dimple, i can see how much he’s IMPROVED. on youtube comments for jin’s live performances, people have said that jin has the most stable voice out of the vocal line. and i absolutely agree at this point. i’m remembering his voice during the Rookie King karaoke room; his voice was incredibly sweet and had so much potential back then, and it seemed like noone really saw it, because his voice was very unpolished and quiet. also, i think that, jin being the oldest in BTS didn’t quite match with the image his vocals projected of being sweet and pure as compared to JK + V’s deeper and more soulful vocals. however, it was that sweet and bright quality that Awake and his cover I Love You make me instantly cry, combined with his increased strength and precision with his voice that he’s gained over time. JK+JM+V have incredibly strong vocals but i feel that they’re not quite as precise as jin’s vocals are now. like when JK does his cover of Charlie Puth’s song, i was a little disappointed because he doesn’t execute the same level of precision as Charlie Puth. JK is an INCREDIBLE vocalist and his live vocals knock me out dead, but i think he, too, has his strengths and weaknesses. i actually think that Jin’s voice suits a song like We Don’t Talk Anymore much better than JK’s. also, like i said, jimin was the member who originally got me into BTS. i think songs like serendipity just show how masterful he is as an artist and how much he’s grown as well, from little mushroom boy to seductive dance master. at face value i think jimin is much more immediately likeable than jin when you factor in vocals, dance, and stage presence.

BUT ... i love jin because of his growth as an artist. I haven’t gotten to learn much about his personality/character development yet, but as far as i can see, he has improved immensely as an artist. like M tells me sometimes, he thinks that although i’m smol in a lot of ways, he thinks that my ceiling of growth as a person is very high. i guess, because i can see aspects of myself in jin, his story is inspiring to me. because he struggled endlessly with things that he had no experience in, he can now look back and see how far he has come, and his fanbase also sees that as well. he’s not just a handsome face. i know his growth as a singer and dancer is just one piece of him, but it is a piece that speaks to me, and it is a piece that is undoubtedly very important to his story as a person. i think this growth is encompassed in the story of Awake and Epiphany. 6 YEARS IN THE MAKING SO FAR. even more so when you think about their time as trainees and such. and he is undoubtedly a different person than he was back then, a different person even when BTS came out with Wings. as i am starting postdoc and actually terrified out of my mind, i keep thinking back to who i was when i started grad school, which is incidentally right around the period of time in which i’m currently watching BTS content. it’s kind of a nice parallel to observe jin (and others) in their previous dynamic, almost exactly 5 years ago, when i started grad school. when i started graduate school, i was 100% a smol bean. terrified by any social situation but too prideful and unaware to admit it, terrified by the prospect of doing clinical work, not really even sure if i wanted to be in grad school but it seemed like the natural step. when i think about the recurring theme of dreams that comes up in BTS songs, i don’t think i’ve ever had a dream. maybe singing or art at one point, but I think i always knew my personality would be a hindrance to doing anything seriously in those realms.  when i think about who i was in 2014 compared to now, i’ve grown into a titan. i look at the 2014 me and think a lot of negative thoughts about who i was back then, undoubtedly like probably anyone would when they look at themselves from 5-6 years ago. like how could you have been that scared and inexperienced? how could you have been so behind compared to others? why didn’t you put yourself out there more? all the while on the outside, wow, i’m in grad school, i made it, i’m doing good! i like to think that based on the narrative that bts has painted that they would maybe look back at themselves from 5-6 years ago and maybe think somewhat of the same. i feel kind of lame thinking that because 3 of them are so much younger than me, but i know it’s definitely not out of the realm of possibility. i dont know if jin ever had any thoughts like this, but i feel like i would have been comparing myself to the maknaes, thinking, why am i like this when i’m so much older than them. i don’t know how he kept working hard after all this time and became the amazing singer he is now. his effort is obvious now when you hear him sing. he’s not just my favorite BTS member because he works hard. all of them work hard. he’s my favorite because he worked hard and he finally succeeded, even when he started from somewhere behind the starting line compared to the other members. i think of myself in this way somewhat too, being introverted and socially anxious and HSP, i fight myself through every day to keep going, wondering why i am trying so hard for something i’m not naturally good at.  I think the reason why i love jin is because, of all the members, he makes me think, “if he can do it, i can do it, too.”