#by that I mean he’s perpetually sick so he spends most of his time lying down or sitting yknow.

[espighty]

Scuffed-ass COTL height chart where I don’t even tell you their heights, I just show you how tall they are relative to each other. If they share an arrow they are basically the same height. Most normal followers can be expected to reside in the general area of ‘above lamb but just below Kallamar’.

This is also the most useless chart ever because I didn’t even show what most of ‘em look like body-wise ghhhh it’s ONLY relative height. I should be thrown in prison

[thatslikely]

Mill Boy - F.W.

Mill Boy- Fred Weasley x fem!reader [1800s muggle!au]

warnings: mentions of child labor

word count: 3.4k 

a/n: probably part one of a minseries? y/n and fred are about 10-11 in this so part ii could possibly be a timeskip

“Mum, can I go play? Please?” you pleaded, doe eyes shiny and prominent. Your mother, a hard working housewife, was bent over the sturdy kitchen table, dousing dirty dishes in scalding water, preparing them to be piled with the beef warming in the flames of the stove across the airy kitchen.

“Fine, Y/N, just please don’t get your dress dirty. Your father worked hard to afford such a fine cotton. He wouldn’t be pleased to see it ruined, now would he?” You eagerly nodded in agreement, ready to go enjoy the meadows lying across the walls of your humble residence. It was a beautiful spring day, most enticing one yet. Birds fluttered through the lush, brilliant cedar trees, enjoying the tranquil air that comes with the season. Ox-eye daisies dotted the expansive hills, all the way down to the slowly trickling creek. 

You slipped your muddied boots over the clean, cotton socks adorning your feet, grabbing your hat to shield your youthful eyes from the golden star above right after. You slipped it over your locks, which were neatly tied into pig-tails with silky, baby pink ribbons Mother bought you for your birthday. 

You skipped through the propped back door, little giggles of delight humming through your throat. Any traces of the harsh winter that stormed the land only a few months prior were washed away with the glimmering sunlight, which coerced the wildflowers to bloom from buds to petaled cups of sweetness.

With a smile, you followed a path of vibrant, woolly blue violets, carefully plucking their stems for a nice arrangement to become the perfect centerpiece for dinner. The colour, in your opinion, complimented the pastel pinks of your dress perfectly, filling you with even more glee. How you wished that you could spend all your time out of the confines of buildings, having fun and being free of responsibility.

It was most unladylike to go splashing in the cool water of the stream, and you would surely be scolded for it if you chose to do so. You had attempted to conceal your submersion in the winding brook once before, but the liquidy footprints you left on the floors of your house quickly outed your escapade. Fearing another stern talk, which was not pleasant in the slightest, you simply skipped to its edge, astutely observing its reflective surface with admiration. 

The crystalline liquid glossed over smooth stones adorned with moss so peacefully, its pace never wavering, not even for a second. The mere idea of something perpetually in motion, never having to stop and take a break, as you did many times after a long day of running in the fields, chasing butterflies, astounded you. 

Everyone had to go to sleep, or stop for a breath every once in a while, right? Scampers, the stray which adored your family’s covered porch, went to bed at odd times, most often at noon. And yet, he still slept. The grocer down the lane kept his shop attended every time you’d visit, but the windows would soon be curtained and dim when the moon came out to rule the seemingly never ending sky.

You prodded the cool creek with your finger, letting the water continue to flow past it unbothered, as if it were nothing but another stray twig. The thirst for answers dripped down from your mind, enveloping your body in a sensation that couldn’t be mended by simply drinking the water. You were amazed, and you had to see more, know more. You followed the bends of the stream, far beyond the view of your house.

Nobody had ever outright stated that you shan’t see where it goes, where the water ends, so naturally you had to discover it yourself. Maybe you’d be met with a secret alcove, your own private pocket of the boundless world. Alternatively, maybe you would stumble across a small house entangled high up in the branches of a tree, and fly up to its entrance like a fairy from a tale recited before bed. Or even, most enticing of all, maybe there was a prince waiting for you where the water ends; a prince who’d sweep you off your feet, offering you a chance to live in a magnificent castle situated in a far away land. 

You hummed songs that your frilly-dressed peers would chime in unison during recess, filling the still air. The toes of your boots leaped from one large rock to another, balancing on their flat surfaces like a game of hopscotch. 

The soft, sweet humming echoing through his cove from a ways down the creek instantly perked Fred’s curiosity, luring him in like a siren’s song. He halted his stick-poking of the ants inching up the burly trunk of the ancient tree, swinging his gingered-head down, so his vision lay unobscured by the low-hanging branches. 

No one ever came to visit Fred when he lay slouched in the safe, knotted branches of his tree; whether it was because his family couldn’t locate him or the fact that they were aware that he needed a break, he didn’t know. Days spent in the mill were painful and excruciatingly long, so during the few spare moments he had to himself, he’d spend it talking to the lush wildlife surrounding him. He’d never be talked over by the weeds or birds, they’d just sit and listen, exactly what he needed. 

He nearly fell to the grassy ground trying to find the source of the melodic songs, curious to see who dare disturb the previously hidden Fort Fred. He imagined himself as a skillful militiaman, like his brothers, ready to charge and overtake the enemy, even if the music-maker was nothing near a threat.

Just as he was about to jump down to investigate on his own two feet, the source was finally revealed. An absolutely beautiful girl- a princess, rather, approached the tree. She was dressed in a light pink gown, as if she had just come back from a royal ball. Her singing brought serenity all around, as if she were somehow communicating with the birds and butterflies, allowing them to chirp and flutter along. At the same time, however, her well-loved boots and hat altered her look to something of a daring adventurer, exploring the unknown paths of thicket.

“Hello,” you said angelically, clasping your hands together across your waist. You were completely surprised to meet a companion on your previously solo expedition, and a dashing, amiable one at that.

You’d never seen this particular boy at school before; he seemed different than all your icky male peers. The boys at school would tug on your pigtails during tests, claim you were infested with disgusting germs at recess, and chase you around the yard tauntingly. But this boy’s features resonated nothing but kindness: the crinkles around his eyes from smiling, light orange freckles all across his nose, his shaggy, fiery red hair topped with a patched-up flat cap.

Maybe there was a prince at the end of the brook after all.

The friendly-appearing boy hopped down from his perch in the tree, smoothing out the wrinkles and leaves in his suspendered trousers and white button up with a suspicious look. “And who would you be, miss?” 

“Erm- my name’s Y/N. What’s your’s?” You couldn’t help but smile, and your cheeks prickled as if a ladybug were crawling across them.

He stepped closer to you, his composure open and honest. “I’m Fred, Fred Weasley. I live down the way, near the mill.”

“Nice to meet you, Fred Weasley.” You did a proper courtesy, just as you had been taught so many times before, then adding, “what’s a mill?”

Fred’s jaw dropped, as if it had no hinges. “You’re joking, right? You don’t know about the mill? I work there just about every day of the week.” He pointed further down the creek, opposite the direction of your house, astonishment swimming in his mahogany brown eyes. 

“I’ve never heard anything of the sort. What do you do in a mill, exactly?” 

“Well, there’re these big, loud machines that're always moving. They get power from this huge wooden wheel upstream that’s always spinning. They make tons of pieces of fabric out of wool. Maybe I even weaved some of the cloth used to make that very dress you’re wearing right now.”

You marvelled at his descriptions, even the simple way he spoke, articulated his words. Those utterly despicable boys at school would’ve just stuck their tongues out at you disrespectfully, not giving you the time of day, but Fred couldn’t be more different. He spoke to you as if you two were something of equals.

“Oh wow.” You were barely able to suppress a flustered giggle. Why were you feeling so, mushy around Fred, the sensation comparable only to the consistency of porridge? “I didn’t know you were so talented to do that.”

“Aww,” -he blushed, scratching the nape of his neck- “I mean, it’s not too difficult, you could probably do it if you tried. After a while ‘course.”

“Nonsense.” You not-so-nonchalantly rubbed your palms up and down your dress, noticing beads of perspiration accumulating on them. While doing so, the bushel of hooded violets resting in your pocket became evident. You pulled one from your stash, saying, “do you want one of my flowers? I picked them down near my house.”

Fred swore at any moment, if anything were so much as to touch him, he would burst. He’d never experienced these, admittedly strange, feelings before. It felt like his last meal wouldn’t settle in his stomach, or as if he’d just run a horse’s distance by the way his heart was pounding out of his chest. Was he sick? Should he go tell mum?

“I, erm, of course,” he stuttered, barely capable of moving his lips to form coherent words. “You have e-excellent taste in flowers, miss Y/N.”

“Thanks. I picked plenty, for a nice centerpiece at home. Mum always loves flowers.” You fiddled with the frills and layers of your dress, doing something to occupy your energetic fingers. Fred studied the flower intently with his brows furrowed, tugging on its petals and anthers. 

After Fred was satisfied with his examination of the violet, he said, “you know, there’s some really pretty yellow flowers growing down by the mill. They’d go perfectly with these here.”

“Will you take me?” 

“Of course I will. We’d best get going, though. Don’t wanna miss dinner.” Fred gestured for you to follow his lead, walking through the knee-high blades of grass as if he were wading through a river. When he quickly noticed your look of apprehension, not wanting to dirty your dress or have an unwanted animal encounter, he grabbed your palm with a grin, forcing you to trail behind him.

You two distantly followed the path of the creek, adventure flowing through both of your veins. Fred’s grip on your hand was gentle, despite the calloused patches scattered over his skin, no doubt a result of the ‘large machines’ he described working on in the mill.  

After a while of giggling and jogging, the distant outline of a building across the stream was visible. Its four walls were composed of rough, grey stones used as bricks; it’s roof was sealed with jagged pieces of slate, some out of place. But the biggest surprise came not with the building itself, but to the right of it. A humongous, wooden wheel spun through the rill, rhythmically splashing the previously tranquil water as it continued flowing. It was as if everything today was out of a fairy tale, but this was the most outlandish of them all. A giant wheel, spinning in pace through the water? 

“Well, we’re here.” While Fred usually dreaded returning back to the mill, as his time within the confines were never pleasant, tolerable at best, he was glad to be here with company and a different mission. He wasn’t going to be making fabric today, no, he was on the search for bundles of corn-yellow flowers, with the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on. True royalty, a princess through and through.

“Wow. That wheel’s ginormous! How does it work?” This time, it was your mind that curiosity flooded, and it ceased to relent. 

“Erm, I don’t exactly know. All I know is that the creek pushes the wheel, for some reason. I’ll ask Dad about it sometime, he’ll know.” You nodded appreciatively, satisfied at the promise of an answer. 

 “Now what do you say we go find some of those flowers?”

“Yes please!” You started peering around the water’s edge, attempting to spot any signs of cheerful, yellow flowers.

While you continued digging through ferns and bushes, searching for gold, Fred enchanted you from a distance across the shaded meadow. “I think my brother Percy said that the flowers are called Golden Alexanders. He’s one to always go a bit heavy on books during his breaks.” 

‘You’ll have to ask your brother how they got their name. The first part’s fairly obvious, the Alexander portion not so much.”

“I’m gonna have to ask everyone in my family questions if I keep showing you new things by the looks of it,” he giggled, walking around the grassy plateau with his hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun. 

“Teacher always tells me during lessons, ‘curiosity killed the cat’-” 

“Poor kitty,” Fred muttered.

“-But satisfaction brought it back. So you best bring me back some answers tomorrow, because I don’t exactly fancy dying.” Fred’s eyes widened with his new, highly-important mission. “I’d at least wish to go out in a heroic way, not at the hands of my own unquenched curiosity.”

“That’s quite the big word.”

“I know, I learned it the other day!” you giggled, covering your toothy grin with your hand. “Isn’t it cool?” Fred responded with a handsome, wide smile and concurring nod. His eyes were filled to the brim with joy; they reminded you of warm evenings sitting around the crackling fire charring logs and embers. 

You scourged through the brush for a while longer until the soothing trickling of water was interrupted by Fred’s distinct voice, shouting, “Oh, I think I found some o’er here!”

You skipped to Fred’s direction, the toes of your boots patting the grass lightly. Fred was leaning down over a small patch of Golden Alexanders, watching a few bumblebees buzz between the central stigmas protected in the wreaths of small petals.

Without thinking, you swiftly wrapped your arms around Fred, his back pressed to your chest tightly. “Thank you, Fred. These’ll look great. You’ve got quite the eagle eye.” Your cheeks burned, and your soft arms were swept with tiny goosebumps.

“It’s no problem, really. I’m just glad you’re happy.” You unleashed Fred from your grasp, nearly tumbling to the ground with flusteredness. The porridge-ish feeling was back, and your now-wobbly legs weren’t exempt. “Your smile’s contagious, you know.” 

Fred’s reaction to your hug was slightly different, but equal in magnitude. His chest puffed as if it were fluttering with butterflies that would glide low near the grass, his neck, which tingled after your every exhale, was burning like brush, and his breath all but stopped, which he paid no mind to. 

To distract himself from the foreign sensations racking his body, he pointed to the revolving wheel sputtering the crystalline, flowing water, saying, “Do you think it's possible for me to climb the wheel? I’d wager I could.”

“You’d be a madman if you did.” You daintily trailed behind him like a curious cat, spying on his actions from afar.

“Then I guess I’ve got to do it.” He stepped one foot on one of the damp wooden beams, which proved successful until the churning of the wheel shook off his balance. He stumped to the group with an ‘ow’, groaning, “Princess, you were supposed to catch me.”

“Sorry,” you cheekily giggled, suppressing your smile with your cupped palm. You looked in all directions but Fred’s to avoid an assumed scornful glare, but instead you were met with a chuckling redhead, his umber eyes screwed shut with laughter.

Childish titter occupied the still Spring air, blending in with the trickling water and occasional melody chirped by a lone sparrow or two. Your fingers intertwined with Fred’s to prevent you from falling backwards into the puddles of sludge strewn through the sunset-soaked blades of grass.

Eventually, Fred could be your stabilizing tether no longer, and you both fell backwards, hands still locked playfully. You started to get up from the soft cushion composed of a plethora of plants before the flat-capped ginger motioned for you to remain relaxed on the ground, the large tufts of your gown and all. 

You complied, and before you knew it, you were making out the shapes of pink-hued clouds, improvising tales and fables to enchant Fred with.

“That one looks like a rabbit, doesn’t it?” you would say, or “that one looks like a mule-”

“-riding on a carriage!” Fred finished, giggling in unison with you. As your throat erupted with chuckles, you and the prince beside you clutched your stomachs which were rattling with joy.

After a while of staring up at the deepening sky, you said, “I think I’ve got to go back for dinner, Mum’ll be expecting me.” Fred immediately stood up, quick as a soldier, and he outstretched his arm chivalrously to help you sit up as well.

“I’ll walk you back, don’t worry. Who would I be to let a princess such as yourself brave the wilderness alone?”

“How kind of you, good sir,” you replied with a joking curtsy and exaggerated accent dripping with poshness. Your fingers intertwined with Fred’s again for the second time that day, and this time they felt more familiar, as if you could pinpoint every sun-owing freckle or crease in his pale skin.

Your connected arms swung rhythmically as you both relaxedly walked towards the direction of your humble residence, careful to avoid stepping on dotted ladybugs that scurried through the grass. Occasionally, you or Fred would release a clever wisecrack or randomly twirl, basking in the pink rays of sunshine that gradually depleted, but for most of the trek home, you stayed quiet, simply enjoying each other’s company: a luxury that was hard to come by in Fred’s house of nine.

When your house was finally visible on the thin line of the horizon, Fred’s eyes couldn’t help but light up. Your home didn’t look much different than the Weasley’s, save for its size being half as big. Your chimney wasn’t as crooked and worn by the elements as the gingered clan’s was either, but the young boy didn’t seem to notice. All he could see was an elegant castle suited for no one but the best.

At long last, you arrived on your back porch. The door was wide open, where your mother leaned her aproned hips against the frame with a smile. Wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen to you and Fred’s nostrils, beckoning you to take a seat at the dinner table and dig in. “Now who might this be, Y/N?”

“My name’s Fredrick Weasley ma’am.” Youthfulness glinted his eyes as he reached his hand to shake your mother’s. “I go by Fred.”

“You’ve got quite the firm shake,” she said, suppressing a chuckle, “I hope you and Y/N had fun today? By the look of her dress, she did.”

Your cheeks burned like a tin fresh out of the oven as you looked down in horror to see brown splotches of dirt strewn across the fluff and frills. “Mum, I-”

“Shh, Y/N, don’t worry about it,” you mother cooed in a whisper, eyeing the oblivious redheaded boy next to you, who was equally smudged with mud but complemented with a sweet, wide-mouthed smile.

“Well, Y/N dear, it’s dinner time. Does your guest Mister Weasley care to join us?”

“No thank you, Miss Y/L/N, I’ve got to be on my way back to my home as well.” Fred pulled you closer to him, so that your chest was mere inches away from his’. A sudden burst of confidence pumped through his veins, and with that, he gave a light pack to your cheek. 

Your eyes widened with shock; his lips left a tingly imprint on your nerves as he turned back around towards the creek. I’ll never wash my face again, you thought, cupping your cheek with your palm. 

“Bye princess, I’ll see you tomorrow, promise?” he shouted, giving you a final wave. 

“Promise. Bye, Mill Boy. See you then!” And with that, he was off following towards the water in which he came, the orange sunlight turning his figure into a fading silhouette. 

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[jjmaebank]

wish you were gay - jj maybank

A/N: So I wrote this based off my own first heartbreak haha fun! Yeah fr, this all comes from the heart and I literally poured my real emotions and experience into this so it’s really special to me. The song ‘wish you were gay’ by Billie Eilish just reminds me of it cuz I listened to it on repeat getting over it and I related to it. If you haven’t heard it I highly recommend! Also italics are flashbacks!

Summary: you and JJ had something you thought was real, you fell for him and you thought he’d fallen for you too, but this becomes an evident lie as he makes a rash decision that ends in disaster.

Warnings: angst, heartbreak

Words: 1,802

+

Heartbreak. Heartbreak is a perpetual feeling that something bad is about to happen. It’s grief, fur-lined with fear that joy has forever escaped you, that there will be no happily ever after for you. Heartbreak is a tightness in your chest; it makes air feel like razor blades moving through you. It’s waking up in the morning and having three seconds where you don’t remember, and those three seconds will be the only part of the day where the dread doesn’t sit and fester in your gut.

Heartbreak was what you were feeling. After a full day of acting alright, like everything was fine and going back to normal, you’d go home and cry. You’d cry until your body was physically exhausted, to the point where you had no tears left, to the point where your face was sore. You’d cry until you felt physically and emotionally drained and then you would just lay in your bed staring up at your blank ceiling, basking in your own self-pity.

What had gone so terribly wrong? You couldn’t wrap your head around it even weeks afterwards. It kept you up at night, gnawed at you incessantly, played in the back of your mind constantly. Were you unlovable? Were you never going to be good enough for anyone? Why was it that everyone you let in pushed you away, abandoned you as soon as you let your guard down?

+

You and JJ were lying on John B’s couch after a night of partying, the both of you still a little drunk. You were wrapped up in his arms as he stroked your hair and placed sweet kisses on your forehead. You looked up at him in adoration and placed your hands on his bare chest.

“(y/n),” he said nervously, meeting your gaze.

“Yes?” You smiled, his anguish causing your heart rate to quicken.

“I’ve just been thinking, like…we’ve been messing about for a while now…and I guess I uh don’t really know what we are, but I know that I um…like you, like a lot…” he blabbered, removing his hand from you waist to scratch the back of his neck.

You continued staring at him, your mouth curling up in a smile as you felt him squirm underneath you as he tried to pluck up the courage to say what he’d been meaning to for weeks now.

“I guess…I uh guess this is me asking whether you wanna go out with me?” He asked, avoiding eye contact, too scared to see your reaction.

You grabbed his chin gently and tilted his head down to look at you.

“You want me to be your girlfriend?” You smiled. You’d wanted to hear those words for a while now.

“I- uh, yeah,” he replied nervously.

“Well then, yes,” you grinned, watching his eyes widen and his cheeks go crimson.

“Yes? As in yes you want to be my girlfriend?” He stuttered.

“What else would I be saying yes to you dumbass,” you chuckled, making him go red.

He pulled you into a tighter embrace, his whole being consumed by joy.

“Thank god,” he gasped, “that shit was scary.”

+

You remembered that night clearly, you’d never been so elated. The confusion and uncertainty between the two of you completely erased as you finally confessed your feelings for one another. You’d never felt so good in your life. You loved him, you hadn’t told him that yet, but he wanted you to be his girlfriend and that was enough for you at the time. You finally got the clarity you needed, that he was yours and you were his and nothing would change that…or so you thought.

It didn’t take long for things to go south between you and JJ, perhaps a little over a month. One of the best months of your life soon turned into the worst, all in one night.

+

“What is up with you?” You yelled at JJ. He’d been ignoring you all week, coming up with excuses not to see you and avoiding your texts and calls.

“I’ve just been busy, alright!” He yelled back, his voice laced in frustration. He was keeping something from you.

“Bullshit, J! You’re not too busy for John B, for Pope, for Kie! You’re apparently only too busy for me!” You shouted. “What aren’t you telling me?”

JJ sighed and sat down on John B’s couch, running his hands through his messy hair.

“Did I do something?” You whispered, sitting down across from him.

“No…no…” JJ shook his head, staring down at the wooden floorboards.

“Then what is it?” You pleaded, your voice threatening to crack at any moment. “Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”

“I fucked up (y/n)…” JJ said, finally looking up at you. His eyes showed pity, guilt even.

Your heart felt like it had sunk to your feet. What did he mean he fucked up? Had he cheated? A million thoughts raced through your mind as you processed his words.

“W-what do you mean?” You stuttered, your heart now beating at a speed you didn’t know to be humanly possible.

“I lied to you (y/n),” his lip trembled; he was holding himself back from crying. You’d only seen JJ cry once, after telling you about his father, so it scared you that he was showing signs of it again.

“You lied? What do you mean you lied, JJ?” You asked, your voice raised yet still shaky.

“I told you I wanted you to be my girlfriend,” he stated, his eyes still glazed with guilt.

Your breath hitched as you took in his words. Out of the million things that had crossed your mind, this was not one of them.

“I’m so sorry, (y/n), I really thought I wanted this…” he continued, his voice strained. “We had a lot of fun and I really like hanging out with you, but I just…I can’t do this…us…”

You felt sick. You felt a sob making its way up your throat as you felt your heart breaking, shattering into tiny pieces.

“So this was all a lie?” You choked, “I never meant anything to you?”

You could see the hurt in his eyes seeing what he’d done to you.

“I’m so, so sorry (y/n),” he shook his head, “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Bullshit!” You stood up from your seat, tears streaming down your face. “You don’t just fuck with someone’s feelings on accident!”

“We were drunk (y/n)!” JJ stood up. “I thought I knew how I felt, but I didn’t and I’m sorry! I was wrong okay? Fuck! I was wrong!”

“Alcohol doesn’t give you feelings for someone out of the blue, JJ,” you cried, “so you must’ve lied that night. You must’ve lied right to my face when you told me you liked me! When you told me you wanted me to be yours!”

You could barely see through your tear coated eyes and the taste of salt stung your lips.

JJ simply stood there in silence, shame overcoming him. He knew he was an idiot and he hated himself for it. He cared for you, he really did, but he knew leading you on anymore would just hurt you more than he already had.

“I just don’t think I’m a relationship type of guy (y/n)…I’ve tried but I can’t be the guy you want me to be… I’m sorry…” he sighed, sticking his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, biting his lip and sniffling.

“To think I was going to tell you I loved you…” you muttered, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

JJ’s eyes widened at your confession, “(y/n)…I-”

“Save it, JJ,” you interrupted, “You’ve made it very clear how you feel.”

“I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry,” he mumbled, letting a single tear slip down his cheek.

“I really hope you are,” you cried grabbing your stuff, “and I hope that you never do this to anyone ever again.”

+

JJ Maybank had broken your heart, that was a fact. The first boy to make you feel wanted, worthy, was the same to absolutely ruin you. You spent countless nights crying yourself to sleep, blaming yourself for what had happened, convincing yourself that you could never be loved. You had to spend time away from the pogues at first, you couldn’t bear to see JJ, you wouldn’t let him see what he’d done to you just. For him to pity you.

You were so embarrassed by what had happened that you longed to blame it on anything other than the truth, the truth that JJ simply didn’t love you and he never would. But what hurt the most was thinking that he could have. The time you spent together felt so real that you couldn’t comprehend how he could discard it with such ease, just pretend like it had never even happened. He’d given you a taste of the happiness you’d craved so dearly and then ripped it away from you in the blink of an eye, that’swhat hurt the most.

What a fool you were, thinking a boy notorious for one night stands and meaningless hook ups could ever settle down permanently with the likes of you. You dreamed of being the one who he came to when he was sad, of being the first person he confided in after a beating from his father, but that’s all it was, a dream. He hardly let you in, despite your many efforts. The truth was you weren’t the first thing he thought of when he woke up, or the last thing before he fell asleep. He didn’t fantasise about your lips and the way it felt to kiss you, or how it felt to hold you or hear you laugh; he took you for granted.

You wished you could have been that girl in the movies, the girl that gets the player to change his ways and fall for her, the girl that makes him never want to be with anyone else ever again, but you weren’t her and you never would be.

+

A/N: whoooosh I haven’t written in a good 2 weeks or something so idk there you have it

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[calumcest]

there’s no time for running away now

so me exposing myself: yes i write fics that i never post. here is one of them that i’m pretty sure i wrote while completely out of my fucking mind at like 2am and have not re-read or edited so? absolutely cannot guarantee the quality of this fic in any way shape or form please do not hold me accountable for any of its content. unless you like it in which case please do hold me accountable because i require at least 3 doses of validation a day to survive. also this fic was literally me coming up with the final line and then writing 2.4k just to have a reason to have it

It’s three a.m., and Ashton’s awake. 

On the surface, that might not appear to be a problem. And ordinarily, it wouldn’t be - ordinarily, Ashton would either roll over groggily, will sleep to come with every fibre of his being and maybe a quick prayer or two, or read something mind-numbingly boring like his urgent work emails to send him back to sleep. This, however, isn’t the most ordinary situation. 

Ashton is awake because of Luke. 

And, okay, that’s a bit of an unfair characterisation. It’s actually Ashton’s racing thoughts keeping him up, but since Luke’s the focus of said thoughts swirling in a huge cluster through Ashton’s mind, overlapping and interlocking so Ashton can’t pick them apart from the love love love that’s threading through them all, he’s going to blame it on Luke. And it’s not exactly Ashton’s fault he’s in love with Luke, is it? He’d challenge anyone to spend years crammed in tight spaces with Luke Hemmings and not fall in love with him. 

(Michael and Calum don’t count, obviously. Ashton’s never seen two people so blinkered by love in his life, and he’s equal parts envious of their deep, easy love and grateful that they’re not his competition. He’s not sure he could take on Calum’s thoughtfulness if it came down to it.) 

The real problem is that Ashton’s alone. They’re in a hotel, some shitty place in northern England that Ashton can’t even remember the name of, but they’d all been so ecstatic to find out that they had a room each (each!) that they hadn’t been able to bring themselves to care. They’d all hopped straight in the shower, washing off three days’ worth of sweat and grime, and then one by one dropped out of the group chat (Ashton had heard Calum’s door clicking open and shut, muted footsteps and muffled voices), until Ashton thought he was the only one left awake. 

When Ashton’s squashed in a tour bus with God knows how many other six-foot-something men in their twenties, there’s nothing he wishes for more than a moment to himself. He sneaks the moments in when he can - a few minutes backstage, a few moments on the bus in the morning before anyone else has woken up, before Luke comes padding in with bleary eyes and a sleepy smile that makes Ashton’s stomach flip - but it’s never more than ten minutes, never enough time to feel the solitude. Now, though, he’s got nothing to do besides let the seclusion envelop him, listen to the silence and his tinnitus and let the ringing infiltrate his thoughts. 

It’s been so long since Ashton’s been on his own, really been on his own - usually on hotel nights, he’s so exhausted and grateful for a proper bed he falls asleep fully-dressed and wakes up disoriented - that he’s kind of forgotten what it’s like. He’s forgotten the way that his thoughts start to squirm around in his mind, all clamouring for his attention, one following the other in such rapid succession that Ashton barely has the time to process them before the next one is already gripping him by the throat and forcing him to look at it. He’s forgotten how fucking overwhelming it is, how it makes his breath catch in his throat, his stomach churn, thinking himself in spirals that he can’t think himself out of. 

The fact that Luke’s next door isn’t exactly helping matters. The hotel walls seem to be a product of a scientific experiment into creating materials that are one atom thick, so Ashton can hear every move Luke makes. He heard it when Luke padded into the bathroom for a shower, when Luke ambled over to the desk, heard the entirety of the news that Luke had on for about twenty minutes (apparently the Queen’s giving a speech tomorrow, and the EU are looking to pass a law about interest rates). He heard it when Luke got changed, heard his fucking jeans drop to the floor, heard him tossing and turning trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. He can hear every creak of Luke’s bed, can almost make out Luke’s deep breathing if he really strains his ears, and it’s making it impossible not to think about him. Not that Ashton’s particularly good at ever not thinking about Luke. Luke Hemmings is definitely the majority shareholder of Ashton’s mind. 

Now, though, at three in the morning, in a shitty hotel room in God knows where, a country that isn’t home and never will be, on his own with nobody there to ground him, it feels frightening, more overwhelming than Ashton could ever put into words. He’s so in love with Luke, so fucking in love with Luke, and it puts everything on a knife’s edge. His sanity, his friendship with Luke, his career - everything’s on the line because Ashton can’t say no to those baby blues.

At half-past, when Luke rolls over in bed and makes a little noise of contentment, duvet rustling as he moves, Ashton breaks. 

“Wha’?” Michael says groggily when he picks up, sounding too sleepy to be annoyed. 

“Are you awake?” Ashton says, as quietly as possible, gnawing at his lip. 

“No,” Michael says, and then the line cuts out. Ashton hates him. 

“Are you up?” Ashton asks, when Michael picks up again, on the first ring. 

“Am now, dickhead,” Michael grunts. “‘s up?” 

“Luke.” There’s a pause, then a rustling sound and quiet footsteps, and then the sound of a door locking. 

“Ash, it’s three thirty in the fucking morning,” Michael says, and his voice echoes strangely, bouncing off the walls of what Ashton can only suppose is his en-suite, but it’s soft, understanding. He knows why Ashton’s still up, why he’s getting a call from across the hall at three-thirty in the morning. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, hoping Michael understands yeah, that’s why I’m this fucked up. Everything feels worse at night, when Ashton doesn’t have the bright light of day to convince himself that it’s not that bad, he’s not going to fuck everything up that badly. Michael sighs, and it’s tinny and a little staticky, and Ashton’s suddenly struck with the thought that Michael’s voice is being beamed up to a satellite thousands of miles away before being sent back to Ashton, even though he’s about five strides away. It makes him feel a little sick, that level of removal between the two of them. Michael’s a few metres and yet thousands of miles away. 

“Ash,” he says gently, which is never a good sign from Michael. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself like this.” Ashton bites at his thumbnail. 

“‘m not torturing myself,” he mumbles. 

“Oh?” Michael says, a note of scepticism in his voice. “You’re not lying in bed at three-thirty in the fucking morning thinking about how in love you are with Luke, convincing yourself you’re going to fuck everything up because of it?” Ashton hesitates. 

“Fuck you,” he says eventually, and Michael doesn’t even retort, just sighs again, heavy and sad. 

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he says. 

“You’re not seeing me,” Ashton says, a little childishly. 

“You know what I mean.” Ashton does, and he hates it. It adds a sheen of guilt to all the other confusing emotions bubbling through him, that Michael’s got to deal with this, got to walk the tightrope of being between his two best friends. 

“Sorry,” Ashton says, a little too meekly. 

“Don’t,” Michael says sternly. “You’ve got to do something about it, Ash. You can’t spend the rest of your life stuck in perpetual limbo.” Ashton tears at a hangnail, relishing the way it stings when he rips it. 

“Do what?” Ashton says. “‘s not like I can tell him. Could fuck everything up.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Could fuck your life up.” 

“You think that matters more to me than your happiness?” Michael says, sounding genuinely incredulous, and Ashton loves him, absolutely fucking loves him, and absolutely doesn’t deserve him. 

“I love you,” he tells Michael, who snorts, the sound echoing strangely in the bathroom. 

“You’d better,” he says, but it’s fond. “C’mon, Ash, you’ve got to talk to him at some point. What the fuck else are you going to do? Sit around and wait for Luke to get married and have two-point-five kids?” Ashton blinks up at the ceiling, stomach churning at the thought of Luke with a faceless spouse and a white picket fence. 

“Maybe,” he says, counting the stains on the white paint to give him something else to think about. “Doesn’t sound like the worst plan in the world.” 

“No, Ash, it does,” Michael’s tinny voice tells him. “Christ. You’re such a fucking emotional masochist.” Ashton sighs, and casts his gaze down to the hem of his shirt, picking at a loose thread.

“What the fuck would I even say?” he says. It’s not like he’s never envisioned it; a grand declaration of love - always returned by Luke, of course - but in his fantasies, it’s a certainty that Luke’s going to feel the same way, so there’s none of that gut-wrenching, stomach-rolling uncertainty, no bile rising in his throat, no clammy hands and dry mouth. 

“The truth?” Michael suggests. Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“Mike, I can’t just waltz up to Luke and tell him I’m in love with him,” he says.

“Worked for me,” Michael says, and Ashton can almost hear him shrugging. 

“That’s different,” Ashton says, because it is. Michael’s not a massive fucking overthinker. 

“Is it?” Michael says, a little shrewdly. “I didn’t know if Calum felt the same way. But what else was I gonna do, wait around the rest of my life wasting my time on him? I needed closure either way. Would’ve spent the rest of my life making myself miserable living off hope otherwise.” Ashton knows he’s right, knows from the way his stomach sinks and his heart speeds up, but hates it, wants to rationalise why he doesn’t need to tell Luke, why he shouldn’t. “You’re overthinking it,” Michael says into the silence, like he knows exactly what’s going through Ashton’s mind right now, and Ashton scowls. 

“Right, fuck me for overthinking something that could end my career,” he hisses, gripping the phone tighter than necessary because his hands are a little cold and clammy now at the thought of having to actually stand in front of Luke and say the words I’m in love with you. 

“You’re such a fucking drama queen,” Michael says, tutting. 

“Are you insane?” Ashton demands, incensed, and this is good, this is safe. He can redirect all the discomfort and anxiety into righteous anger; he can handle that. That’s well-worn territory with him and Michael. 

“I’m not doing this, Ash,” Michael says sensibly, because he knows Ashton far too well for Ashton’s liking. “You can’t keep running from your feelings the minute they get too heavy for you to bear. ‘S never gonna get any better if you’re not letting yourself process it. It doesn’t go away on its own.” 

“I know,” Ashton says hopelessly, because he does, and it’s what he’s been trying to run from. He knows he can’t live in this limbo forever, but he can’t bring himself to take a step in either direction. “Fuck, Michael. I don’t know if I can do it.” 

“You can,” Michael says, gentle, encouraging. 

“It’d fuck everything up,” Ashton says. 

“It won’t,” Michael says. “You’re both mature adults.” He pauses, and Ashton knows they’re thinking the same thing, and then he adds: “Okay, well. You’re a mature adult. I’ll drag Luke into maturity kicking and screaming.” Ashton can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, chest warming as he hears the meaning behind what Michael’s saying - I’ll fight your corner. I’ve got your back. 

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Ashton says, biting his lip. 

“Then at least you know,” Michael says. “And you can start moving on.” Ashton swallows, ignoring the pain of the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t want to,” he says, and it comes out a little strangled. 

“I know,” Michael says. Ashton waits for something else, for him to justify it, but there’s just staticky silence from Michael’s end of the line. 

“That’s it?” 

“What, you want a deep, motivational speech as to why you should tell him?” Michael says. “I’m not going to give you that, Ash. Do it or don’t, it’s up to you. But you’ll never be able to rest, never have your mind to yourself, until you do it.” Ashton exhales shakily. 

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks, because God, it’s fucking terrifying, thinking that he might have to face Luke and say the words I’m in love with you in order to get his own sanity back. “You’re right.” 

“I know,” Michael says, and Ashton huffs out a laugh to cover the flutters of panic in his chest. “Can I go back to sleep now?” Ashton blinks, and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says again, voice a little steadier this time. “Sorry.” 

“‘S okay,” Michael says through a yawn, and Ashton has to stifle a yawn of his own. Christ, he’s actually fucking drained. Overthinking should qualify as a sport. “Love you. Not as much as I love Calum, though.” 

“Arsehole,” Ashton says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Love you too. But not as much as I love Luke.” 

“I’d fucking hope not,” Michael says. “Don’t want you to be fantasising about fucking me.” Ashton wrinkles his nose. 

“I don’t want to fantasise about that either,” he says. 

“So don’t.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Good,” Michael says, stifling a yawn. “Don’t fantasise about Calum, either.” 

“Why the fuck would I fantasise about Calum?” Ashton wants to know. 

“Hey,” Michael says, sounding a little affronted. “What the fuck are you trying to say?” 

“I’m saying neither you nor Calum are exactly at the top of my fantasy list when Luke’s right there,” Ashton says. 

“That’s fucking rude,” Michael tells him. 

“What the fuck? You just told me-” 

"Yeah, but on principle you should want to fantasise about us,” Michael interrupts. “You just aren’t allowed.” Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not fantasising about anyone except Luke,” he says. 

“I don’t want to know that.” Jesus Christ. Michael’s fucking impossible. 

“Go to fucking sleep,” Ashton says, because arguing with Michael is a waste of time on the best of days, let alone at four in the fucking morning. 

“I’ve been trying,” Michael says, and there’s rustling sounds as he gets to his feet. “Night, Ashton. Love you.”

“Night,” Ashton says, but Michael’s already hung up. 

He plugs his phone in and rolls back over in bed, the emotional exhaustion starting to kick in, and he closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep, when from Luke’s room he hears a very, very clear-

“Night, Ash.” 

Fuck. 

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[aaaa-mpersand]

Why I Love Hollow Knight

aka a super long essay I wrote about why this game is,,,, ridiculously good. Spoilers, though I’ve tried to keep them minor for the most part and as cryptic as possible, if you want to go into this game blind, this is not something you want to read. It’s part prose part essay part me waxing poetic. TW: bugs, minor character death, existential dread some quotes are taken directly from the game. They are usually in bold or italics. - - - Higher beings, these words are for you alone. Beyond this point you enter the land of King and Creator. Step across this threshold and obey our laws. Bear witness to the last and only civilization, the eternal Kingdom Hallownest. It was a long trek to the city, and even the nail that has kept all enemies at bay is starting to feel heavy on your back. You have braved acid lakes, fended off husks gone mad with The Radiance, climbed Crystal Peaks, and fought the Mantis Lords. Now, you are finally here. Past the city gate, into the cavern that houses what was once the heart of a great kingdom. The City of Tears

You stand in one of the city’s large spires, the endless rain pattering like piano notes against the embellished windows. These architectural feats were marvels of their time, a testament to Hallownest’s greatness, an open declaration of defiance against the water pouring down from the lake above the caverns. They were made to stand for eras, a love letter to the eternal kingdom. Now, Hallownest is a rotting corpse, and only the rain cries for it. Zombie soldiers, eyes yellow with Radiance, continue their endless patrols. Husks of citizens sit, glowing eyes unblinking, in their homes, dead enough to rot but alive enough to attack any living thing that comes by. The foundations of the buildings are already starting to wear. One day, they will crumble. One day, the lake above will run dry. One day, the rain will stop, too. You find a bench. There is already someone sitting there, a traveller you met along the road named Quirrel. He is a mysterious but polite fellow, with the simple goal of seeing all the marvellous sights of the world. On his head is a hat that looks more like a mask, black holes for eyes carved into it. On his back is a nail, one that looks much like yours. Travellers do not get far without them. He gestures for you to sit beside him. Even if you could speak, you would be too tired to say your thanks, much less argue. “The capital lies before us, my friend. What a sombre place it seems, and one that holds the answers to many a mystery,” he says, “I, too, have felt the pull of this place, though now I sit before it, I find myself hesitant to descent. Is it fear, I wonder, or something else that holds me back?” The only sound between the two of you is the soft patter of rain. If your silence disturbs him, he does not let it on. “Isn’t this a wonderful place to rest? I so love the sound of the rain upon glass.” You rest your fill, and you move on. At the center of the city, you find a collection of four carved statues. Three smaller ones surrounding a large––far larger than you––horned figure with black, hollow eyes. City of Tears––the rain pouring off of them certainly makes them seem as if they are weeping. Hornet, a spider-like creature with a shell that looks similar to yours, lands in front of you. Unlike your last meeting, her needle is sheathed. ‘Little ghost,’ she calls you. She tells you to seek the Grave in Ash, if you wish to play a part in Hallownest’s perpetuation, knowing the sacrifices that keep its crumbling remains upright. Using a thread of silk as a grapple, she leaps back into the murky shadows of the city.You cannot speak, so you only stare as she leaves. Turning, you read the inscription of the statue. Memorial to the Hollow Knight: In the black vault far above. Through its sacrifice, Hallownest lasts eternal. You look around at the empty streets, the pouring rain, the husk of a Radiance-crazed sentry with a nail driven through it lying on the cobbled pavement. Hallownest is already dead. --- Gameplay and storytelling: Immersion is a large part of every story, but Hollow Knight really takes it a step further. It is a metroidvania game, so immersion and storytelling through settings is pretty much a given in its genre. All things considered, Hollow Knight has a good, but not really amazing, storyline. Rather, it is the way that it tells its story that makes it memorable. Hollow Knight is a videogame first and a story after, utilizing its gameplay to tell its story better than words could. This is why watching let’s plays is enjoyable, definitely a wonderful experience, but there is a difference between dying five times trying to beat a boss or platform through an area versus watching someone die five times trying to beat a boss or platform through an area. There is a moment of surprise you wouldn’t get if you only watched the lore video, to see a character alluded to only by other people in an awed or fearful tone, only to find the hilarious but horrible truth of their fate, and their small stature. However, it is definitely possible for a person to enjoy this game without personally playing it. The setting and music are enrapturing. There are small stories in every new room and every enemy and npc you meet, the love put into every detail is astounding. Evidence of previous battles, the cracked husks of beings that look suspiciously similar to you, a hostile enemy still unaware of your entering, staring out over an endless lake, Hollow Knight makes the player feel like their story is a small part of something bigger, something more than themselves. A good example of this is a minor character named Tiso, a proud warrior who says he wishes to travel into Hallownest and challenge the colosseum there. If you decide to challenge the colosseum yourself, you’ll meet the enemies that he had to face, too––and maybe die more than a couple times trying to do it. If you travel to the Kingdom's Edge, you’ll find his shield and hat with a pile of other remains––all that is left of those who fail the tests of the colosseum. It is possible to go through the whole game and come out knowing not much more story than when you went in. Of course, if you did that, then that’s a whole waste of 15 dollars, and why the hell did you buy this game in the first place. Rather, through the large map and its immersive storytelling, the game makes the player work for the story. A lot of the storytelling is open ended too. Instead of info dumping everything, the game assumes that you are capable of putting the pieces together yourself. It is a strong case of showing and not telling, but it definitely works. This greatly encourages players to go out of their way to find out what happened before. Lore tablets––and text in general––are very sparse in this game. Rather than loading you with information and npcs to talk to, you’ll be overjoyed to find an npc hidden away at the corner of the map. Each one is important, each one has its own story to tell. There are no characters that feel like throwaways or filler. In addition, the player can obtain the Dream Nail, used to reveal any npc or enemy’s true intentions and thoughts. This adds yet another layer to the game; most players immediately go around swinging their Dream Nail at everything they can find after discovering this. In conclusion, Hollow Knight uses a lot of very interesting storytelling elements and tools in the most effective ways possible. Music, characters, text, setting, flashbacks. Nothing ever feels like filler, or something to be disregarded. Instead, there is a joy in discovering and in asking questions. In a way, the playable character is a vessel through which the player can hear the stories of other characters as much as they are going through a journey of their own. --- Story: Hollow Knight’s story is a very interesting take on the “Chosen One” trope, among others. It starts as a story we’ve all heard before, “oceans rise, empires fall.” Maybe it’s for that reason that the game keeps most of the backstory elements secret until the very end of the game, forcing you to dig for it and spend time on it. Meanwhile, you grow attached to the playable character, the characters around them, the world, and the story, so when the curtain finally rises on the hidden secrets of Hallownest, you feel its meaning as if it were your own journey. In the most plain terms, to avoid completely spoiling the game, the story is this. The playable character travels into the remains of a kingdom long fallen: Hallownest. Along the way, you meet characters that tell you more and more about the kingdom and how it got here. The Pale King, a god in and of himself, travelled to this place to build his own eternal kingdom, but in his goal to unite all caverns and areas of the region under his rule, he trampled the already existing gods past recollection. One of these is The Radiance, who in a desperate effort for revenge and self-preservation, sent a sickness upon the kingdom that turns bugs mad. In an effort to combat this, The Pale King created the Pure Vessel, the Hollow Knight, to contain it, and recruited three dreamers to seal it. But when the moment of truth came, and the Radiance was to be sealed away, they found the Pure Vessel was not entirely empty, it was filled with a hope for love and recognition from the Pale King. Hallownest fell to The Radiance. Now, your goal is to find a means to an end for Hallownest, caught in a fate worse than death. Along the way, you will find the truth behind your own creation, the story of the dreamers, and the extent of the sacrifices Pale King made to preserve his eternal kingdom. This story, if not driven by its storytelling, is driven by its characters. You meet, or at least hear of, most of the key characters in the story by the beginning of the game. The Pale King is referred to in one of the lore tablets extremely early in the game. The Temple of the Black Egg, its door sealed, is where you meet Quirrel. The Daughter of Hallownest, Hornet, tries to cut you down, claiming she knows what you mean to do. All of these happen in the first two areas of the game. For the rest of your game, you learn about these characters bit by bit. You interact with them. You find them in corners of the map you wouldn’t expect, and find yourself happy to see them. By the end of the story, you realise that you are much more entangled in this than you realised. The Pure Vessel and the story surrounding him is one of the best ‘chosen ones’ I’ve seen. Even the playable character is technically a ‘chosen one,’ though it takes the role because they are the best candidate, and not because anyone wanted or forced them to. Its fandom has one of the best found families, and the endings are open-ended enough that it doesn’t feel confining. This story has a lot of things to say about imperialism, power, ambition, sacrifice, fate, and relationships, and sometimes all of that can be found in the spires of a city, watching the endless rain patter against the windows as the piano plays in the background. --- My Interpretation: For a large part of my life, I was scared of the dark. I couldn’t bear to go outside to throw the trash out when it got too dark to see. It took me a long time––far longer than most––to learn how to sleep quietly in my own bed. For a long time, I didn’t understand this fear. Nobody around me seemed to understand either, when I asked them for help. Logically, I lived a sheltered life, and my neighborhood was safe. Demons, ghosts, monsters: they didn’t exist. It’s only now I realise that that childhood fear was rooted in this fact: you are a very small person in a very big world. You don’t know what’s going to happen to you. You don’t know what’s out there. You know, instinctively, that you are an ant. The universe is very big, much much bigger than you could ever imagine, and that it doesn’t care for you. Not for your ambitions, your dreams, your fears, your safety. Hollow Knight takes this and deals with it in a way that I love. It’s indicative in the first few moments. Your playable character is smaller than almost every other character in the game. You travel deep into a bug kingdom, much much bigger than you would have dreamed. Everyone around you is a bug too, from the meek to the courageous to the regal. Outside this kingdom is a bigger world, just as harsh as this one, maybe harsher still. All you have is your nail to keep you safe. Travellers before you have fallen. You are the only person left to pick up what’s left of their stories. The world is endless, it stretches in infinity through time and space. People have tried to conquer it before. They have tried to build eternal kingdoms, immortal cities, taking what is not theirs in the hopes that finally, finally, they will be big enough, they will be good enough. They have tried to delay the inevitable––that all things end. Mistakes have been made, evils have been committed. “This place is not a place of honor. No highly-esteemed deeds are commemorated here.” The world is big. Kingdoms are small. You are smaller. Still, you move on. Someone needs to put this coughing, dying part of the world to rest. You will get no lore tablets in your name, no statues to commemorate your deed. Yet you cannot find it in you to be affected. Somewhere, Hornet wakes up and finds herself no longer tied to protect a monstrous ghost of a kingdom, her future now her own. Somewhere, you put your siblings to rest, their lost souls and empty eyes now at peace. Somehow, that is more important, more eternal, than any city or any god. It will follow you even after you are gone. There is strength in being small. There is strength in not knowing where you come from, or where you will go next, but going anyway. There is strength in achieving great things, not because of recognition or greatness or immortality that could brush the stars, but because that is the story you want to live through. That is the footprint you want to make, even if it fades away with time. You enter a large world with a nail on your back, looking for the means to an end, and you leave with less. Perhaps there is wisdom in that.  (and can you believe that this is an indie game, made by like, idk 3 people?? And it’s 15 dollars for a game you can spend 48 hours or more in total on. Absolutely insane sksksksks i love this game)

[eisforeidolon]

Episode: Don’t Go Into the Woods

Can all supernatural things potentially make the lights flicker?  I know demons and ghosts do, but has this been a thing for more straight up physical monster-monsters before?  I honestly can't remember.

I hate to be complaining about the Winchesters actually working a case just by themselves?  Especially with as rare of a thing as that’s become?  But let's be honest, I wouldn’t trust Jack with a mission as perilous as shopping.  He might kill somebody or destroy the world. Dabb & Co. have pointedly made him incapable of learning or understanding anything, so he's less a realistic character and more a dangerously idiotic plot bomb perpetually set to go off at random intervals. 

Who the Winchesters are now going to leave entirely unsupervised while Cas also just happens to be elsewhere.  Well, isn't that suspiciously convenient?  

Right now when he's just got his canon-breaking powers back and may not have a soul?  NOW is the time to leave him alone?  

O-kay, crippling brain damage for everybody is again necessary for this episode's events to happen, I see.

The only thing more frustrating than Jack being a perpetual shifting blob of whatever the plot calls for?  Is further manifestation of Dabb's desperation to write for a teen audience via the dumbass teenybopper trio returning.  Knew it was coming, still did not brace me for hating having to sit through it this much.  

I'm a little puzzled about they guy one being able to watch Ghostfacer videos.  I kind of doubt any teenager would notice the videos if they weren't being currently produced, and the Ghostfacers broke up last we saw them.  Did they somehow get back together after that episode with the lulzy anvilicious supposed parallels?  If they didn't and this kid is just trawling the Internet for videos that are at least five years old at this point, wouldn't whichever Ghostfacer it was who had gone off to run a business or whatever have had this shit scrubbed off the internet to avoid being made fun of by his colleagues?  Seriously, I am way way more interested in this probable continuity fail potential mystery than in anything about the teens themselves.

I don't have a lot to say about the case Sam and Dean were working. Again, it was fine.  New monster, okay.  I mean, it does seem like maybe a questionable choice to go for something that's similar to a monster the show has already highlighted (wendigo)?  But really, a lot of folklore monsters are variations across slightly different legends, so it's probably stranger we haven't had more similar monsters over the years.  It did at least look quite different and I thought it was cool how it melted. 

Local townie sheriff in denial and really obtusely insistent about coyotes snatching people out of bathrooms? Eh, I can go with that, I guess.  Though, what, was he planning on spending the next who knows how long of his life futilely trying to keep people out of the local woods for reasons he was going to just refuse to specify to anyone?  And he even kept going on about coyotes while his son was so blatantly campaigning to win the Most Likely to Wander Into the Woods for Revenge Award?  Kind of dumb, but I don't think it was too far over the threshold of unbelievably dumb. Yeah, it was all more than a little on the nose obvious about the sheriff knowing something such that the Winchesters were going to ultimately need his help.  Still, there was at least some Winchesters working together and Dean got a cool moment disarming the sheriff in the woods.  Though I'm not any less sick of yet again the rando of the week killing the monster while the Winchesters get knocked about, I'm kind of resigned to it at this point.  Dabb clearly finds believably competent characters actually getting to be competent unspeakably boring. 

So yeah, that part of the episode was mostly just there for me.  I was inordinately bugged by how during one of those conversations between sheriff guy and his son the show chose to toss in an egregious flashback to the dead girlfriend.  Like, do they think we as the audience have so little attention span we can't remember the kid is upset his girlfriend just died a few minutes ago in this same episode?  Or do they trust their actors so little to convey emotion they felt it was necessary to go DEAD GIRL IN YOUR FACE AGAIN, BOOM! at the audience?  There was that and the sheriff lecturing Sam & Dean about how they should just tell people monsters or real or put it on youtube – because that doesn't sound crazy and people can't make fake videos?  I feel like that was less a genuine moment and more like the something the writers stuck in because it's one of the complaints that's been circling the fandom for years.  Maybe I'm just cynical or the scene didn't come off too well, but I was less sympathizing with something that's actually a pretty reasonable response for someone blindsided by monsters being real and more rolling my eyes at his whining.  

Here's a poll, which is more stupid?  The cringe-y cluelessness of shoehorning in a dead horse of a fanfic cliché like, “We have movie nights on Tuesdays!”  Or that the writers continue to think annoying teenybopper canon fodder calling Dean old is cool/funny.  I can't decide!

Also, what are the writers wanting us to think about whether or not Jack has a soul?  Because I am having some trouble here believing that he doesn't have any soul left when this episode turns into him angsting about accidentally almost killing Whatsherface #2 and getting rejected by the teen trio even after “fixing” his “mistake”. I mean, if the writers are intending us to know but not for Cas and the Winchesters to, that's fine, but if this is meant to be a mystery I feel like it's a fail in terms of how they're writing potential soullessness because while I don't care all that much, I don't feel any doubt that he does.  Even if I am annoyed at the groundhog day feeling of this incident after we already sang this song over the security guard incident. 

I'm also not terribly impressed about the Winchesters arguing in the car over Dean's lying to Jack about needing someone to stay in the bunker.  If Sam really felt that strongly about it, why did he just agree?  Even if it was some bullshit don’t argue in front of the “kid” thing, he could have tacked on an addendum about being worried about Jack’s powers without contradicting what Dean said.  Oh, right, for the dramaz.  In the same way that the show careens wildly back and forth between treating Jack as a competent adult and a toddler with some kind of memory retention disorder, the way the Winchesters handle him makes just as much sense.  Speaking of lying, is it really that much better to tell a white lie about being worried about Jack being “comfortable” with his powers instead of finding a polite but honest way to say they suspect he'll accidentally kill people because he has no brains consistent control and an issue with overconfidence? 

I think there were some Dean fans that thought the thrust of that end conversation was to blame Jack almost killing some fools on Dean - but whether or not there were any intentional shades of that, it's too stupid for words.  Jack being badly written is Jack's problem, not any other character's prevarications.  If Jack didn’t learn back with the security guard, the idea any talkity-talking over reckless use of his powers at the beginning of this episode would have prevented what happened is ludicrous.  That’s only confirmed by spoilers I know about the rest of this season making it clear that even accidentally almost killing somebody outright here doesn’t teach him anything.  Because again, he’s written as largely incapable of learning.  Which, I guess there’s a weird pacifier-toting squad of infantilization-loving fans who are into that shit, but for my part?  Ew, no thanks.  I prefer characters with more personality than “helpless ball of woobified stupidity”.  I liked Jack well enough to begin with, but the more central they make him to the story, the more obviously deficient he is as a consistent and three dimensional character.

[hunterenough]

December 4

Notes: For @notfunnydean Advent Challenge

December 4

When Sam stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, it was already after 8. There’d been no morning wake-up, and there was no coffee made. If he was honest, he was a little bummed. He’d been enjoying their new morning routine. His eyes slid to the crates. It looks like Santa was sneaky. He grinned. There was a silver package the size of a shirt box in each crate, and a note propped against the little perpetual calendar, obscuring the Christmas block. Evidently they were to start this on their own then.

“Cas? Dean left us a note today. Want to join me?”

The angel appeared by the coffee pot and seemed disappointed that it was empty. He turned toward Sam. “A note?” He didn’t mention the coffee. Sam gestured toward the crates.

“Grab it. I’ll start the coffee.”

Cas grabbed the note and rejoined Sam at the coffee pot. They opened the note while the coffee brewed.

Hey guys,

Santa’s having a sleep-in. Open your gifts and wake me at 9 for details. If you haven’t eaten, we’ll grab breakfast at the diner in town. There’d better be coffee!

Dean

P.S: Good morning! :)

Sam retrieved the packages from the crates. There was enough coffee in the pot for two cups, but neither made a move to pour. Dean hated when somebody took coffee from the pot before it was finished because ‘it made the whole rest of the pot weaker.’ Instead, they tore the paper off the gifts.

“Christmas ornaments?” Each held an identical set of twelve multicolored glass bulbs. “This could be fun.” Sam didn’t remember ever having a real Christmas tree. They’d done a Charlie Brown style tree a few times, more often when he was younger, but never an actual tree.

Cas was staring at his ornaments, head tilted.

“I’m guessing we’re gonna get a Christmas tree. Decorating could be fun. Dean did say if we wanted to give him gifts that we should put them under the tree.”

“I have never exchanged gifts. I cannot fathom what an appropriate gift would be for someone so… “ He let the sentence trail off still staring at the ornaments and appearing to be in deep thought. “My only experience with giving is receiving gifts from Dean. This…” he made a helpless gesture toward the crates. “And once Dean gave me a cassette of songs. I do not know how to choose a present that is appropriate for him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the mention of the cassette. Dean gave Cas a mixed tape?!

“Well, the best gifts are always the ones from the heart. Like yesterday, in general, cinnamon rolls and coffee are cool, but pretty common. But the effort that Dean put in? The research and the special shopping trip? That’s what made the meal so awesome. It really isn’t about giving a thing so much as showing someone how you feel. Do you know what I mean?” Trying to explain gifts from the heart to a divine being was… a unique experience.

“I believe I do. It is evident that Dean put great thought and care into choosing gifts for each day of his ‘advent’ calendar. And the meal was crafted specifically with our tastes in mind. I understand what the gift should convey. It is choosing the vessel to ‘show how I feel’ that I find intimidating.”

“I couldn’t agree more man. Good thing we still have most of the month. I still haven’t found anything either.”

The men slipped into silent consideration over the problem while they poured themselves coffee. Cas poured a second mug and gathered both into one hand. “It is 8:57. I will go wake Dean. I believe that he will enjoy having his coffee delivered.”

The contemplative look on Sam’s face was quickly replaced by a wicked grin. “I’m sure he would.”

~~~~~

Cas focused on keeping the coffee in the mugs as he navigated the hallway. His mind was racing with thoughts about appropriate gifts. He wanted to show Dean that he was worth at least as much effort as Dean was putting in to making their first really family Christmas. Sam’s words were also weighing heavy on him...gifts from the heart and showing someone how you feel played in a loop.

Feelings were still a funny thing for him. Angels shouldn’t feel, but angels also shouldn’t have or want to have free will. Over the course of so many years, he’d learned a lot about feelings. The Winchesters had taught him so much about the value of family, loyalty, true righteousness, trust...Dean in particular had elicited an ocean of feelings so vast that it was frequently overwhelming. Still, Cas knew that when it came to interpreting feelings from others, he had trouble “reading” social cues and body language. Dean’s own early lessons on personal space, for example, were quite clear in speech, but the hunter would often migrate toward Cas if he hadn’t initiated a close position to start. Sam had once tried to explain that often what one said was not what one actually meant. Not lying, just an unwillingness to admit to a feeling that made them feel shame. From this, Cas had inferred that while Dean might want to be close to the angel, he was ashamed of that desire. Cas sighed. He wanted to be very  close to Dean, and he wasn’t ashamed of that, but revisiting that line of thought was getting him nowhere in his consideration of gifts. Another matter for later consideration then.

~~~~~

Despite having properly prepared for sleeping in, Dean had been lying awake in since 7. He had no desire to leave his comfortable bed, but he’d be getting a wake up call any moment. He was excited about today. First, they’d grab breakfast, then hit the Walmart (the nearest being about an hour away) for a tree and more decorations. By the time they were done shopping and back home, they could have sandwiches for lunch and get to decorating. Before his year with Lisa and Ben, he hadn’t had a real tree since before...well, before they were hunters.

The knock on the door was so quiet he almost missed it.

“Come in!”

“Hello Dean. I’ve brought coffee.”

“Cas, man, you’re the best. I’d say you were an angel or a blessing, but that would be a little on the nose don’t you think?” He grinned as he gestured his angel closer. The man was carrying two mugs, maybe he’d sit with him for a bit. “C’mon in and sit down, let’s just enjoy this for a minute.”

Did I just invite Cas to hang out in bed and have coffee with me? WTF?

Cas just smiled. He obviously remembered relaxing protocol because he immediately set the mugs on the dresser, shrugged out of his trench and suit coats, and kicked off his shoes. Reclaiming the coffee, he handed a mug to Dean before rounding to the other side of the bed and propping himself up against the headboard next to him.

“We never get to do this Dean. I truly enjoy being able to spend time with you outside of a hunt.” His angel seemed to snuggle down into the pillows a little more before taking a sip of his coffee.

Dean knew he should probably feel self-conscious about sitting in bed practically shoulder to shoulder with the other man, especially when he was only wearing pajama pants and no one was sick or dying, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Simply put, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“So, since you brought coffee promptly at nine, and I heard Sammy stomping around earlier, I’m guessing you got my note. What do you think?”

“Sam and I speculate that based on today’s gift of ornaments, and your prior mention of a tree, that we will engage in a Christmas tree related activity. Sam is quite excited about having a real tree.”

“Just Sam?”

“Dean, every part of celebrating this holiday is new for me. I find it very…” Cas seemed to think about his words for a moment. “I am very happy that I get to experience this with you.”

Dean really wasn’t sure what to do with that. He wanted Cas to be happy. He wanted Cas to feel like a part of their family and like he belonged here.

“We also discussed gift giving. I would very much like to get you a gift. Sam as well of course. But I am unsure how I can go about this without violating the “no flapping off” rule.” He shrugged. “I am also unsure what would constitute an appropriate gift.”

“First, you don’t have to get me anything man. You’ve dragged my sorry soul out of hell for chrissake. Year after year you’ve helped me. You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count. I wouldn’t be alive without you.” Cas wants to get me a present!!

“Those things were not gifts. I have learned that those are simply what we do for family. I would say that you’ve given me as much, if not more, than I have given you in that regard Dean. You taught me to think for myself. I’ve learned to feel. I want to give you a Christmas gift so that you can share the feeling that I have when you give me a gift.”

Okay, we’re firmly in chick flick zone. I have no urge to change the subject, and my fight or flight hasn’t kicked in. We’re just going to put this down to my really comfortable mattress.

“How about this Cas. I’ll put in an exception to the sticking together rule. If you and Sammy need to go Christmas shopping, you can do that. I’d kinda appreciate it if you’d let me know before you fly away, because of some of the things I have planned, but we don’t need to be together every minute. I don’t expect you to give me a gift, but you could give me a rock and I’d be happy that you put the effort into getting me something. You capisce?”

“I capisce. Thank you Dean.”

“Now let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got a full day planned today.”

The angel seemed reluctant, but stood and moved to retrieve his outerwear. “I wish that we could do this more often Dean.”

~~~~~

Shopping for Christmas decorations was largely uneventful. Cas didn’t really have an opinion, and Sam was excited about everything. Dean settled on packing as much Christmas themed stuff into the cart as it would hold.

The tree, however, was a different matter. Sam wanted a real tree. Like the live kind.

“I know a live tree would be better Sam, but this way, we don't have to worry about burning down the bunker or something and we’ll already have the tree next year.”

Sam turned on his best puppy dog pouting face. Before Dean could cave like he usually did, Cas chimed in, “Plus, we are not killing a tree. I like this idea Dean.” Sam conceded the point. Dean might be able to be convinced on his own, but with Cas on his side, he wasn’t likely to bend.

~~~~~

Things were going exactly to plan. They’d made it back to the bunker with their holiday loot and lugged it all down the stairs. Dean hadn’t missed his opportunity to point out how much easier it was to bring the boxed tree down the stairs than it would have been with a live tree, of course, and Sam had responded only with Bitchface Number 13. Sandwiches had been eaten and more coffee brewed.

“Okay guys, let’s do this.” Dean clapped his hands together.

To be honest, this is where his plan kinda went a little hazy. None of them had any practical knowledge in tree decorating.

“Ummm, I guess we start by setting up the tree?” Sam suggested.

“Right, right. I’ll take care of that while you guys start unboxing the rest of this cr...stuff.”

The tree snapped together easily. Dean studied it. Being stuffed into the box had all of the branches kind of mushed together. He set about reorganizing the branches, aiming for the same fullness of the display tree they’d seen earlier. After he’d meticulously re-bent each twig, he stood back to assess his work. He judged it complete after a couple of tweaks and suddenly noticed the silence.

Cas and Sam had all of the tinsel, ornaments, and candy canes out of the box and ready to be added to the tree. They’d cleared the trash and settled in to… what? Watch him? Sam looked amused. Cas looked...he couldn’t really decide how Cas looked. His eyes were wide, his mouth was just slightly open, and when Dean met his glance, his tongue flicked out to wet the bow of his lower lip. He looks fucking HOT. Dean shook his head to clear it of the sudden flood of less than pure thoughts that tongue had jumpstarted.

“Right. Let’s decorate this bad boy.” Sam grabbed the tinsel, and Cas trailed after him toward the pre-lit tree. They stood on either side of the tree and passed the ropes of tinsel back and forth around the tree. After a brief discussion on the aesthetics of tinsel, they started a second round in the opposing direction. Dean helped himself to a candy cane.

I wonder if that purification blessing would work on these? He took a deep breath, whispered the spell, picked up the candy and joined the other men at the tree.

He set the boxes at the base of the tree and unwrapped a candy cane for each man. Without asking, he shoved one in first his brother’s then his angel’s mouths. Sam grunted. Cas raised an eyebrow.

That look...when the flavor registered for the angel his expression changed to one of bliss. No, THAT look. Holy fuck. Back down the rabbit hole of lust fueled images went his brain.

“I don’t remember these being this good. Must be a different brand.” Sam’s comment ripped Dean back from a particularly lewd image of licking the sweet mint flavor off Cas’s lips. He turned quickly to adjust himself under the guise of grabbing more ornaments. Get ahold of yourself man. Lusting after an angel has to be a one way ticket to hell. We’ve covered this a million times by now.

When he turned back to the tree, Cas had progressed from sucking on the cane to licking it delicately. Dean groaned. Sam laughed, a deep belly laugh, earning him a dirty look.

“Start decorating bitch.”

After that, Cas seemed to get with the program, allowing Dean to likewise regain his composure. It took less than half an hour to get all of the ornaments on the tree, then another fifteen minutes of rearranging, and the men were standing shoulder to shoulder to shoulder admiring their hard work.

“Get the lights Sam. Let’s light this thing UP!”

When the lights had flicked off, Dean plugged the tree in and silence fell over the room. Their tree really was something.

“Merry Christmas.” Dean whispered.

[skeletorific]

Hello, may I request a fluff imagine/headcanon? How would UT and UF Sans (who I imagine are space nerds) react to finding out that their s/o (who they've recently started dating) works at a planetarium/observatory complex when the s/o takes them on a date there? They also tell them the reason they kept their work a secret is because they didn't want to appear like a huge nerd in front of the cool skele. Oh, and the skele can come by anytime as long as the s/o worns their boss beforehand

UT!Sans: Okay, it will be a MIRACLE if he doesn’t already know. Sans spends a lot of time at the planetarium. Given that monsters went Underground centuries ago their understanding of astronomy is way, waaay behind the times. He’s done his best with the sci-fi novels and occasional textbooks that fall into the dump, but it's very piecemeal and sometimes hard to tell what’s real and what’s just a sci-fi trope. After he and Papyrus get settled he spends a lot of time wandering and figuring out what he can. He’s relieved the moon landing was real (or was it…no its real).

He’s seen you a couple times but just assumed you were a regular like him (the dress code is basically just formal wear for you). You were pretty cute, and he ended up striking up a conversation after you’d ended up responding to his bad joke (”that solar system exhibit’s so nice I wanna put a ring on it”) with one of your own (”yeah, must’ve taken a long time to planet”). 

You’d talked for a while and he’d walked away for your number. Normally Sans isn’t the type to move fast but clearly, there was some kind of gravity at work here (heh) so it wasn’t long before you’d had a first date. Then a second.

Third date planning went something like this:

Sans: what do u think, brave enough to try Paps spaghetti again tonight?

You: as appealing as that sounds, I’ve got work late tonight :’(

Sans: nooo

You: yeah…

Sans: eh, it's okay. can always try for another night

A pause. And an idea struck you.

You: u know what? Meet me at the planetarium at 10 with some food.

Sans: ok?

Sans: u don’t have time to get to my house but have time to get to a closed planetarium in the middle of nowhere?

Sans: that sounded sarcastic tbh i’m sorry

You: you’re good xD. and trust me. it's a surprise ;)

Sans oooh~

He showed up at ten on the dot, not late for once and holding McDonald's. He looked around for you on the front steps when the locked doors opened and you were on the other side, trying to stifle an excited grin. “hey”

“uh, hey. How did you….” he smacked his forehead. “I’m an idiot. you work here?

”yeah. I mean, to be fair to you, I’m upper management, so I don’t wear the uniform.” You held the door open for him and he walked inside.

“still, might’ve picked up on it. how come you acted all mysterious about it?”

“I dunno.” You led him down the dimly lit hallway, shrugging. “its kind of nerdy, I guess? not like the glamourous nerdy, like NASA or something. Like, low budget never enough funding nerdy.”

“hey, what part of this made you think I wasn’t into nerdy?” He gestured to himself.

“I don’t know, it's dumb. and I’m hungry” You made a grab for the food and he pulled it out of your reach.

“hmm, I dunno..” His perpetual grin widened and he waved the bag tauntingly. “don’t know if secret keepers deserve food…”

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in for a brief kiss. He flushed bright blue and you took advantage of this to snatch the bag out of his hand and stuff some fries in your face.

“heh, you play dirty, kid”

“always”

“so what did you want me to see?”

“Same reason I had to stay late” You rolled up the bag to save the rest for later. “we’re opening a new special exhibit, and well…got special permission from my boss to give a special tour.”

“…..you didn’t”

“I did” You grinned

“you didn’t”

“come on” you grabbed his hand and pulled him along

It was a small theatre with about twenty seats in it. You led him to the front row and then dug around in your bag, pulling out two pairs of 3D glasses and handing one to him. “its this recreation of a satellite’s path. Goes out pretty far and the effects are fan-fucking-tastic” You sat down next to him

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “hey i think i’m in love with you, is that normal?”

You stuffed some fries in his mouth, smiling. “just don’t spill food, the janitor will murder me.”

You sat there in content silence for the full thirty minutes, listening to the narration as it took you on a tour of the galaxy. You’d seen the video a lot of times at this point and spent most of it watching him.

He looked like a kid at a theme park. It was honestly kind of adorable. Sans didn’t show open excitement often, but he was so lost in the film and the visuals that he wasn’t at all self-conscious about his facial expressions. His smile was wider than you’d ever seen it and he kept squeezing your shoulder whenever something particularly cool came on screen.

You settled against him. Enjoying the silence and the warmth, and the moment between you.

UF!Sans: “what is this uniform even for?”

“stop going through my clothes, ya creep,” you said, snatching the blue polo out of his hands and pulling it on.

“up until about five seconds ago you were naked but it's noticing the clothes that make me creepy” Red sat up and stretched, pulling back the blankets on the bed.

“no one ever said I made sense” You pulled on some dark slacks too, turning to the mirror leaning against the corner and trying to get your hair into something approaching decent shape. 

Red sidled up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing toothy kisses along the crook of your neck. “sure you gotta go?”

“yeah, got work.” You smiled, humming softly at the attention.

“could call in sick…” His hands crept lower, towards your hips. “stay a little longer…”

You flushed and gently pulled his hands off.“ my boss would actually kill me.”

“trust me, your boss ain’t seen nothin like me yet” He grinned.

“hey, be nice to my boss, I actually like this job” You adjusted your shirt.

“like it so much you won’t even tell me what it is.”

“is it important that you know?” You pull on some shoes

“nah, just a weird thing for me to not know.” He rolled his neck, groaning softly.

“I’ll tell you someday” You pulled on a jacket and grabbed your keys.

“unless I find out first” He smirked sharply.

“that threat would be a lot more credible if you were wearing pants right now instead of just boxers”

“that a challenge?”

“take it how you will. I gotta go”

“hey” You turned your head to face him and he caught you in a slow, soft kiss. “have a good day”

You smiled. “yeah. you too.” And with that, you were out the door.

You’d been seeing Red for a couple months now. What the battle-hardened, rugged, smooth-talking skeleton saw in you you’d probably never know, but all that mattered right now was that his jokes made you laugh (even the bad ones) and his kisses left you weak at the knees. You’d be an idiot to give that up.

Which….is probably why you hadn’t told him about your job. Like, you hadn’t been actively hiding it or lying to him or anything. But you’d skirted questions and tried to avoid talking about anything that happened at work. Red was a badass. And you were slowly realizing that he was probably a genius too, based on what little he told you of his life Underground. And there was something kind of embarrassing about telling a person like that that your place of work was a planetarium gift shop.

As if you needed more reasons to feel inadequate next to him. You knew you were being kind of stupid about the whole thing, and you kept meaning to tell him. But every time you’d get so nervous about what he might say or think that you couldn’t make yourself.

Which was a shame, because you really did like your job. Sure, some of the customers could get a little annoying, and the pay wasn’t super great. But there were definite perks. Watching little kids chatter excitedly about planets and comets and asteroids to their parents/teachers. Getting to wander around the exhibits on your breaks and after work. Even the occasional chance to talk to guest speakers in between lectures. You were fascinated by space and space-related stuff. No interest in becoming an astronaut or even an astronomist but you loved the opportunity to learn in a more casual setting.

Still, by the end of your shift, you were ready to get home and clean up for your date. You and Red were planning on going to a movie.

One problem. You couldn’t find your keys.You dug around in your pockets, the break room, even the space behind the counter in case they fell out, but nothing. You searched for nearly forty-five minutes, making a general nuisance of yourself to the person who came to swap you out.

Your phone buzzed.

Red: where are you?

You: sorry, still at work, can’t find my keys. be home soon

Red: want a lift?

You: you don’t know where I am.

Long pause.

You: Sans-

Before you could send it you heard a familiar, amused voice behind you. “really should know better than to leave your location on, doll~”

You yelped, nearly dropping your phone as you whirled around. “Red-!”

“so, where are we-’ His voice dropped off and his eyes went wide as he took in his surroundings. 

Your face slowly grew redder. “I…..I know its nerdy and I swear I was gonna tell you eventually but…” Your voice died off as you realized he was chuckling. “….what’s so funny?”

“stars, doll.” He hooked his fingers under your chin and pecked you on the lips, eyes lidded. ‘if I believed in soulmates i’d say you’re getting pretty damn close to one.”

“….you’re into space?” Your cheeks felt like they might catch on fire but your heart leaped in your chest. 

“uh…” His turn to look slightly awkward. He rubbed the back of his head. “yeah, honestly. one of those interests I keep on the down low, but…yeah.”

“…do you want a tour-”

“yes”

The movie fell by the wayside (you found your keys in your car later on). You walked, handing hand through the planetarium, and got to watch as your gruff and tough boyfriend turned into a hyperactive twelve-year-old over all of it.

Comforting to know deep down, he was just as big a nerd as you are.

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

TO HAVE & HAVE NOT #2: STARTUPS FOR SHITHEADS

I have never understood the borderline hagiographical hoopla that surrounds startups. Even the fucking name suggests a kind of nascent know-nothing numbskullery. The “it’s my first day” excuse. Vaporware. Half-formed ideas surrounded by full-time douchebaggery. Such were my impressions before I ever read anything about startups. Now that I have done so, I can see that I was underestimating just how poorly run these companies can be. 

As far as I can tell, it works like this: A middle-aged white man gets an idea to fill a need in [insert industry here]. This man always lacks the necessary skill to deliver the product, so he cherrypicks undergraduate college kids (knowing they will work for very little money) to do the hard work in an open-concept office while he hides behind the foreboding oak door that he slams every time he enters his office, lest the underlings deign to ask the question they’re all dying to ask, which is....what do you do?

In the movie Steve Jobs (not the Ashton Kutcher one, though the fact that I have to differentiate shows just how revered these do-nothing con men are) there is a great scene where Seth Rogen asks the titular fuckhead that very question.

I won’t ruin the answer for you, but you can probably guess it’s a needlessly convoluted rationalization that boils down to: “umm...not much.” The only thing the middle-aged white male CEO can do is sell his vision. He cannot sell his product because it doesn’t exist. And as the upcoming selected quotes will show, sometimes he doesn’t even want the product to exist. A physical product necessarily has features and details, a pesky sentience that weighs it down and keeps it from flying.  But dreams float forever. So the company exists to sell the dream, to peddle a promise of a future world where the product exists and has improved the lives of those (and only those) who use it.

A series of high-level meetings take place either in golf clubs or conference rooms or both, and money starts pouring in. Said money is promptly spent on sex workers, booze, and/or drugs. There is nothing wrong with any of these things, I’m merely pointing out that the money is spent fast and spent stupidly. Not to wag my finger, but if you can’t pay your lowest paid employees’ paycheques and they’re late on rent and have empty fridges...you should lay off the rippers and the blow. Furthermore you are a shithead and your hubris has a very real human cost. But the shitheads keep coming. I read an article this week that talked about the history of the coded, racialized term “superpredator” and its very real consequences on incarceration and Black youth in America. The news media should have warned us about the shitheads instead. Think of the headlines! THE SHITHEADS ARE COMING. Or the news media should have kept the term but replaced its description from African-American gang member to middle-aged white golf club member. 

See, even though over 95% of startups fail to recoup the money it cost them to...ahem...start up...people keep falling for this shit. The shitheads keep coming. It’s like nobody can say no. Such largesse is bound to give birth to arrogant assholes who are bad at numbers and can’t code. And the absenteeism reported on in these articles is nothing short of miraculous. So when you’re a CEO you can just...not go to work? That’s an option?

Apparently. In the two examples I read, the boss comes in late if he comes in at all. It all reminds me of the scene in Apocalypse Now where a weary Martin Sheen, huddled in a trench to escape mortars fired by an unseen enemy, barks “Who’s in charge here?” and the guy next to him says “I thought you were.”

The two different articles I read are about corporate impropriety. Both feature eerily similar quotes about eerily similar situations in which the CEO - the ostensible leader of the company and therefore the shepherd and spokesperson for its “product” - actually does not want the software to be completed, because by leaving the product in a state of perpetual almost-thereness, more investors can be duped, which means more hookers rented, more booze bought, and more drugs done. 

And more entry-level workers fucked over by their paycheques either bouncing or not coming up at all.

It all sounds like reality TV. When Startups Close Down or When Idiots Collapse.

Here’s a quote from a Toronto Life article about a Canadian capitalist named Boaz Manor who used the fake name Shaun McDonald to start a new venture (of course a rich guy’s last name is Manor...to the manor born, amirite?): 

“Leong, Ortiz and others who did the demos insist the terminals would have worked, or could have. But they say Shaun seemed to be more interested in the marketing than in the product itself. ‘I believe the tech was never finished because Shaun didn’t want it finished. What he wanted was to raise more money,’ Ortiz says.”

And here’s a quote from an article in The Verge that details the almost-boring-because-so-inevitable rise and fall of a company called Oomba, run by a douche named Michael Williams:

“After four years, the company’s core product was never able to do what it said it was supposed to: work with any game. It’s possible this was because many of Oomba’s engineers were college students whom Williams apparently sometimes paid in free food and the promise of stock options. Or maybe, a few employees suggest, he preferred to keep the software unfinished. ‘There’s glitches and glitches and glitches, but he didn’t want it to work. He wanted it to stay almost done, to raise more money from investors,’ one senior-level employee believes.”

Bearing such malfeasance in mind, I’d like to announce that I’m starting my own startup called...uhhh....let’s go with Revivify. Our product will be vaguely revolutionary in [insert field or industry here] and our company will stay private by courting the interest and support of venture capital firms. In the hawkish world of venture capital and leveraged buyouts, “interest” means time-consuming meetings and “support” means money. Our CEO shall be me, and I will be spending $500 a day on heroin, $500 a day on coke, and $1000 a day on crack. $2 for my morning double-double. I will be arrested sometime in late 2022 and go to jail for four years. The day I am released I will overdose on fentanyl in a Starbucks bathroom in Guelph. 

I’m kidding, of course. But Jesus F Christ, what a fucking hustle these guys ran. An eternal “coming soon” sign. Always almost done. Brilliant assholes, these startup starters. All of them. I’m neither creative nor mercenary enough to do what these CEOs did, though I have done terrible things in my life to get the money that pays for heroin. I’m just smart enough to know that my life is essentially tainted, just talented enough to know I don’t have enough talent to make a living from it. Let me leave you with a quote from Mary Robinson’s “Yours”, a story that appeared in The New Yorker in the early 1980s, a story with a quote that explains my conspicuous lack of accomplishment and achievement in my 34 years on this planet:

“...to own only a little talent....was an awful, plaguing thing...being only a little special meant you expected too much, most of the time.”

Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.

To have just enough talent to know you’re not talented enough to get paid for the one thing you’re good at doing sucks. Lockdown is back again and my job is gone. Therefore I am currently selling the lower half of this photograph to the highest bidder. Bidding started this morning at 35 cents and I’m already up to $4. Go capitalism. As Alan Greenspan once proclaimed, perhaps unwittingly displaying the kind of circular logic only Americans seem capable of: “The regulatory mechanism that oversees the market is...the market.”

This is the financial version of “we had to destroy the village in order to save it.”

Anyway I’m kidding. There isn’t really a lower half to that photograph. There’s nothing to see. I’m selling you the hope that you will see my penis. I can’t believe someone has offered me $4 for it. I didn’t expect to clear $3.25.

ANYWAY that’s it for me, for now. I’m heading back to fictionland, where I actually wield a modicum of power, though it’s not power I want.

It’s comfort. Comfort for me and my cat. I just got over an illness that might have been COVID and I have my cat Cookie to thank for assisting my speedy recovery. The only reason I read about the above-mentioned startups is because I was lying prone for ten days, groaning and reading articles. So if you’re bored or perhaps sick, here’s a link to an excellent Stephen King short story, also published in The New Yorker: http://writ101van.weebly.com/uploads/2/2/7/3/22735066/king_the_man_in_the_black_suit.pdf And here is an impeccably well-crafted piece on self-respect, something I decidedly lack, by Joan Didion: https://www.vogue.com/article/joan-didion-self-respect-essay-1961 Sorry about the lack of updates on here, all one or two of you who read this. I’ve been writing a new novel and trying to find a publisher or agent for my first one, a decidedly non-commercial affair. 900+ pages. I gtg. Sleep awaits. I have a startup to start tmrw. 

[pjstafford]

Tell me you love me Scully chapter five

Merry angst filled Christmas everyone.  Gillian has us all emotional!  This is a chapter in a longer fiction set in the Christmas the year after “How the ghosts stole Christmas”.  The premise is that Scully and Mulder have been dating - trying to separate their leisure Dana and Fox time from the work relationship, but Mulder will not have sex with Scully until she can tell him she loves him and commits.  Full fiction on archive of our own or XFultimate fan fiction section.  I will post the New Year’s chapter which follows this after Christmas.  

Tell me you love me, Scully Chapter 5 of 

Written by Pamela Joy Stafford

Rating Rated PG13 Summary Mulder and Scully spend Christmas apart

Mulder is dreaming. He knows he is dreaming because he can see himself and Scully as if on high looking down. They both look older. It is at least 10 years in the future- maybe more. They are living together. He knows that somehow. They have been-are -a couple. They share a home and there is a picture of an infant with a Scully closer to the age they are now framed on a mantle, but the boy does not seem to be present in the dream or in the house. Did they have a son? What happened to him? Scully is packing a bag and crying. The older him in his dream is leaning against a wall; arms and legs crossed in front of him.

“Remember, this is your choice not mine, “ the older Mulder says quietly. His tone is neither angry nor sad. It is factual. Stating established facts which cannot be questioned.

“I just wish you could put it all behind you and live a normal life, Mulder.”

“You’ve said that to me before, Scully, and I told you this is who I was…who I am. You decided to commit to me anyway because you loved me. So what has changed?” “I’m tired. I never wanted a life of perpetual truth seeking. I wanted you and a normal life.”

“Then you shouldn’t have committed. There is no me and a normal life. There is either me or a normal life.”

Mulder wakes. He looks at the clock. 11 a.m. Well, he had almost managed to sleep through the morning. “Merry Fucking Christmas to me.”

He cannot help but think about last Christmas. He had told his mother, as he had this year, that he had to work. Last year he asked Scully to meet him at a haunted house on Christmas Eve.. It’s Christmas morning last year that haunts him this Christmas morning; Scully knocking on the door in the early hours, their exchange of gifts, giggling together, before she left to her family. It had been a brief couple of hours, but was the happiest Christmas morning of his adult life.

He tries to piece it together. What has happened between their trip to California and now which has ended with him alone on Christmas morning?

They came back with their plan to spend leisure Dana and Fox time together. They had. She had cooked him dinner in her apartment. He had taken her to play frisbee golf in the park. They went to museums and art galleries. She had dragged him for a pedicure one Saturday at a salon. Wonderful leisure hours. Over time, though, it became confusing. Were they a couple; albeit platonic? Were they fucking –oh, sorry, non-fucking-girlfriends? Was she in love with him? Any type of definitional discussion left them both frustrated and exhausted.

Then there was the day he walked into his next door apartment to see her sitting on a bed with a stranger. Was she really about to have sex with that man, that writer, who had gotten into her head? She had almost died –again. But the writer who seems to know her so well had suggested she was in love with him, Mulder.

While he ponders these memories, Mulder has gotten up, made coffee and now, in the shower, allows himself, as a special Christmas treat to himself, to remember his favorite memory of last year. They are on a baseball field. The kid shagging balls is long gone, but he hasn’t moved. His arms around Scully and her leaning back against him. He smells her hair, kisses her neck. The bat longed ago dropped to the ground, it is no longer about the game, but about them and he has stood for half an hour not talking- just holding her. Finally she whispers so softly he has to bend down to hear her “I can feel how much you want me, Fox.” She presses her behind into his groin. He had chuckled. “I always want you, Dana. I have never wanted a woman so much. I thought I had been in love before, but not like this.” She doesn’t say anything. She still can’t say the words to him and, as the night air became cooler, she simply turned, hugged him tight and walked away.

It was a week later –at her apartment- that she had asked him if he had ever thought about leaving the X files behind now that the conspiracy had been uncovered and most of the syndicate were dead. She had said that line she had repeated in his dreams. ‘I just wish you could put it all behind you and live a normal life, Mulder.” He had said to her just what he said in his dreams. “It's either me or a normal life, Scully. You can’t have both.” When she hadn’t responded, it was his turn to wordlessly walk away. Then, there was no more Fox and Dana leisure time for a while.

Then, another life changing catastrophe, the artifacts found in Africa, his illness, her finding him so close to death, Diana’s death. Without Dana in his leisure hours he had spent time with Diana again. That is the thing about unrequited love-the only way to get over it is to find someone who could love you back. He remembers the night he had been so sick, collapsing in the stairwell of an university, and had called Diana. Even as Diana had taken him home and helped him to bed, he had been irrationally angry at Scully. If she had loved him, if she could believe in him, if she wasn’t always trying to prove him wrong…she had called him, pressed him about who had answered the phones and he had told her to prove him wrong. If he had died, that would have been the last thing he said to her.

He had fallen asleep and woke up with Diana’s thoughts in his mind. She was nude, lying with her arms around his back as she used to do when they were really together. He knew now she loved him, but he knew all her other truths and everything she had lied to him about as well. His brain working so fast, his sanity slipping away, he had begged her to call Scully. Scully-he had to talk to her one last time before he slipped away…Sccuully! Neighbors had heard his screams and had called the police and he ended up in the psyche unit. Reading minds was the most horrendous thing he had ever experienced, but there was one blessing. The one time Scully had been allowed to see him. He knew then. She loved him as deeply as he loved her and she was afraid; afraid in the moment but equally afraid of loving him.

Mulder thinks he should call his mother to wish her a happy Christmas. He should find something to eat. It's mid afternoon now. He sits in the dark instead. He had never told Scully the details of his dreams –that he had been married to Diana with children and a simple life. Why Diana and not Scully? Because Scully would never have let him settled for that bullshit. Even in his dream life he was settling for Diana. The irony of it was that Scully wanted a normal life with him, but wanted him to be true to himself which would mean never having a normal life.

Mulder calls his mother. He talks to her less and less these days, but it is Christmas. He puts the phone down after a few minutes thinking well –that’s it, my Christmas.

A couple of weeks ago he had high hopes for this Christmas. After his near death experience and Diana’s death, he had told himself he would never settle. It was Scully or no one. They went back, each grateful it seemed, to leisure time Dana and Fox. He now knew she loved him, so the question was could she commit to him knowing he could never commit to a normal life. Would she ever be able to tell him she loved him?

Two weeks ago, walking back from the park hand in hand, he suggested they get away for the Christmas holiday.

“We could go to Vermont to a ski lodge, or Florida or back to California. Even Hawaii, Dana. Christmas in swimming gear- do you still have that black bathing suit?”

“I always spend Christmas with my family, Fox. Bill is coming in. I was hoping you would come with me this year for Christmas dinner.”

“Bill hates me.”

“There’s always some drama in families, Fox, but the benefits outweigh the drama.”

Mulder thought about his mother checking him out of the hospital to that cigarette smoking bastard, his father and his father’s willingness to risk Mulder’s life. Sometimes the family drama was so intense that the benefits did not make up for it.

“Will we be going as a couple, Dana? Are you ready to announce to your family that we are…whatever we are?”

“I could just tell them you don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Your loser partner being dragged along. Bill will love that.”

‘Probably more than thinking we are…moving towards a romance.”

Mulder stopped walking and faced Scully. “I want to be alone with you. Show you that we can have interludes of normalcy even why involved in our common quest for the truth. I want to kiss you under the mistletoe and give you a gift right at midnight.”

“For me a normal life is Christmas with my family. Besides you make it sounds like we would have this romantic week-end. Are you willing to…share a bed?”

“Can you commit?”

Scully looked away from him. “So I would be just your loser partner being dragged along because he has no place better to go. You can’t see us as a couple.”

“Fox, this mistletoe you fantasizing about. Would you kiss me on the mouth? You know after all this time you still haven't. Do you think the world would end if you kissed me on the mouth?” Scully was angry, sad, frustrated and hurt at the same time. It was making her impatient with Mulder. Her eyes were flashing and she had tossed her hair back as she talked repeatedly.

“I can’t see what possible difference it would make at this juncture of our relationship if I kissed you on the mouth or not.” Mulder’s tone was that cold, aloof tone he used to hide his true feelings. He looked at her through half closed eyes.

And that was the end of the conversation. There had been no more Dana and Fox leisure time since. Before Christmas break, in their office, they had awkwardly said goodbye and that they would see each other in the New Year. Mulder rummages through the refrigerator and finds a beer and left over pizza. “Merry Fucking Christmas to me.”

It is December 29. Scully and her mother have returned from taking Bill and his family to the airport. Scully has agreed to spend the night with her mother so her mother wouldn’t be so suddenly alone after a house full of grandchildren and family. Scully had spent the night Christmas Eve and Christmas night, but had left at noon on the 26th and hadn’t came back until today. A couple of times Bill had made disparaging remarks about Mulder and, of course, she had defended Mulder. She would always defend Mulder, but she had been fatigued with the effort. She had spent two and a half frustrating days organizing her closets and preparing her receipts for taxes and not, absolutely not, expecting her phone to ring.

She sits now on her mother’s couch looking at the tree. If her father was alive, they would spend tomorrow taking it down, but, now, her mother always kept it up through New Years. Margaret Scully has a cup of tea in her hand to give to her daughter, but has stopped in the doorway. Her daughter has looked so sad this holiday season.

“How’s Fox, dear?” Margaret hands her daughter the tea.

“I don’t know, Mom. I haven’t seen him.”

“Is he in town?”

“As far as I know.”

“And you haven’t spent any time with him the last couple of days? I thought that’s why you haven’t been around.”

“No, Mom. We’re off duty and so I haven’t seen him. I just had other things to do.”

Margaret is well aware that in the last few months Fox and Dana have been spending leisure time together. She had even seen them once at an art museum when she went out one Saturday with a girlfriend. Also the beautician at the salon her and Dana went to had told her Dana brought in a very handsome, tall man for a pedicure. “What did he do for Christmas? You know I am very fond of him. It is so clear how much he cares for you.”

“Mom, I invited him over here. He didn’t want to come. He probably spent it alone or with some male friends.”

“Dana, you have got to learn to compromise.” Margaret’s tone was firm with her daughter and Scully looked up surprised. “You left him alone for Christmas. That poor boy.”

“Mom, did you not want me to spend Christmas with you?”

‘Of course, but children grow up and have their own life. Did you think about spending some time with him on Christmas Eve, maybe having dinner with him, and then coming here Christmas morning or leaving here Christmas morning to take him over some cookies? Maybe watch a Christmas movie with him? We’re all in the same town. Why not split your Christmas half with us and half with him?”

Margaret took the tea cups into the kitchen. Scully sat now dumbfounded by what was such a common sense approach to having conflicting loyalties over a holiday season. Why was it all or nothing, such a struggle with them even over the easy stuff? Why were two intelligent people so stupid and handling this relationship stuff so poorly?

Sex, Scully thought. This goddamn stubbornness of Mulder’s about sex was driving them both crazy. She has never wanted a man more. She had wanted him since the day they met, but now, with how close they were, knowing he loved her, sex has become this giant thing that was between them always. There were nights when they were on the phone and just the sound of his voice would lead her to touch herself. There were times when standing beside him, she couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying because he looked- he was lean, slender even, but strong with perfect biceps. How could she possibly have problem solved rationally that day walking home from the park? He had asked about her bathing suit and talked about kissing her. She suddenly remembered his hands on her body and was distracted by his lips. Damn, if she could just have sex with him one time, then she could think rationally about him and whether or not she wanted a life with him. How could she possibly make such an important decision as distracted as she was with just wanting him?

“Dana, are you ok? Your phone’s ringing.”

Dana takes the phone out of her purse. Skinner. A few minutes later, off the phone, Scully says “Mom, I won’t be able to spend New Years with you. I’m being recalled to work tomorrow for an emergency case.”

“I understand, dear.” Margaret sees the light back in her daughter’s eyes. Mulder must be on the case as well. She wonders when these two kids will realize the true nature of their relationship.

[rudolf-rokkr]

Heyo. I've been trying to get into more heathenry/norse paganism kinda stuff (what can I say, I love folk metal), but the one thing that's kind of been a damper on the concept for me is the concept of Hel - specifically, how (as I understand it) dying of sickness or old age is a form of cowardice and punishable by eternal torment. Being chronically ill myself, that doesn't really sit right with me. Do you have any thoughts/corrections/resources on this topic in particular?

Thanks for the question. Basically the image of Viking afterlife concepts that has entered popular culture is extremely shallow and not a good representation of what we know believe actually existed. This is a big topic so it’s easy to get lost but I’m gonna try to keep it simple without leaving too much out but feel free to follow up if it seems like I’ve missed something. It’s long so the rest is behind the break.

I’ll start with the major point I want to make and then we’ll fill in the “so what then?” after. The reason you’re disturbed by this is because it’s, at least partially, a recruitment tactic. It’s designed to tempt you to suspend your reason and even if it did apply to your personal situation you’re better off not falling for it.

I know some people find strength in the Valhöll idea and I don’t want to take that away from anyone but my uncensored opinion is that it’s for dupes. It’s full of people who wasted their lives in service to kings who didn’t give a shit about them, who used them to gain rule over them. Óðinn isn’t vetting them for bravery, he’s vetting them for certain personality traits that are bad for self-preservation but good for early proto-state-formation. That’s why it’s the afterlife we find out about from Snorri. He was a court poet, trying to piece back together a cosmology from shreds of court poetry that extolled the virtues of fearlessly taking an axe to the face in defense of your favored tyrant. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to go to an afterlife where you have to die every day. I think this was more of a prestige factor among the living than an actual hope for the afterlife. I could be wrong though since the primary audience of such a myth would have been, like, 18-year-old kids hopped up on adrenaline, having just left the family farm for the first time in their lives, suddenly being adorned in gold and addressed by kings and making their first kills and drinking unending ale. Frat boys to whom the world is suddenly open (note that we’re mostly talking about higher class people anyway because they’re the ones who could afford weapons, so the world was already more open to them than others). Like the primary source for details about Valhöll is Vafþrúðnismál which rather likely was performed before an audience of these young, drunk warriors far from home (see Terry Gunnell for theories about performance of Eddic poetry).

So yeah, I could see them falling for this, or thinking it sounds appealing, or whatever. But at the same time I doubt anyone would have admitted out loud that killing each other all day every day for eternity would be awful (in fact it sounds a bit like the Buddhist hell Sañjīva but with good food). If it’s a real thing its full of people who can’t admit they’ve longed for Niflhel for centuries. 

That isn’t to say it can’t be a legitimate belief as well, just that this is its primary social function from the perspective of our sources. I’m sure that another motivating factor for the preservation and distribution of this belief is that those promising 18-year-olds also had families back home and maybe wives and kids and they were supposed to come home from exploiting the Karelians for the King’s tribute to take care of all this, and the pain of such a loss is made somewhat more mild by believing that these individuals have been called to the higher purpose of preserving the cosmic order. Not saying I agree, just that I get it.

(Note that in reality we have substantial evidence that the actual motivating factor for at least some “Viking” warriors wasn’t a glorious afterlife but rather they were mercenaries and maybe not even locals).

Now onto the next point. In Gylfaginning Snorri says that Óðinn decides where people go when they die and that good (siðaðir, literally more like ‘ethical’ I guess) people go to Vingólf or Gimlé (note: not the same as Valhöll; this might be where Snorri thinks good people who aren’t killed in battle go) and that bad people go first to Hel and then to Nifhel. The problem is that he’s full of shit. This isn’t corroborated anywhere. We can put the “full of shit” onus on Snorri the Christian who believed literally in an all-powerful God and Heaven and Hell, or we can put it Snorri’s depiction of Óðinn as Hárr/Jafnhárr/Þriði lying to Gylfi, but either way it’s obviously wrong and easily refuted.

For one thing there’s nothing moral about it. It’s just down to the manner of death. The greatest hero of Germanic mythology, Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, went to hel because he was killed in his sleep or stabbed in the back. And we know he went to hel because Brynhildr committed suicide in order to follow him. And according to skaldic poetry, King Hákon góði went to Valhöll despite not even being heathen because he died in glorious battle.

Grímnismál says that Freyja gets half the slain warriors; Þorgerðr Egilsdóttir (who is not a warrior) in Egils saga expresses expectation that she’ll spend the afterlife with Freyja. In Hárbarðsljóð Hárbarðr (Óðinn) makes fun of Þórr because he receives slaves into his halls rather than rulers like Óðinn does. Snorri himself tells us that Gefjun receives those who die as unmarried women which doesn’t apply to your situation but is another hole in the Valhöll/Hel paradigm. He also says that Rán (the sea-gýgr) takes those who die by drowning, which is corroborated by Eyrbyggja saga (chapter 54, when the drowned men show up to their own funeral, perpetually dripping wet).

Meanwhile, other than very specific parts of it that might be designated for people marked for obliteration from existence (this is based on lines in Vafþrúðnismál describing Niflhel as the place “whence men die out of hel,” what precisely that means is not obvious), we don’t have much reason to believe Helheimr is really so bad. Hel herself seems to thrive on death and decay and all that but I mean, it’s the world of the dead, that kind of seems to make sense and we can’t frame it according to our perspective as the living. On the other hand though, most of our evidence actually points to the world of the dead having a relatively strong sense of continuity with the world of the living. That seems to be why people were buried with their stuff – they weren’t done using it. 

Whether or not we should place Glæsisvellir or Ódáinsakr in the “world of the dead” (they get an association with Jötunheimar in some sources – it’s not clear if this is part of the Euhemerizing process where mythological places are mapped to geographical locations, or if Jötunheimar was part of the “world of the dead”) is unclear. Glæsisvellir ‘shining fields’ are a sort of “otherworld” more like what you normally see in Gaelic myth and legend that tend to show up a bit later in Norse mythology but seems to possibly play on things that show up as early as Ahmad ibn Fadlan’s description of the Rus’. It’s pretty much Valhöll for peaceful people. Ódáinsakr is a place within Glæsisvellir where there is no death and everything comes back to life. They’re usually ruled over by a very benevolent and hospitable jötunn named Guðmundr or Goðmundr (though split from the same origin, guð is used more for the Christian god and goð more for heathen ones, so calling him Goðmundr is marking him as heathen). Basically it seems to be Norse Elysium.

Finally, the afterlife that has the most support from the Íslendinga sögur, which means it’s probably the best reflection of the day-to-day beliefs of average people during the Viking age is some kind of continued existence in the landscape. The most clear description is in Eyrbyggja saga wherein it’s seen that the mountain Helgafell opens up to receive Þorsteinn þorskabítr and his companions; the mountain contained a whole hall full of people with fires burning and horns blowing and everything to welcome Þorsteinn. It was later discovered that Þorsteinn had drowned (note that this is the same saga I mentioned before where drowned sailors go to Rán).

Some scholars think that this is actually the origin of Hel and Valhöll. That they were just the continued existence of the dead, basically underground or living in rocks or other natural formations (like the elves do in Icelandic folklore). The abstraction of Hel and Valhöll from geographical location might have been part of the universalization/mobilization that some scholars propose for the development of the Óðinn cult (see: Tracing Old Norse Cosmology by Anders Andrén).

We also see a sort of double-afterlife in Helgakviða Hundingsbana II (a.k.a. Völsungakviða in forna) wherein Helgi has some kind of mobility between his burial mound and Valhöll… and then is later reincarnated.

Reincarnation pops up a couple times in Norse lore, this aforementioned poem being one of them. It actually says:

Þat var trúa í forneskju, at menn væri endrbornir, en þat er nú kölluð kerlingavilla.

‘It was a belief in heathen times that men would be reborn, but that is now called an old wives’ tale.’

It’s also implied in Flateyjarbók that Saint Ólafr is the reincarnation of an old heathen king who was worshiped as an elf in death, Ólafr Guðrøðarson (Ólafr Geirstaðaálfr). I did a post about reincarnation on my other blog that covers a lot of the same ground as this post.

Reincarnation is also a more or less fixed part of Urglaawe, a variant of modern heathenism focusing on the experience of the Pennsylvania Dutch (although these other afterlives are as well – just part of a process that ultimately results in reincarnation. To my mind such a view is perfectly compatible with everything else I’ve mentioned above).

The Wild Hunt does not factor much into Norse mythology but we have a pretty good idea that the concept was around based on its appearance in later folklore and its general wide spread across world cultures. It could possibly be related to the Valhöll afterlife concept, perhaps among a different class of people. We are pretty sure, for example, that Óðinn was popular in Denmark before Christianization and we are not able to connect him clearly to a ruling class like we are able to do with Norway (largely because of a general lack of literary sources for heathenism for that time or place). While no evidence compels us to do so, we have room for envisioning an Óðinn-centric afterlife that is not Valhöll, nor restricted to the upper classes. I mean he’s clearly a “god of the upper classes” but he’s no less a wandering hobo.

Anyway, the point so far is that there are lots of alternatives to the “Viking heaven” vs. “Viking hell” bullshit. This is probably not exhaustive and it partially conflicts. That isn’t surprising given that there is no centralized heathen authority and what we’re actually talking about is a huge variety of religious ideas that circulated differently along localities, social classes, time periods, social contexts, etc.

If we can point to something underlying all of this, it’s that there was believed to be some kind of continuity between life, manner of death, and afterlife. People dying in battle and going to Valhöll is, to my mind, an extension of this. “Those who die violently have a violent afterlife.” Whether or not that’s good will depend on the person, I’d imagine. Those who die in illness (and remember that there was a relationship between illness and trolls and elves or other unclean or vengeful spirits) may unfortunately find themselves in an afterlife characterized by fever and coughing and other unpleasant things. However the afterlife also seems negotiable, fluid, and furthermore determined at least partially by the activities of the survivors. When Ahmad ibn Fadlan attended a Rus’ funeral one of the Rus’ made fun of him because to him, the Muslim practice of burying the dead meant that the deceased would have to lie there in the ground while they decomposed, as opposed to the Rus’ who were cremated and thereby went immediately to the gods (by the way both burial and cremation happened under heathenism, so this is clear evidence of discontinuous religious belief among heathens and that we can’t call it “one” “religion.” Snorri associated burial and cremation with the cults of Freyr and Óðinn respectively in Ynglinga saga but of course he didn’t have all the archaeological evidence we do so we shouldn’t take that as necessarily true, but it’s interesting that he knew about both). We also see worship of the dead in the sources as the dead were considered to continue to have contact with the world of the living, for example by influencing crop yields and local weather patterns. Snorri’s Euhemerized history of the kings of Scandinavia exploits this to explain how the human king Freyr became a god – he was a human king who died and was worshiped as an ancestor at first before being reanalyzed as a god in the popular tradition. Though maybe not with Freyr specifically, this probably actually happened, even if more strictly localized, like in Vita Anskarii wherein it’s said that a certain King Erik was accepted by the gods as one of them when he died.

This is why I can’t help but think of Valhöll as “if you spend your life bootlicking you’ll spend death doing the same.” Indeed, even in the old sources, hierarchy in human society is replicated in Valhöll when Helgi Hundingsbani goes there and humiliates Hundingr by ordering him around.

We might also gain some insight by comparing other cultures that share beliefs in common with the pre-Christian Norse.  Though close reading of literature and comparative religion most people believe that the Norse did not believe in a single soul but rather something of a personal complex. We see this in other circumpolar cultures that also recognize things like the World Tree, ancestor worship, nature spirits, etc – that doesn’t mean we can just lift ideas from these other cultures but they do give real-life examples of how these abstract concepts can work in day-to-day life. Personally I have been very inspired by and influenced by Buryat Mongol belief and custom, especially because they themselves are often eager to share (reminder that it not being strictly “closed” does not mean that inappropriate appropriation is not possible). Buryat Mongols recognize three “souls,” each of which go their separate ways at death. One becomes a nature spirit, one which goes to the underworld and is eventually reincarnated, and another which becomes a bird on the world tree which is also eventually reincarnated (but, if I understand correctly, not along with the soul which had gone to the underworld). Among many such cultures going to the gods in the afterlife is a possibility, but a major exception to the norm. The reason I find this so interesting for this conversation is that if the Norse believed something similar, it would explain why our sources are in such conflict, how people can be going to Hel and living in the mound at the same time, how Helgi Hundingsbani can go to Valhöll and be reincarnated, etc. If you’re interested in learning more about Buryat Mongol belief try the site I already linked and also the works of anthropologist Katherine Swancutt (note that the families she stayed with had complete agency in determining what and how she would share what she learned… she talks a lot about this in Fortune and the Cursed: The Sliding Scale of Time in Mongolian Divination).

This next part is gonna be even more opinionated than what I’ve already written. I think it’s tempting to believe that people get what they deserve in death. That people who are treated unfairly in life are compensated in death and that those who were unfair themselves get their comeuppance. But to my mind heathenism lacks a mechanism for identifying or producing desert. That means it’s up to us, the living, and maybe those dead who continue to exert an influence on the world of the living, to vindicate those who were oppressed, or robbed of a good death; and to mitigate the legacy of unfairness. I do not believe that “the universe” or “wyrd” or whatever punishes wrongdoing – not because it wouldn’t be nice but because how exactly is that supposed to even happen? Do we really want to rely on gods who often act immorally themselves and use their supernatural abilities to exert their wills, to judge us? We might ask for their help, but we shouldn’t leave it in their hands. It would be great to take the burden off of ourselves but for better or worse, that’s where the burden is. This concept is a major spiritual informant to my belief in social justice, it’s (among many other things) a way to achieve a symbolic (and restorative, rather than retributive) equivalent to the social role of blood vengeance, for people who faced oppression. And what’s more, if we’re prepared to accept the possibility of reincarnation, then it actually is helping ourselves as well as our dearly departed awaiting rebirth in the underworld to make the world a better place for future generations.

Finally the last thing I want to say is that all of this is just theory. Not believing it doesn’t make you not heathen. We don’t have a Bible, there is no centralized authority, nobody living a thousand+ years ago was totally sure what happened in death – the lore we have received is just whatever models they came up with that best explained their experiences (probably especially mystical experiences of religious specialists, but still) and informed their behavior. For that matter, plenty of this shit is probably Christian speculation about what heathens believed anyway. If you have reason to believe otherwise it isn’t “un-heathen” to trust in your own ability to reason. Like, I think I did an alright job of framing my distaste for Valhöll in heathen discourse which just means it’s a productive set of religious beliefs that’s capable of autocritique. A person can’t possibly read the sagas and conclude that everyone agreed with each other all the time; variation, dissent, and creativity are generally speaking all good signs.

Hope this helps.

P.S. I know there are a lot of people who see entrance to Valhöll being granted to anyone engaging in struggle, whether physical or otherwise. I don’t agree, and if you’ve read this far you know I haven’t factored it into my understanding at all. But I don’t necessarily have a problem with it. I think it comes down to the active conception of “violence.” I do not believe that violence is strictly an act of causing physical damage to a person or object in a single event. I think that rearranging Valhöll to conform to a modern conception of violence that also includes systematic oppression is a literally incorrect way to interpret it according to Old Norse religion – but fuck it, my opinion of Valhöll is low as shit, so do whatever you want for all I care.

[ourladiesofass]

The Spine

The first time Gunner met Chuck she punched a boy in the face so hard she knocked both of his front teeth out.

Some of the older kids had started cornering him and giving him a hard time. Gunner was an easy target, that’s what they all said. He kept to himself and didn’t have many friends- any friends, because he didn’t really like spending time around other people, and mostly kept his nose stuck deep in whatever water damaged book he had managed to get his hands on. Stealing Gunner’s glasses was becoming a local pastime for the other boys in the little fenced off area of the city that everyone called the Camp. Glasses were hard to come by, and if they got broken he’d be out of luck for four months at least, with his name on a waitlist for whatever goods came through on the sporadic supply caravan.

On this particular day it was 3 against 1, and by the time the stocky girl with her hands planted on her hips got between him and the other boys, he was already on the ground, glasses gone, hoping that his pants hadn’t been ripped when he’d been pushed over.

“Back off,” the girl was yelling, and when the boys, laughing, asked who she even was and she said her name was Chuck, they’d erupted into another fit of laughter asking, “Isn’t Chuck a boy’s  name?” It was at that point, it seemed, that Chuck decided the conversation was better finished with fists rather than words. A few minutes later, when she was handing Gunner his glasses, still intact but with a scratch on one of the lenses, he grabbed them a mumbled something that might have been thanks, without looking up.

“Hey,” she said, “hey,” kneeling down next to him on the fractured concrete and ducking her head until he looked her in the face. “They’re just a bunch of motherfuckers,” and then she smiled at him and he saw that one of her canines jutted out from her mouth at an odd angle. Gunner smiled back.

“Where do you go out there?” Chuck was waiting for him on the other side of the fence after he’d crawled through the secret hole in the bottom. They’d been spending a lot of time together lately, almost to the point where Gunner thought about calling her his friend, but then again he wasn’t sure and didn’t want to upset her so he thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

Gunner shrugged, “Nowhere in particular,” then, because Chuck was giving him a look like she thought he was lying, “sometimes I look for books.”

“Oh,” she said, and bit her lip. Decent reading material was near impossible to find in the Camp, so Gunner had taken to sneaking out to search the rest of the abandoned city. If anyone found out they’d probably tell him it was too dangerous and make him stop. Gunner had to disagree though. In all his time out there he had never seen another soul, and he was smart enough not to go crawling around in any of the buildings that were in really bad shape.

Chuck fell in step with him as they started walking back, but was unusually quiet, gnawing on her bottom lip and not saying anything at all. It wasn’t until they were back at the Camp that Gunner worked up enough courage to ask her.

“Hey Chuck, next time you maybe wanna come with?”

“Yeah,” she said, and he noticed the way her eyes lit up even though she tried to hide it, “yeah, ok.”

Chuck was humming something loud and annoying, her arms splayed wide as she walked back and forth on a narrow piece of splintered wood jutting out a few feet off the floor.

The day could have almost been considered bright, with the heavy fog from earlier in the week lifting so that it was only light cloud cover in the sky. Good conditions for sneaking out of the Camp, Gunner actually had a chance at seeing what he was looking through inside of the crumbling buildings.

In all his life Gunner had never seen the sun.

It had become somewhat of a ritual between them, heading out into the city together whenever weather permitted. Chuck had found zero interest in helping Gunner look for books, but oddly enough she seemed to like to come along all the same.

Chuck jumped off her balancing perch and landed with a loud thud. “Find anything good?” she asked, walking over to him.

He shoved a book in her direction, bound in leather and badly warped, but the pages were still readable, which was more than could be said about most of the things he found. She flipped through it and made a little face as she caught a whiff of rot from the pages

“You ready to go?”

The city was a mess of rubble, rusted cars with their tires rotting off, crumbling buildings and broken glass, all slowly being overgrown by trees and grass and whatever else could take hold, moss hiding in every dark crevice, making that slow and steady creep outwards. Stagnant puddles of water filled what was left of the streets and made them stink. The buildings had long been picked clean of anything useful, but Gunner could still find things, things no one else wanted.

Chuck, with the attention span of a goldfish, ran back and forth, side to side, exploring everything on every edge of the path as Gunner made his way straight down the line.

“Hey,” she said, examining one of the many abandoned cars along the way, “you ever seen the Spine?”

“Of course I’ve seen it, everybody has.” On clear days like today it was visible even from the Camp.

“No I mean like up close,” Chuck was looking at him then and they both stopped walking. Gunner shrugged.

“Nah. I never go that far north.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding, but he could tell she wanted to say more.

The Spine stretched up from the center of the city, the skeleton of a building, but the only one that was left standing straight as far as anyone could tell. It loomed over them at all times, and the top of it reached so high that they could never see it, perpetually doused in cloud cover.

“They say no one ever comes back,” Chuck said when they finally started walking again. “They say everyone who goes never comes back.”

“They say a lot of things.”

They said that the Spine was the house of a magician, or an immortal, sometimes even a god. They said that if you made it to the top, your deepest darkest wishes came true. They said it was alive, the building itself was the only thing left standing because it had been the one to bring about the destruction of the rest, and a great eye sat at the top, watching over all. And they said that no one ever came back once they made it to the Spine.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Chuck was running her fingers over the spines of the books facing out on his makeshift bookshelf, the titles of most long gone, worn off with time. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, the two of them hidden in his tiny little room of the shack him and his mother shared, each of them both with nothing to say. But there was a look of longing on her face, and Gunner finally made the offer he had been meaning to make since the first time he saw her look at the collection of books.

“You can borrow them, you know,” he threw the comment away like it was nothing, insignificant. Like this wasn’t the only thing he felt he had to offer.

Chuck looked over at him, eyes wide and maybe a touch self conscious.

“I can’t read.”

Truth be told, Chuck was a pisspoor student.

It wasn’t for lack of enthusiasm. She certainly meant well, but she could never concentrate, and when he sent her home with little snippets to read, words to memorize, she always came back looking sheepish and admitting she hadn’t even made an attempt.

Progress was slow, but neither of them gave in, and that too became another ritual.

Light days were for sneaking out into the city, foggy days were for staying in Camp and teaching Chuck to read.

Idly one day, she asked Gunner if he thought there were any books in the Spine.

He had just wanted to ask Chuck a question.

Sitting with her behind the old building that served as a general store, watching blood pour out of her nose, he couldn’t even remember what that question was. And Chuck wasn’t saying anything which was an oddity in and of itself.

Gunner had been walking up to her door when she’d been thrown out on her ass, yelling coming from inside.

They never talked about family much. For good reason.

And when the bleeding finally stopped Chuck kept her gaze up at the sky while she asked Gunner what he thought was at the top of the Spine.

They were laying back to back on the corner of Gunner’s floor that served as a bed. Neither of them had talked about it, but he was sure Chuck didn’t miss they way he had been much bolder in asking her if she wanted to spend time over at his place, usually under the guise of reading lessons. When he finally managed to ask her to spend the night, the question was peppered with excuses of the weather clearing up and how he wanted to get an early start sneaking out the following morning. It would be easier if she just spent the night.

He didn’t miss the look of relief on her face.

“Hey Gunner,” she whispered, and he was tempted to pretend he had fallen asleep.

“Yeah?”

“I was just… If I told you I didn’t like boys, would that be ok?”

“Ok?” He repeated the word back at her, not fully understanding.

“I mean would it… change things. Between us. If I said I never wanted to um. Kiss boys. Or anything like that.”

Gunner, for his part, had never really wanted to kiss anyone, be it boys or girls. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt some kind of pressure to do something with Chuck, even if he really wasn’t sure what that something should be, only that there would be an eventual obligation to take things further.

He had walked into one of the back alleys one time, while Sarah had her face buried deep between Logan’s thighs. They’d both been too distracted to notice him and he slipped away as quick and quiet as he could, but Gunner couldn’t deny the fact that the thought of doing that with someone else made him feel more than a little sick.

“No,” he said eventually, “no it wouldn’t change things,” and Chuck’s sigh of relief was audible.

“Good,” she whispered back, so quiet he barely even heard it, and soon she fell asleep.

They stood at the bottom of the Spine.

It was the third time that week that had found themselves there, standing in the empty space that used to be a courtyard with a fractured path leading up to a doorway. They had at least stopped pretending they came here by accident.

They had grown older but things had stayed very much the same, the passage of time was marked by how well Chuck was learning to read, and how much Gunner’s collection of musty books had grown.

They had a bag full of stolen rations to see them too the top.

Without a word Chuck grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

The stairs were covered in fog.

They had been walking for what felt like forever and Gunner’s legs were on fire. The atmosphere had been oppressive at first, and neither of them wanted to disturb it by striking up conversation.

They took periodic breaks, and tried to find places to look out onto the rest of the city, but the view was always blocked by the skeletal remains of the buildings, and eventually the fog that had set in had made them stop trying.

When the fog didn’t lift, Chuck suggested that maybe, maybe this wasn’t fog but they were high enough to be in the clouds.

Gunner had to wonder if this had been a good idea.

He thought of the Camp, and his moldy books, and the kids that used to steal his glasses until Chuck had made them stop. He thought about Chuck’s bloody nose.

He ate his stale rations and they kept climbing.

The light had been growing with each passing step until finally, the thick blanket of moisture that had been thrown over them started to thin, then disappeared entirely.

They kept walking but Gunner had to keep a hand over his watering eyes, shielding them. He had never seen anything so bright, and he never thought it would hurt so bad.

There were no more stairs.

They both sat on the filthy floor, exhausted from the climb and glare blind from the light that could only be coming from the sun.

Chuck recovered first, and looking around saw something that spurred her into motion, sprinting over to the side of the vast room that had wound up in.

There was a balcony, a wide open space free from the fractured walls of the building, and Gunner eventually stumbled over to it, joining Chuck at the edge.

The sky was a shade of blue he had never seen before, and the swirling mass of grey and white clouds below them blocked out the city and everything beyond, reflecting the light of the sun right back up at them. Maybe it was just the light in her eyes, making them water still, but Gunner thought Chuck might have been crying.

They stood in silence for a long time, staring out at that vast open space and feeling the sun burn their skin raw, reducing their pupils to nothing but pinpricks, but everything still felt too bright.

There was no one there.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered, and he took her hand and said, I know, I know

[ettoujourspourtoujours]

2016 has left and we have welcomed in 2017; many people feeling like with the close of what can only be described as a year filled with turmoil for a some, that this will be the fresh start they so deeply crave.

Through 2016 I was in a spiral of self perpetuated misery and something I didn’t want anyone to save me from. Why? I think I hide from all of my problems. Often when I shouldn’t or can’t hide from them. However, I’ve seen the negative spiral it can take you into. I was in a space where I couldn’t look in the mirror, I wouldn’t do my hair or wear make up. I used feeling ‘tired’ or ‘sick’ as a default because I was scared that people would think that I was disgusting or ugly. My instant fall back was 'going for a run’ because it gave me short term bursts of feeling good or feeling like I could breathe. I could leave my brain at the door and just go, every time I felt like I couldn’t keep going, it was my challenge to myself and I would tell myself all the things I hated about me…it made me keep on keeping on.

Now, absolutely none of those things is something to be proud of. However they are also not something to be scorned or ashamed of either. It’s something that I have, for the first time in my life, started dealing with.

You cannot keep closing people out, putting up barriers, not talking about your feelings or emotions, being as cruel as you can possibly be to yourself, with the hopes that one day it will all be okay and everything will carry on as it was before you were sent spiralling down. You may very well shut out the most important people in your life, can you imagine existing without them by your side? No. Exactly.

First of all you have to look at where all of these issues started. My issue with my weight started when I was young, ridiculously young. I remember being around 9 and looking at a photo and my eye went immediately to my thigh, in the picture I was maybe 7. My first thought was, you are so fat. At nine. Nine years old and I was looking at my 7 year old self, who by the way was never fat, and feeling repulsed. I never vocalised it, my dad did plenty of that for me.

‘You’re fat’, ‘you’re a beached whale’, ‘look at the size of you’, 'shit for brains'. More comments along those lines were made.

I’m never going to make blaming him the focus for this, or anything. I’m sure that those comments didn’t come from a place of malice and well, if they did? Then that’s his anger to bear.

I’ve been in an abusive relationship. It’s neither something I feel ashamed of or something I like to brag about. For 10 months I was told I was so ugly and fat that no one else would love me or look at me. I shouldn’t wear certain things or certain colours as they made me look fat. I wasn’t really allowed to see my friends, which for me is such a big thing. I was chastised for even talking to my friends and for having had previous relationships. I was told that I was rubbish in bed and found emails from him bitching about me to his exes. He would discuss my body with my friends and they would always come to me and explain that they didn’t think he was good for me. He would make me feel so awful for being there when his friends were around that, now to this day, I always feel like I'm monopolising someone's time or that I'm a massive burden. He was awful, destructive, physically and emotionally draining. Even when we split up he sent me a text telling me I was a lying fat whore. That is what is more commonly known as a moron. However, it stays with you. You feel like utterly worthless and it stains your heart.

The thing with relationships like this is that all it does is create a poison spiral. You move towards people who aren’t going to treat you well and you reject anyone, put up a feelings wall , who actually does because deep down you don’t feel like you are good enough and not loveable enough. You're used to the anxiety and with someone good you feel that they might leave you at anytime because they couldn't possibly love you. The thing is though, it’s about how you deal with it. It’s not about ignoring those comments. It’s not about burying your head in the sand or looking for the next party to go to, which is all I did for so long. It’s not about trying to pretend that you don’t feel any of those things, like when you finally meet someone you love and who loves you back, don't shelve the fact that internally you don't feel worth their time. That they might see through everything and that they will eventually discover how hideous you believe you are. Talk about those emotions, don't bottle it up. Let THEM in. If you don't, you're only pressing self destruct and letting the bad vibes win. You can lean on your friends and find someone you can talk to.

You are loveable and you are loved. You will be loved forever.

You are conditioned in this pattern to believe that you will lose everything you love and therefore barriers go up as soon as you start to fall into an unconditional love. This is a natural reaction but it isn’t healthy. Sometimes you have to learn the hard way, over and over again.

What is the impact of this? Internal loneliness and a constant barrage of self hate. How do you work to combat something you have lived with for so long? What’s the easiest way to get around it? For me, for years, it was to ignore that there was a problem, to accept the few and far between good days and audibly note that “I am so happy right now, right in this moment. I want to pause here”. Then go on to have weeks of reclusiveness and self hatred. Wanting to be a part of the fun but sincerely worrying that you weren’t good enough, because that’s all you’ve ever known. OR to party for months on end/ To not eat. Or, to sit in front of the mirror when you're in alone and cry, but still never vocalising with others for fear they think you're crazy.

I suppose my reasons for writing this are partly selfish. It helps me to address the struggles I have but also, if someone else was going through it and maybe unsure, they could look at this and realise how perfect they are in their imperfections.

The biggest realisation you can have is after loss,a big change, career or home. Some of these I have experienced this year. They call 25 the year that you find yourself and work out who you are, but also the year you lose it a bit and maybe have a spiral moment. I stand by that. It’s taught me invaluable life lessons. What I want from life, who I am, where I’m going and why I do something. The final part of last year taught me that I will never feel that low or alone in my own skin ever again. I never want to look in the mirror and see a monster glowering back at me. It’s not about getting on with things, it’s about dealing with all of life’s problems and working out how to cope, for you. Sometimes you need a big change to make you realise what’s truly valuable in your life and also to realise that sometimes you need to love yourself for who you really are and that it's okay to do so.

I am imperfect. I have acne scars and frizzy hair. I need to wear my glasses pretty much all the time now and that often means that I will fall asleep with them on and subsequently damage the frames. I can’t reach the top shelf and sometimes I eat in bed…which does mean crumbs. I don’t shave my legs frequently and I love to run, but that doesn’t mean I should continue to run away from my problems. For approximately 16 years I have looked at my body and never felt anything but fear and hatred. One of my eyes is smaller than the other and that’s why I will only put one half of my face in a photos. I have never felt clever enough or worthy enough for people to actually want to spend time with me. I have big skeletons in the closet that tell me I’m unworthy, unintelligent,  unfunny, uncool, fat and ugly. Rather than brushing them away and hiding my head in the sand from them, I’m working on it. I am stronger and better and happier, with having had this realisation. Sometimes you have to fight for what you know is right in your heart. Sometimes getting through the day might be a struggle but talking about it and being honest is the only way out. Take it from someone who spent all of last year not feeling valid enough within herself to even pluck her eyebrows and felt embarrassed getting a picture taken but wouldn't talk to anyone about it. Open up, let the wall down/open the door. What's the worst that could happen? I’m getting there and I know you will too.