#how finite it is. it just wasn't meant to last.

[starishsky]

serennedy makes me sad bc it reminds me of a fleeting summer romance that wasn't meant to be

[vampiretendencies]

request; hi! i love your writing! if you could maybe do “tell me about your day.” with jj! maybe he’s your first boyfriend & you’re taken back by such a simple question/gesture since nobody has ever cared about you in that way before.

warnings; fluff

pairing; jj x fem!reader

authors note; writing blurbs rn bc of writers block (sorry to keep saying that btw i just repeat myself in case there’s a new reader, though i am currently starting to get over it) but still send in requests for one shots, imagines, etc. you may choose a blurb from the list below or send in your own idea.

other ways to say i love you prompt list

2 months.

So fresh, and so perpetually new.

Honeymoon phase striking JJ as something that would actually last this time. Not that he had many relationships to base it off of, but the past few he had typically went sour within the first few weeks.

None of them could get along with his way of life, or they just simply didnt appreciate the wholeness of everything that was JJ.

But he sensed it with you; he felt it in his bones, under his skin, on the tip of his tongue, every ounce of his being felt you, even if you weren't in the room.

This was his most serious, longest, emotionally involved, admiration filled relationship he'd been in.

This was your first relationship, but after being underwhelmed in his past endeavors he found this to be his first too.

And he's thinking about you first thing when he wakes up in the morning, last thing when he goes to sleep- unable to function properly if you weren't near.

JJ was your first everything; first kiss, first time holding hands, first time cuddling, first time being sexually involved with a boy.

But, Christ were your standards low about yourself.

Initially thinking a human with such with breathtakingly confined gestures didn't exist like JJ.

He proved you wrong, convincing you that everyone else in this world were heathens.

He taught you how to create such passion for another, how to know someone's heart and you did the same.

"How was your day, baby?"

It rolled of JJ's tongue, finitely. The two of you were entangled in the hammock at the Chateau, and you were cradled into JJ's arms. Attached to his side, whilst he studied your features; peering down at your scrunched up nose as if you were heaven sent. You thumbed over the material of his beer-stained Heyward's t-shirt, coming to a halt at that question. Almost like the hammock stopped swinging, the unearthly beaming sun stopped shining on the two of you, and as if you'd sunken into the mucky ground.

You were in awe, glaring up at JJ like he'd grown two heads.

Was he being serious? You thought.

"Something on my face? It's okay you can tell me-"

"No m'just ... you meant to ask me that?"

Stunned, was an understatement, as you are now propping your chin onto JJ's muscular chest, needing a better view. Almost uneased and taken aback as that wasn't an everyday question anyone asked you— lead alone a boy.

"Course' I did ..." and then he noticed your furrowed eyebrows. "C'mon, what's goin' on in that pretty little head?”

"Nothing J, you're the first guy to ask me that."

""Let's keep it that way, baby. I'll be the only one."

He's repeatedly pecking the skin of your forehead leaving you to say, “Since I've met you all of my days have been perfect."

[tigirl-and-co]

How Finite is Love?

This is a short little piece set in @shirecorn‘s super cool mlp AU! This is just a first pass at it, I’ll definitely refine it if I post it to a fic site. I just HAD to get this out though, the au hits all my sweet spots!

Shining Armor considers the ponies he loves, and how a mortal pony can love goddesses.

Shining Armor held no resentment towards his two favourite mares. It wasn't their fault. They had no choice. Shining wasn't certain he believed in destiny, but whatever happened to his wife and baby sister sure was close.

First it was his wife, and that he could handle. She was an adult. They had fallen in love in highschool, they had grown together, Shining knew how strong Cadance was. If anypony deserved ascension, it was her.

If anypony could weather this, it was them.

He loved his wife with every bone in his body, every fiber of his being, every ounce of magic he could channel. And he knew she felt the same. If she didn't... this never would have happened.

Can love be a curse? Can loving somepony too much damn your soul? Can it save it?

About a month after Cadance gained her horn, Shining Armor decided dwelling on these questions wasn't helpful, and the answers didn't matter. He loved Cadance, and Cadance loved him. He couldn't change the past, wasn't sure if he even would -- but he was dead set on building a happy future.

At least as happy as he could give her. He couldn't guarantee that the love his mortal body held would last into her infinity, but he was determined to try.

He hoped it wouldn't destroy her to leave him behind, when the time came.

He loved her too much for that.

===

He had celebrated when The Sun took notice of Twilight.

The young stallion was oblivious to the looks of quiet worry on his parents' faces, the body language that said they were resigned to a cautious optimism. How could the attention of the source of Equestrian life bring anything but fortune?

He wasn't yet old enough to have heard the whispers. The old fables weren't circulated in school for fear of divine retribution, and Shining Armor was not as studious as his sibling.

Now?

Had he the power, he would have torn The Sun from the sky.

His baby sister, the sweetest and most sensitive mare he had ever known, damned to an eternity of watching her friends die.

She was a child (she was older than Cadance had been) she needed protection (she had brought down false gods) she wasn't ready (The Sun had learned from its mistakes, this new goddess was more than prepared).

She needed him.

Didn't she?

(She did, once.)

He was proud of her, of course. And if he had been watching for the signs, he wouldn't have been surprised.

Twilight Sparkle had always had an innate love for those around her. Before she had locked herself away in that tower amongst the tomes, she had been a kind filly. And even then, she had never quite managed to harden her heart.

She was still openly affectionate with him, with Cadance, with Twilight Velvet and Night Light. She shared her knowledge with them because it was how she said 'I love you.'

Leave it to a goddess to exploit that trait.

When Shining managed to find time to talk with his Twily after she had earned her wings, she had said her job as goddess was 'to spread the knowledge of friendship' and to teach others what friendship truly meant. She sounded excited, happy. She had found a purpose for her research.

Shining Armor wasn't sure if his baby sister hadn't yet considered the consequences of eternal life, or if it simply didn't bother her. He didn't ask.

He realized that while she was still his Twily, and would be until the day he died, she was more. She was Ponyville's friend. She was Celestia's Twilight Sparkle.

She was Equestria's new goddess.

He renewed his vow to remain her BBBFF forever, to keep her safe from turmoil and danger.

He swallowed down his anger and despair that night, in favour of his inevitable role as protector. He had his cutie mark, and he knew what it meant.

===

Shining Armor loved the mares in his life, and he would go to the ends of Equestria to keep them safe and happy, whether they needed him or not.

He was glad, at least, that they would have each other.

[just-horrible-things]

Dark!Resistance x Chewtoy!Ariadne Interrogation

The ka-clunk of the cell door is final. 

One day I'm gonna close this on you for real. 

Ari sprawls shuddering and gasping on the concrete where hundreds have shuddered and gasped out their last painful breaths, where they have broken and screamed and pleaded for mercy that never ever comes.

Their ghosts are in the concrete with the stains with the echo of their screams. The cell is hungry for pain and death and Ari is just the latest in a long long line of victims and she's choking on her terror and the nightmare hasn't even started. 

There are so so many ways to ruin a human body and she is guilty of so many of them and if they do to her even a fraction of what she's done to their kind she will lose her mind she will be nothing but pain and pain and terror and desperation and they don't have to stop there. 

How much more to fear when they have every tool she's ever used and then magic besides, when they could set her alight with a gesture or strip the skin from her flesh or a hundred hundred things she can't even imagine and they can keep her alive as long as they like. 

She hopes for Riven, for the feds to drive out the invaders because even if they make her a traitor and a prisoner and Riven gets to kill her slowly at least it will be finite, at least she knows he can't keep his toys alive forever. 

She hopes for a warlock angry enough that they'll kill her then and there and she should have died fighting, should have done everything she could to make them kill her because she might have died screaming but at least it would be minutes or seconds not months or years. 

She has no sense of time passing. She is sobbing onto the concrete and then a little later she is just hyperventilating and then later still she is just panting and snivelling. Her arms went numb at some point. The sounds outside get clearer as her ears recover but she can make little sense of the clamour. It's all voices and gunfire, screams and orders and banging and then it is quieter and then louder again and it all rattles around indecipherably in her skull with the terror. 

It doesn't matter what's happening out there. Nothing matters to prisoners except when there will next be pain. Her world is this cell now and she wasn't ready, no one is ever ready, she should have done something anything everything differently to end up anywhere but here but maybe she's been falling her whole life and she was never going to end anywhere but here. 

When the door finally bangs open she doesn't get time to beg for mercy. An unseen force throws her against the back wall. Her arms – still pinned behind her back – do a little to cushion her back, but the jolt to straining, burning shoulders is not worth it.

The sound she makes is less a yelp and more just the ooff of the air knocked out of her. When she's dropped – hard impact on one shoulder – she has no breath for anything but a comedic squeak.

The warlock’s boots – brown, scuffed and starting to fall apart – stop close to her face. With her arms pinned, Ari can't even shield her face. She gasps, and gasps, lungs refusing to fill. 

“No fight?” the warlock taunts. It cuts through the fog of panic just a fraction. Words, she should use words. “-- no, sir –!” “No sir,” he echoes, imitating her breathless squeak. “Wow, am I sir now I'm the one with the keys?” “Yes. Sir. Please –” He makes a disgusted sound in his throat, and kicks her in the stomach. 

It's about as hard as Riven would kick her. It hurts but it could be harder. Hope flares. “Whadyouwant?” she forces from empty lungs, “I'll, I'll – coop’rate – sir.” “Pathetic.” He drawls the word. If it's meant to sting she's too scared to feel it. Pathetic doesn't matter. 

She twitches in an instinctive bid to curl up, and the pain creaks audibly in the shoulder underneath her. She makes a pitiful sound in the back of her throat.

“Alright, bootlicker.” That same whole-body force takes her in its invisible grip again. She yelps as the ground falls out from under her. “Give me a good reason not to take you apart just to hear you scream.”

He sets Ari on her knees, and she very nearly falls back over immediately. To catch herself she doubles forwards – back splitting, shoulders searing – over her knees. 

“I'll – I'll talk – you want talk? or –” Anything else he could want is worse but god what does it matter. “-- whatever you want I'll – suckyourcock or – f’lloworders or – anythingwhateveryouwant.”

Anything if it isn't paying in screams for everything she's done to his kind, anything that isn't him ripping her to pieces right here right now anything to put it off just a little longer.

Another snort of disgust. Ari flinches expecting another blow. She knows exactly what she looks like. Coward selling out under the slightest pressure, torturer fucking terrified of torture, faithless spineless traitor to everything and everyone. She doesn't care. She's all those things and she doesn't care.

“Talk’s a good start,” her interrogator finally concedes. Ari could sob, she could kiss him. She has something he wants besides screams. “Start with your friends. Who's who around here, who's in charge.”

So she talks. She trips over her tongue trying to talk faster than her stupid stuttering panic will let her. Most of what she says is fucking useless she's sure – he doesn't even bother writing much of it down – but he lets her talk.

She can tell he doesn't think much of her eagerness to throw her colleagues under the bus but fuck them, fuck every single one of them. If Ari's dying a bad death here so the fuck are they. Every single one of them could have helped her and did nothing.

When she runs out of things to say about her ““friends”” the warlock quizzes her on the layout of the building. She doesn't understand half the questions, all left-from-the-right and double-doors-this and practically every door in the building is a double door which doors does he mean? 

He gets frustrated trying to match her gibbering to his questions and his anger makes it harder to think, he's going to start hurting her any second and she can't –

He slaps her. 

When that doesn't shock sense out of her he slaps her again. Ari’s lungs loosen a fraction, enough to pull in deeper breaths, enough to get more words out. 

She has time. He's not escalating fast. Her eyes are wet from the sting in her face. She keeps on trying to answer his questions. Gradually he hashes out sense from her confusion.

She tells him where all the locks and alarms and security centers she knows about are. She tells him everything she can remember about security protocols that are 100% not relevant anymore if he's here holding the keys and interrogating her but he listens. He lets her talk. It's something to say to appease him.

She gets the impression he's curious how much she can come up with. Dread keeps her babbling. When she runs out of information, he runs out of reasons not to take her apart. 

He asks for her login to the IT systems. Ari starts to tell him without hesitation but when she gets to her password she cannot remember. She just stops, mouth open, feeling the gears jam insie her head. She types this shit every fucking day, multiple times a day but there's just a gaping fucking hole in her thoughts where the answer should be.

The warlock hits her, harder than before. A solid punch across her jaw that sends her sprawling. For a few seconds her face and the shoulder she lands on are the only things she feels, bright and sharp enough to numb out everything else.

“I, I can,” she promises, “I will I just – forgot – I just – needasecond – just –”

He gives her a second. Several, while she pants against the concrete and rattles frantically at the empty space in her head. 

He taps his foot impatiently, very close to Ari's face. 

“I c-can’t remember – I’mtryingIswear – I could – type it, giveme a keyboard I could type it–”

He kicks her, and keeps kicking her. Ari yelps, and squirms, and howls, and the world narrows as she thrashes trying to roll and failing. There’s nothing else only his feet and her fragile body and the snap of ribs caving in and her panicked pointless squirming and he puts a boot on her back and wrenches her arms up til she’s shrieking.

“Sorry! SorrysirI'msorry! Please!” “Oh shut the hell up. What are you, a child? Cut the pitiful crap, we both know you don't deserve a shred of mercy.”

Ari fights back sobs. He's going to rip her arms out of their sockets and that's only the start. It's only the start he's going to take her to pieces and she can do nothing.

The pressure relents, if only a fraction. Ari chokes on another sob. She’s breathing. She’s still breathing. Her ribs aren’t broken or – not many, not badly. She isn’t drowning blood. She’s breathing. Her arms are still attached to her body.

“Still can’t remember that password?” “No – sir – I’m sorry –” “Shut it. Fine. We'll come back to it.” It’s mercy. If he was Riven she'd thank him. He doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't know what else she can say. “Let's get to the important shit.” A fraction more pressure, forcing her to try and arch her back under his boot. Just a reminder of the power he holds as if she could possibly forget. 

The important shit is plans, protocols, overarching policy that Ari has mostly never even heard of. Even when she has some idea what he’s talking about she knows only the faintest outlines of what the rest of the department, the rest of the fucking government get up to.

He asks questions, and she guesses, or she lies, desperately trying to fill in the gaps. She isn’t any better at lying than at anything else. She tries to be vague to cover for her ignorance and he doesn’t want vague he wants dates, times, names. Raid plans, emergency protocols, heads of sub-departments. Where backup is likely to be coming from and when and how many.

“I don't know,” Ari is forced to admit. She knows it’s the wrong answer but her head is too blank to invent anything better. “I don’t know sir, I’m sorry, I’d tell you, I don’t know I don’t have clearance.”

She repeats it over and over. She stammers it into the concrete. She wails it as he leans pressure on her bound shoulders yet again and the joints creak and grind and spasm and threaten to give way. She sobs it frantically, pitifully as his temper climbs.

He throws her at the wall again. He kicks her. He hauls her up by her arms only to hit her and send her sprawling. He crushes her face into the concrete with the blood-soaked sole of a boot.

None of it is too far none of it is breaking her she knows he’s holding back and giving her a chance but she can’t tell that to the fear inside of her. The panic is out of all proportion, out of control, clawing wild through body and mind and leaving her thrashing and fighting and sobbing apologies all at the same time.

“Cut it out,” the warlock is growling. She’s face down again, his bruising grip on her arms trying to hold her. “Cut it out, stop squirming, shut the fuck up and listen to me.”

She wants to, she means to, she knows she needs to obey or he's going to really hurt her but the fear has other ideas and she doesn’t mean to but she kicks out at him again and even the spike of pain as her heel connects is barely felt, it's nothing to what he's going to do she needs to stop–

Her arm gives way – not at the shoulder where she expects it but the forearm – a sick crack and pain – real tearing serious pain as bone snaps. Every twitch is now – hot white pain – pulling – broken bone grinding on bone and – even the mad animal in her doesn’t take long to understand to hold still. 

Her head is ringing. Her breath is burning in her throat. Someone on the other side of concrete – someone not her – is screaming.

“Do I have to keep breaking things or are you going to lie fucking still?” Ari doesn't trust herself to answer without babbling again. Is laying fucking still answer enough? His grip shifts, and a high, thin whine slips out of her. “None of that. Answer the damn question. Are you gonna talk to me, or are you just gonna thrash and scream on the floor?” “Talk,” she manages. Her voice is a croak. “Sir.”

He drops her arm – both her arms – and despite her promise she bucks and kicks at the floor again in a futile, instinctive bid to escape the knives through the break and through both shoulders. The warlock steps back and lets her thrash.

He gives her time. He waits until she can see again, until she’s able to swallow back the pathetic sound she’s making, until she’s still. 

Numb fingers twitch at her sides, felt only as spikes up and down the nerves. Ari pants open-mouthed like a dog, and lies fucking still, and waits for instruction.

“Let's try that again.”

Again, and it will be worse this time, and worse, and worse, over, and over, until she is nothing but a twitching, suffering lump of meat. She chokes on nothing, desperate not to start panicking again.

“Pull yourself together.” Contempt drips from his every word. “I've barely hurt you. You've done far worse.” Ari tries to breathe deeper. He's right, she knows he is. Her breaths come ragged and choppy but she manages at least a little control. “Up. C’mon, let me get a look at you.”

Her broken arm drags, but she doesn't need her arms to get up on her knees. The warlock looks down at her – her blotched, sticky face, the fresh tears in her eyes – without sympathy. 

“God, you're for real, aren't you.” Ari snivels, and says nothing. She doesn’t know what he wants. “I didn't know they made ‘em this fucking weak. I thought you were supposed to be… elite special agent whatevers. Well. Chill the fuck out. You stop fucking kicking me and I won't break any more bones. Capiche?” When she nods, the world blurs around her. “Yes, sir,” she whimpers.

“So talk to me. Tell me how you expect me to believe you don't have “clearance” for anything.” “I’m – I’m just a grunt, sir. It’s need-to-know – everything’s need-to-know it’s – I don’t – I don’t need to know so they don’t tell me – anything, sir.”

Under her fingers, through the sting of reawakening nerves, she can feel the edge of the bone pressing at the inside of her skin. If it was Riven he wouldn’t have let go, he wouldn’t be letting her cradle the arm against her chest. He wouldn’t be giving her the space to put her words in order. She tries to hold onto that.

“It’s, it’s in our files,” she volunteers. “There’s, somewhere there’s files on all of us and it says what clearances we have – there’s, codes for everything, different teams and, operations, and ranks, and – you need someone more important than me, sir, I’m sorry, you need, Maclauren or, or Bloome, or – someone more important than me. I-it’s in our files, it says what we’re allowed to know.”

The warlock sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks at Ari cringing on her knees, and she swallows back more apologies. He doesn’t want to hear it. She can practically hear his thoughts – great, the only one who wants to talk to him and she’s fucking useless – well they don’t put people like her in charge of anything, do they. She isn’t brave enough to say so. He’ll figure it out himself or he won’t.

He has a few more questions for her. She’s still no use, but he doesn’t hit her again. She starts to hope that maybe he believes she really doesn’t know – and she dreads the thought too, because if she’s not any use for talking, she is only good for entertainment or revenge or – whatever they want to call it. There’s no good outcome here. All she can do is try to earn less-bad.

“We’re not done with you,” the warlock tells her as he leaves. “No, sir,” she agrees miserably. “I’ll cooperate, I swear I’ll keep cooperating.” “Yeah,” he says, “We’ll see. Don’t forget I want your fucking password.”

The door swings shut and locks with a ka-clunk.

One day this door’s gonna close on you and never open again.

Ari shuffles herself to the back corner of the cell. She leans her less bad arm against the wall. She expects to cry, but there are no tears. Just full-body shudders to keep her broken arm burning no matter how she tries to hold it. She rests her head against the wall’s cool concrete, and she breathes.

[maconthepen]

What a bagel taught me about how to live.

There's a small grocery shop at the end of my street.

When I say small, I mean tiny. In fact, I often avoid it on Saturdays. Not being the smallest person in stature, I tend to get stuck awkwardly on boxes of fruit the owners haven't unpacked. All would be forgiven and fine if not for the withering stares of the designer activewear crowd who, like circling sharks, single me out as Not One of Their Own. Saturdays just aren't made for that kind of negativity, so I tend to make myself scarce.

But the staff in the shop are lovely and they pride themselves on stocking the best baked goods in the area. Specifically, their bagels. It's no word of a lie. Those bagels stand tall and proud, whether they're plain, poppyseed, sesame, or blueberry. If a food had a sixth sense that it was about to be bought and devoured, these bagels would have it. If I were to get hopelessly anthropomorphic about it, I'd say they exuded smugness. I can't blame them. Were I that perfectly formed, I'd be smug too.

The kicker is that they aren't stocked every day, and today I really, really wanted one. I wanted to pile it high with cream cheese and salmon and to garnish it with care, like it came from a cafe. The idea fixated itself as soon as I was awake, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The grocery shop was bagel-less.

Instead, trying to delude myself into believing I could salvage the situation, I went to my local chain supermarket and bought a subpar pack. Little did I know how subpar they would be. My lunch in the picture above looks amazing — and its toppings were exceptional — but underneath was a blasphemous affair. These were the worst bagels I'd bought in my life. They were small and dense and probably overbaked, and I missed the high, chewy, pillowy goodness of the ones from down the street.

Make no mistake: I ate, and I was grateful for the food, but this exceedingly ordinary experience taught me a lesson I've been halfway to learning in the past few weeks:

Everything has its season.

I'm still learning to go with those seasons. A long bout of depression has meant that, for months, I haven't been especially keen on leaving the house. I've delegated all grocery shops to delivery services from major supermarkets, and when the fresh produce that arrived in stiff paper bags seemed bland and tasteless, I assumed it was the fault of my taste buds.

Little did I know, until I started on antidepressants and began going to counselling again, how fine a thing it was to wander out into the world — to the market, the park, the small grocery shop down the street — and really see what was there. To smell the in-season fruit. To taste air that wasn't stale. To buy bagels one day and almond croissants the next, because that's what the world is offering up, and it was finite, so I'd best enjoy it while it lasts. I've been cooking with the weather again, taking care to make soup on cold days and face-meltingly spicy, fresh salads when the sun is out.

I've been caring for myself better, but I have also been caring more about the world. In doing so, the world and I feel back in sync. The people in it feel closer. About a week ago, buoyed by all the new conversations I've been having with people, I realised that I didn't know the name of the man who owned the grocery shop along the street. For years, surrounded by a fog of my own brain's making, I hadn't asked.

It turned out his name was Dan. He asked mine in return, and I told him.

"You're lucky this morning," he said, smiling his usual warm and genuine smile. "That's the last of the sesame ones."

Then, as I was leaving the shop, he called: "Oh, I nearly forgot! You're a Swans fan, aren't you? Good luck today."

Bewildered, I turned back around to face him. It was footie finals season. I wasn't wearing my team's scarf, but I had been some months ago when I dropped in for a packet of chips on the way to the game. I'd been in and out of the shop in thirty seconds, but Dan remembered the scarf all the same.

I felt the hot sting of guilt return. I couldn't believe I'd never asked his name.

But then I recalled a visit on a freezing June day. Dan, nameless back then, had been rubbing his hands together near a small space heater under the counter. He'd been wearing a black and white hat.

I ventured, "We might be playing the 'pies next week. Here's to both our teams making it through."

He nodded. "Sounds like the perfect occasion for a loaded bagel and a beer."

It was a Saturday. I wish I could say the activewear crowd parted like the red sea, but they just looked on, as impatient as ever as I left through the shop's sliding door. The sun was out. It was a beautiful day — the kind that still felt like a novelty after a long winter — and I realised I didn't give a shit what anyone thought of me. I had Dan's name and his bagels, and my life was in a season of joy.

[poeticallylazyaf07]

I have ever truly hated only one person my whole life, 

Much ironically, it is one of the men I once adored. 

He told me about picket fences and how I'd be his wife,

Told me I'd never feel down or ignored. 

He took my hands and traced my palms, 

Whispered life was full of commas and semicolons, 

That I should dream beyond the sky and stars, 

That the universe was too finite to be ours.

He had me kneel at his sacred alter,

And made me lick his love off of his feet. 

He broke me until I shattered and faltered,

Until I was dirt on the sole of his feet.

I drank his love like a woman parched,

His latest victim was just marked.

I let him take all of me to a place of paradise,

Where our heart beats were all but synchronized.

He did all that with a smile so soft,

And a voice of the gods. 

He drove me dumb and daft, 

While he played around with his words like cards. 

He murmured me lies,

And promised me fantasy,

I forgot the world when I saw his eyes, 

It compelled me to fall mindless into insanity.

And everytime I wanted to leave,

He wouldn't let me be.

He claimed my lips with insatiable hunger, 

Used it to drain away my anger.

The divinity of his mouth made me stay,

The shade of blue in his eyes made me endure.

Syllabus rolled off of his tongue made me stay,

Of that, I will forever be sure. 

He breathed as a beautiful deception, 

For him, everything I'd abided by was exception.

He stole moments I was to treasure in the test of time,

He brought me to the streets, with or without dime.

He spoke in quotes and poetry, 

Made every phrase and word rhyme.

Made me admire every inch of his soul's tapestry,

Made love feel far from a crime. 

He loved me with hatred,

Made me grovel for kind words.

He hated me with love,

Grinned as I fell to my knees, for the smallest mirth.

It has been years since I last saw that face, 

Ages since I last pecked those cheeks,

Since I last felt my breath hitch at that voice,

Since I last savored those moments, so unique.

I now hate him in a way I don't recognize,

Everything about him is extreme, reckon I.

But this deep loathing rooting in me,

It is too harsh for me to show.

I hate that he wasn't beautiful like a God,

Or sinfully addictive like the devil.

No, all he was was human,

All he'll ever be is as human as me.

And I hate myself for falling for someone simple as him,

Hate myself for talking of him like the subject of a hymn.

But I chose him through all the madness,

Not knowing the future is of much meaner fragments.

For all that life's given me,

My first love was not a gift, 

No matter how hard I wanted it to be.

I have now lost him in the crowd,

Forgotten the rhythm of the song we call ours,

Broken the swear words I once vowed,

After all, don't they all wilt, the flowers?

But, It does not matter what I do,

At the end, always, when I die, 

If there's one person my mind would run to,

I suppose it would be him, drunk and high.

For hatred is the innocent child of naviette and hope,

She cannot be blamed for what she is,

Regardless of the regret she traps within her.

So, yes, mother,

I kissed a stranger,

But I also loved him.

He told me he did too,

But I doubt he meant it.

Yes, father,

A boy broke my heart,

But this is more than hurtful. 

He destroyed my being and sucked the life out of  me.

Now, tell me, am I to believe in love?

Isn't it the net that traps the dove?

Maybe, before you warned me about the boys,

You should have told me about my own kind.

Turns out, we'd do anything for the pleasure of joys,

Girls like me, so reckless, so blind.

Oh, drunken gods of worry and slaughter,

Have I always been your favorite daughter?

Love,

Anonymous.

[grief-worn]

💏  to  softly  kiss  my  muse's  forehead, if he may be so bold

Silence feels quieter than it ever has before.

It has always been impressed on her that grief is strong. It is the catalyst of inner truth, and the whole of the world would be so lucky to feel its harrowing embrace. She dresses herself with this ideal, mourns over ghosts that cradle themselves in her heart, ghosts with no faces, and no names. She claims to know loss. She swears to suffer its ire and understand its purpose.

She isn't sure if that's true, anymore.

Today is meant to be her crowning achievement. Earning the noblest privilege that any follower of Shar can strive to attain. It is here, entombed in Her temple, enduring Her gauntlet, that Shadowheart hopes to find finite closure to her life-long pursuit. This is what she has trained for. This is what she has ached for. This is what is meant to complete her, after years of feeling nothing.

Well, she's certainly feeling something now. But it's unlike anything she's ever dreamt of.

In the throes of such uncertainty, she clings to her religion, more violently than ever. Another recitation of holy doctrine, another rasping cry of Her name, another slice upon her palm, to bleed for her Lady's glory.

None of it helps. None if it soothes what gnarls inside of her. So, she's left with little choice. She asks for him. For Puck's company, for his warmth.

Shadowheart doesn't utter a single word. She sits with him, the rest of camp slumbering peacefully. After traveling at his side, she knows now how seldom he actually sleeps. They've spent lots of nights sharing the stars, yet sharing little else. Two souls without a past to look back, and with almost nothing to bond over. Maybe that, in and of itself, was the deepest kind of bond. There's certainly something about him that she trusts, that she depends on, but it doesn't have a name, and she won't complicate matters by giving it one.

It's been almost an hour. No sound exchanged but the hollow air passed through lungs. This is all she wants right now, it might be all she can handle. She does not touch him, doesn't get close enough to risk it. There's a heat at the bridge of her nose, and it feels almost familiar. Her tear ducts pinch and twinge, threatening to bleed water. Maybe it's just dusty. She won't cry.

She doesn't remember the last time she cried.

Time marches on, and selfishly, she wishes it would stop. Even for just tonight. For a little longer. Tomorrow will test her in ways she's never known before, and failure is not an option. The pressure is insurmountable, and weakness will undo all she's sworn to uphold. She cannot lose. She will not lose. This is where she belongs. In Shar's legion, in Shar's stronghold, in Shar's —

A kiss. A kiss is what finds her forehead.

In her mire, she hadn't noticed him lean over. She hadn't noticed the way his hand softly cupped at her cheek, guiding her towards his face. He's so tender, unnaturally so. She wasn't even sure he was capable of such vast affection. Not towards her, or anyone. She was already silent before, but now words are an impossibility. The branching stretch of air within her chest withers, sheds its leaves, and renders her thoroughly breathless.

Their eyes meet, like a melding of lifeblood. He suddenly communicates everything, and she accepts him without hesitation.

His back hits the floor, her mouth claiming its mark on his. He tastes like he does in her dreams. Iron-skinned and molten savory. Bloodied cutlet. Syrup of his own fervor. She's not chasing lust, or shallow pleasure. Her hands do not wander anywhere beyond his head and neck, cherishing him with palms pressed to greasy wisps, still sweat-slick from the long day.

She didn't want their first kiss to be like this. She didn't really want there to be a first kiss at all. But it doesn't matter. This is where she belongs. In His legion, in His stronghold, in His divine protection.

It has always been impressed on her that grief is strong. But now, for the first time in her life, she doesn't want to feel grief. He is not like the ghosts in her heart. He has a face, and he has a name, and she will never allow herself to forget these. She will never allow herself to forget Him.

[off-brand-likes]

Painting to Exhaustion

Coincidentally, I didn't sleep much on the 23rd/24th and was too tired to write this. Then of course having skipped one day, all the rest didn't matter (additional excuses may apply).

But! I will get through all the prompts eventually! Starting with this one!

Staring at the blank wall was not painting. Of course if Ezra asked, Sabine would tell him she was laying out the new design in her head. She'd throw in some Mando'a art terms so he'd make that face like he'd found something new about her and go look them up.

But Ezra wasn't going to ask. Not for a while, anyway. The longer he stayed gone, the longer it seemed like he would take convincing the purrgil to bring him home.

She'd started the first arch before she had any word-thoughts about it. Now she had the shape of it in her head, in her style. It flowed from her to the wall. She felt like she was watching her arm do the work all by itself.

It kept getting too into the details, though. Her usual bright abbreviations and clear simplicity didn't feel like enough for what she wanted this piece to be. It hurt her throat and stung her eyes, how finite and small a little wall art was compared to everything Ezra had done, and everything he still had left to do when he got back.

Something between her wrist and her elbow was getting very tired making narrow grass blades and tiny dots of stars on one side and rays of sunlight on the other. Usually so many fiddly little pieces would feel tedious to the rest of her, too. But she was so tired. Maybe she needed a little repetition.

She needed to put off the last stroke, maybe. Her head didn't ache that much, neither did her wrists and her arms and...

Two heavy knocks startled her, putting a jagged crimp in what should've been a natural curve. Well. Natural things were sometimes jagged too.

She'd apparently taken too long to open her door, because Zeb opened it just enough to stick his head and drooping ears in, with a cloth tied over his nose and mouth so the paint fumes didn't burn him. "'Bine, can I borrow your--"

When she turned around, she expected Zeb to be awed and amazed at the mural, but he was staring at her with some mixture of horror and pity. She wasn't any more paint-covered than... She glanced down. Actually, that was more paint on her than she was used to seeing.

"What?" The question sounded angrier than she meant it to.

"You've been painting, not sleeping, huh." Zeb didn't phrase that as a question.

"Is it morning?" She'd put her helmet in front of her clock.

She twisted around to look at the clock without putting her paint-covered hands on her helmet and staggered as all her muscles protested the change in position.  Zeb hooked his arm under her shoulder for balance.  "Whoa, easy now. It's afternoon." Zeb looked around her room without giving her mural any more than a glance. "That's all paint water, isn't it? Karabast. You get soup, Hera gets soup, everybody gets soup and you'll like it, too."

"Okay, okay, but will you at least tell me what you think so far?" Sabine gingerly waved her sore arms at the painted wall.

Zeb took a firmer grip on her arm while she looked, like she might fall if he took his eyes off her. She wished she could see his whole expression for a moment, but then his ears drooped more and his big eyes teared up and if Sabine could see his lip trembling without that cloth in the way then she'd start crying again too.

"The, uh." He looked the purrgil over, and Lothal's grassland with Loth cats' ears and tails sticking out of the grass, and she was pretty sure he bared his teeth at Thrawn comically (someday, she hoped) tangled up in purrgil tentacles. But Zeb's gaze kept going back to Ezra standing triumphantly on a purrgil's back, grinning like he knew he was doing something awesome and he knew you knew too.

So obnoxious. She couldn't believe she missed it this much.

"It looks just like him." Zeb's sad and exasperated tone meant she'd gotten Ezra down just the way she saw him in her head.

"Well, yeah." Sabine didn't manage her usual energy and pride, but that's what she usually said, so...

Zeb's ears flapped against his head as he turned it forcefully away from the painting. "Soup time. Come on."

Sabine squinted in the bright lights outside her room. It took her a moment to pick out Hera sitting at the table, and Kallus's short ponytail in the doorway to the tiny galley. Hera gave her such a tired smile that she must've been doing barely necessary maintenance on the Ghost all morning, until Zeb came and got her too. Grease stained her shirt where she touched her belly when she thought nobody was looking.

But none of them had to see each other to know what they were all feeling right now, or to know that wherever Ezra was, he'd spare a thought for them. Sabine knew just where to put the rest of the crew when she got back to the mural, after she convinced Zeb she wouldn't pass out on it.

[aloeverified]

Why All Might & Midoriya Are Disable-Coded, Using Spoon Theory

First things first, the definition of a disability defined by the ADA is a person who has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities, a person who has a history of such an impairment, or is seen as having such an impairment.

I want to take a moment to combine this with the social model of disability; the idea that people with disabilities are only disabled because the rest of the society around them has whatever ability that they lack.

An example of this is Gallaudet University, a college for deaf students. There, everyone is deaf and everything is suited to that idea. Everything there is structured around everyone in the community being deaf with ASL as the primary means of communication.

Within the walls of Gallaudet, deaf ceases to be a disability under the ADA's definition because it does not in any way impaire any of the students there from participating fully in that environment; but deafness is still a disability in the rest of the world because the rest of the world can hear and society is structured around that fact.

Okay, now that I've rambled on about disability terminology to you with an example, I'm going to explain how this has anything to do with BNHA.

Based off the social model of disability and the ADA's definition, being quirkless is essentially a disability.

The majority of the population having a quirk is part of the assumption by the people in the BNHA universe. Everyone's quirks are different, sure, but they're still an essential part of how people function — and as a whole — how society functions.

We know that BNHA's society has evolved to rely on quirks because of the whole hero/villain system. Quirks are essentially a physical characteristic, even if some people don't look any different because of their quirk (which is actually in the minority).

Even if someone doesn't have a quirk that's physically visable, they still rely on that quirk as a part of their body. Gran Torino even goes as far as to teach Midoriya that quirks are an extension to one's body and that's why Midoriya was struggling using One for All so much. This is because it wasn't always apart of him, sort of similar to having a prosthetic leg.

So for all intents and purposes, being quirkless in the society of BNHA fits under both the ADA definition of disability as well as under the social model.

But I want to talk about how Midoriya and All Might specifically are disabled (not just talking about his physical handicap: the hole in his stomach), and how this can be represented by something known as Spoon Theory.

As we know, All Might can only be in his Symbol of Peace form for a small number of hours a day: he only has a limited number of spoons. When he forces his body to function at full power or full energy outside of that number, there are real repercussions for that.

He's attempting to ignore the rules of Spoon Theory and his disability, and in so doing, he's doing lasting damage to his body.

Now, let's look at Midoriya. He's disabled in the sense that he doesn't have a quirk, but then he's given a quirk. However, that doesn't actually mean the removal of his disability.

Think of One for All like a prosthetic leg (again). Yes, it allows him to get up and walk around again, but it's still not the same as having his own organic legs and therefore taxes his body in a way that walking typically wouldn't for those who don't use prosthetics (those who are born with a quirk).

He has a finite number spoons, therefore he has a finite number of times he can use All for One in a given period, and and every time he uses it, he pushes his body harder than his body is meant to be pushed.

Think about the Sports Festival. In the first round, he knows he shouldn't use his quirk because he can only use it a certain number of times, and that using it up, using up his spoons, means he won't be able to function later on and his body won't work how he needs it to later.

In the first round, he finds a way to accommodate himself without using his quirk. In the second round, he does everything physically possible not to use his quirk for the same reason. However, in his third round, he has no choice but to use All for One.

Every time he uses his ability, every time he pushes his body harder than he should, there is a physical response: his broken fingers. There is only so many times he can break his fingers — an even if it's hurting him, it's within the limits of his spoons.

Once he pushes himself too far and breaks all his fingers, he's out of all his spoons. However, he still pushes himself. Because of this, he has to deal with the repercussions: after his fight, Recovery Girl tells him that his fingers won't fully heal.

Going over his spoon limit has permanent consequences, just like how All Might's time in his other form is decreased every time he pushes himself to use All for One for too long. When Deku's fingers don't fully heal, the point being made is that if you push yourself too hard, there can be serious outcomes that can't be reversed: this is the point of Spoon Theory.

Spoon Theory is all about the usage of energy. It's the idea that a person with a disability has only a finite amount of energy; 5 spoons today, 4 spoons tomorrow, etc.

That doing a thing or taking an action costs a spoon — or in the case of Deku, trying to use the full force of AFO, it costs a lot of spoons; as many spoons as he has. It's an issue that isn't held by people who are born with a quirk.

People born with quirks are completely capable of being worn out and tired if they use their quirks for prolonged amounts of time, but they're not in danger of damaging their body in the same way and they can push a lot farther then Deku can, simply because their quirks are part of their bodies and therefore they don't risks damaging them everytime they use their quirk. They don't have a finite number of spoons or uses, they can keep on using their quirk until they get tired.

Side Note: I don't think that just because a character born in a specific fantasy world doesn't have powers means they're disabled; I just feel like this specific case shows how that can be the case — similar to Eda Clawthorne from The Owl House.

I also wrote this around 2020 and have had it lying in my drafts, so I'm not sure if everything still lines up with how Deku currently uses OFA. I just thought it was interesting as a disabled person how Deku and All Might were so relatable, even if it wasn't intentional.

[tyulenin]

markus is the only general ai android. he is the only android that is not mass-produced and can learn new skills without being a deviant. the rest of the bots are advertised with a finite amount of functions (narrow ai+). and i believe the virus rA9 Kamski/Amanda/myAss thing does the heavy lifting for them (although, most of them are dumb as rocks) and to me it seems rk800 was meant to become an infiltrator deviant for one reason or another, since some non-deviant endings surprisingly show him not being replaced by rk900 which implies it did its job as intended (or just good enough i guess idfk), which is fucking weird. the overlord amanda'd connor is a duh. speaking of, amanda seems to be actively using reverse psychology on him, because of the shit mentioned above. amanda is either a self aware general ai of itself, or she's kamski's avatar/insider, cuz he only steps out into the public when all the androids do a shit job at being revolutionaries and i guess rk900 is a deviant imposter by default then

p.s. this is 100% nothing new, i just don't know shit about the dbh community, nor do i care to know. and i wouldn't be surprised if all of this doesn't line up with itself or with the rest of the lore i don't remember/know about p.p.s. connor should have broken kamski's kneecaps and squeezed out every bit of truth out of him, the bastard is sus as hell and he is is clearly lying/dodging the questions. the dude is a fucking domestic terrorist, if he wanted to make a point he could have made it without casualties p.p.p.s. machine connor turning into a deviant literally at the last second tho. i don't know what to make of it. i guess it still works, as kamski has proven his point at this point. but, like, how is it even possible, in my case, my connor was psychotic, killing everything that moves, showing no sign of mercy, but i guess if he was meant to be an infiltrator deviant - it's fine(?), since if he wasn't replaced by a rk900 he did his job as intended-ish. im fucking lost, i dunno what is a plothole and what is meant to be interpreted in some way.

[liketheinferno2]

Coming out of Endwalker like... so many thoughts I am not quite ready to organise without looking back, but I think I have figured out why a lot of people see Stormblood as the odd egg out in this story. It's not the pacing, and it's not that the characters are as unbearable as a lot of people make them out to be either, it's just a step backwards thematically. It backs off from the personal emotional stuff and is a big wide plot thing, and it makes sense that it would be, considering a lot of it was apparently plotted out before even Heavensward and still running on ARR logic. But there's this long running thing in this game that was always better expressed through figurative feelsy stuff where the pain is grand and unreal, sometimes literally inconceivably great the way big numbers don't compute in the human brain. Stuff that is tethered closer to emotions than physical events and gets as close to the characters as possible. Write what you know but not with actual events I guess?

FFXIV at its brightest is about grief, depression, denial and escapism and how you have to move past all of that to make your life worth living -- For those we have lost, for those we can yet save -- but more than that, how this is only really possible through new and surviving bonds. You can't save everyone and you can't get those people back. There's no way to rewind or undo the loss and trauma and the characters who cause themselves suffering are all either out for revenge, or reincarnation that they could never live to see, or more broadly they're looking for a meaning in life that has a finite end point. Estinien, G'raha are both extremely relevant additions to the cast for this reason, it's far more than just fan appeal. 1. Guy who lived to kill, not just for lost loved ones but a life he could have had; almost ends the life he has now if not for new love and friendship. 2. Guy who lived to die out of love, and when denied this had to come to terms with the fact that removing yourself from a loved one is not a kindness, and one person cannot be the beginning and end of where you find purpose. The amount of beloved characters who only enter the main cast proper after you stop them from offing themselves was never lost on me.

Anyway, if Heavensward was when this theming got LOUD and ANGRY, Shadowbringers is when it was cold and alone. I came out of Shadowbringers rattled, genuinely exhausted. Endwalker is not like that. It's the story not just for people in the abyss, but those of us who have climbed out again. A lot of people are Hermes in this story, but I'm a Venat type myself... and it's something you can only achieve after digging through the mud. Extremely rare to ever have a story like this written from that perspective. Once I realised what her white robes meant I changed mine. That's neither here nor there but Endwalker eases you in, stresses you out, hurts over and over but keeps giving you anchors to hold onto and relationships to push you forward, and up to the very last second it's harder and harder (for the characters at least,) but then the relief! Shadowbringers felt like washing up on the beach, Endwalker lets you down gently! God it's good.

I know what an actual character end feels like so I wasn't crying in that final area, I think my prevailing emotion was "I hate these nihilist cunts" "I hate that all this destruction was needless" "I hate this fucking crab bucket dimension" but in a completely positive way. It's that frustration I feel when someone refuses to accept that they have defined their own meaninglessness, it is not inherent and it is causing them all this unnecessary pain. This is the suicide expansion, that's just what it is. I had my doubts when that first came up in the patches but not once did it feel cheap, even when the game beats you over the head with it. The end reveal that "suffer with me" was never even supposed to be kindness, because of course it wasn't, of course there's rage and fear in that, Hermes said himself that killing something that wants to live is not beautiful.

And there's debate about whether the Ancients had an "actual utopia" or not -- A. Of course it was because Emmie said so, B. Of course it wasn't because Hermes and Meteion suffered -- but that's not even the right question to ask in my opinion. It was an actual utopia, caveat: in a piece of fiction written with the idea that utopia and perfection is unachievable and would destroy anyone who could reach it. It being actually genuinely all but free of pain for mankind is not a loss of a great society that could never be rebuilt, but a sort of literalised escapism, literalised denial, an unreachable world that people on real world (the sundered one, in-universe) can only wish or hope existed, if somehow we could ever be free of strife. You go to the Garden of Eden and it's a lab. It's heaven bro. It's heaven and you can't reach it through violence.

Ironically Zenos who was such a... ???? ... in Stormblood ended up being best adapted to the themes of Endwalker because here's 3. Guy searching eternally for what meaning he can find through violence, when actually hurt for the first time in his adult life finds it the closest thing to closeness he's yet felt. But instead of identifying that closeness as what he wants, blames it on the violence instead, literally chases you to the ends of the earth hoping you'll kill each other in some ultimate act of physicality and what is, to Zenos, love! The nearest thing to it. The harder he pushes this way the further he pushes any reasonable person away from reciprocating. He gets so close to realising what he's done wrong, not in his actions but in the meaning he has defined for himself. Alisaie gets closer than anyone to cracking him just by telling him he'll die hated and alone. And personally I do think the rescue button was made of his regret, some last second realisation that dying is not what he wanted, and more than that, he does not want the person who at least tried to give his life meaning to die too. Loving or hating this character are both completely reasonably strong reactions but he loves YOU, like it or not. That's kinda the point...

Terrified I'm gonna lose this post so I end it here. Endwalker was unmatched. Best Game.

[loliwrites]

Could you possibly continue the one about Alex and Addie pre-relationship that you posted earlier and how they resolve her first lie?!🥺❤️

Her first lie went a little like this. Non, you and @loomiz and @grandpa-sweaters all wanted the aftermath of this lie and here it is.

And unfortunately for Addi, when it comes to Alex, she's not too great of a liar. And even more unfortunate for her, he's not one to let something weird and uncomfortable like this go unaddressed. The man loves to talk and plan things out. It all came out the very next day at work, when Addi avoided him completely when she entered the soundstage. She saw him and they both knew it, and yet instead of approaching to say good morning as she normally would, she spun around and went any little corner where they wouldn't be shooting today. Her normal "office" wouldn't be safe. He'd show up there in no time. Alex didn't have time to dawdle. He'd have a finite amount of time today to talk things out and once they started rolling, he'd have a hell of a time trying to get her alone.

She should've known when the same PA circled around her for the third time that something was up. He whispered something into his walkie-talkie and scurried off just as he caught Addi staring him down. And not more than three minutes later, Alex came meandering up in his woolen slacks and suspenders, and cotton shirt having just gotten out of wardrobe. He looked like he was on a mission from God and nothing could stop him. Addi even thought about bolting away but then wondered how she'd explain sprinting through the stage to get away from him. Before her brain could finish processing, he was upon her.

"Slugger,"

It wasn't a question. It wasn't even an actual greeting. It was a statement that clued her in that they'd be having this conversation imminently.

"You're being spooky," he hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and swayed forward, waiting. At first she didn't say anything at all and it prompted Alex to step in a little closer, making it absolutely impossible for her to ignore him. "As if last night wasn't weird enough, you started today off by avoiding me... Which we both know is weird because you always stop by wardrobe to see what they're putting me in." He held his arms out to the side as if he was presenting himself to her. "What do you think?"

She flicked her eyes over his get-up, then raised her gaze to his eyes. "Very German farmer,"

He looked down at himself, "that was the goal, right?" Then moving, he sat down in the chair she had designated for herself. "Now that we've got that out of the way; what's going on? And if you say nothing, I'm gonna throw you over my knee and spank you."

Addi's cheeks went hot. She knew he meant it in a figurative way of meaning he was going to force the reason out of her, but something about the imagery of what actually came out of his mouth gave her even more pause. She scrubbed her hand over her face and looked up at him. "You kissed my head,"

"When?"

"At the theater. You came in, sat down, and kissed my head," she paused, partially out of breath. In the silence, Alex chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "What?"

He shook his head, "nothing, I just thought it was something catastrophic."

She furrowed her eyebrows, protesting the way he seemingly wrote off the magnitude of his actions. "It is catastrophic,"

"Oh?"

"Oh."

He couldn't help but smile at her concern and reaction to something he felt was supremely mundane. "So we'll just be weird around each other forever now, right? That's how we're dealing with this?" He paused and flashed a quick smile, "Okay, so you take the east end of the stage, and I'll stick to the west. Which means you get the bathrooms, but I get crafty."

Addi did her absolute damnedest to suppress a smile. But curse this Skarsgard and his wicked ability for charm. "Alex,"

"No, no. I get all the cinnamon buns. We have to go back to being spooky. See ya, stranger,"

No sooner than he stood and turned to leave her, she leapt forward to tug him back by the forearm. God, the last thing she wanted was this weirdness. And least of all did she want to be strangers. "Okay, okay, I get it. Point taken. It's not catastrophic. It's just--"

"It's just that we're friends and unlike you prudish American, I don't find any issue with physical affection."

She rolled her eyes, if for no other reason than she wanted this conversation to be over. "Skarsgård, don't you have lines to run or something?"

"You would know, you wrote the damn movie," he grinned and turned away, heading off. "You want a cinnamon bun or something?"

He was gone without waiting for an answer and Addi ran her hand back through her hair. For being on some dusty, old soundstage, she got the inexplicable feeling of running hot.

[ma-gic-gay]

Death had always been a finite concept. For both of them, presumably, but especially for Carly. Death was something she had to deal with far too regularly for her tastes (comes with the territory when you have a habit of marrying mobsters), despite her hatred of it.

Shootings, she could handle. And did, shockingly well. Despite the fact she couldn't handle being in a stable situation for more than a day, she was great in a crisis.

Of course, the fact she had Jason there was helpful. She felt unsafe, she called him and it was like she had her own personal body guard. It was, in a very strange way, nice to know he wouldn't hesitate to kill for her and has done it repeatedly in the past.

The deaths of the people who tried to kill her (or him, especially him- she prayed those bastards got the worst treatment they could) were the only ones she could handle.

It's a bit ironic she got killed from a shooting, three hours and twenty three minutes after Jason died, in a weird way. She always said she'd kill for him (realistically she knew he'd lose his shit if she ever did that because he's overprotective and hasn't taught her how to use a gun), and that's exactly what she did. He got shot right in front of her, she grabbed his gun while he was yelling at her not to and shot the person.

Slight problem though, she too got shot. Whoopsie daisies.

Getting shot fucking hurt. She was in and out of consciousness when she was at the hospital and no one would tell her about Jason's condition. They were married, for fuck's sakes, why the fuck wasn't anyone telling her how her husband was doing?!

Eventually, someone (probably Monica, she can't remember) told her he was dead. They got to him too late, they said, he'd been doa and their best efforts hadn't revived him.

After hearing that, she couldn't live with herself. He got shot because Vince was trying to shoot her and off he went to be her hero and make everything okay and he got killed. One phone call and he was at the Metro Court, hanging out with her and keeping watch when he noticed Vince in the parking lot and went out there to confront him. Vince pointed a gun at Carly and, of course, since Jason's a self sacrificing person, he died.

Which meant she was directly responsible for his death and that rocked her to her very core. She'd failed him. After twenty five years, she failed him. Even he'd have to admit this one. There was no spin on this (and she'd heard some strange ones over the years) for how she'd be able to live with herself after she failed him. It wasn't like she'd done something stupid, no, she got him killed. Carly knew he'd do something, especially since Vince was a dick, and she told him. Did he deserve to know? Yes. But only after she'd reassured his overprotective streak she'd be fine and he didn't have to kill anyone else for her.

According to something she'd heard from the doctors, in whatever fucking limbo this was, Carly had died of a heart attack. Likely brought on by stress. Bullets were fine but hearing of Jason's death killed her.

Yup, makes sense. Well, she'll be able to apologize for all of eternity once she gets to wherever she's going. Even after he forgives her (which, she's being honest, will happen as soon as they see each other), she's going to apologize and apologize.

Ooh, she gets to see Sonny and Morgan too! Her son and husband and best friend for all of eternity. What could be better?

There's something that vaguely looks like an angel and she notices it drags her up. Huh, guess she's going to heaven. Makes sense, Carly's a fairly good person. She's not a terrible one.

Except when she gets there she only finds Morgan and Courtney (Courtney, oh how she missed her), no Jason anywhere. Where the hell was he? Avoiding a party, probably. She has got to get him to go out more, especially now that nothing can probably happen. What are the rules of death?

"Where's Jason?" Carly asks after greeting the pair. They stare blankly until she asks again, "Where is he? He's here, right? I was told he's dead!"

Courtney's the first one to be stunned out of her shock. "Carly, he, um, didn't make the cut."

"For what? Give me that list, I'm adding his name at the very top. Where the fuck is he?" She exclaims. He's here, he's got to be here.

"You're aware of his job, right?" Is she aware of his job, of course she is!

"Yes, Courtney, it's why we got married. Where the hell is he? Or Sonny, or Mike!"

"Mike's taking a nap and Sonny's not dead." What?! "Or, if he is, he didn't make the cut either." Didn't make the cut for what? Carly will scheme, steal, seduce, lie and cheat go get those two up here with her, where the fuck are they?

"Because of Jason's job and the amount of people he killed, he didn't make the cut to heaven. He's in hell." Is it possible to die twice? She might just do that. He's in hell, which is a place for bad people! Her hero is in hell.

She's gonna kill someone. "I'm not perfect! None of us are perfect, I killed someone! Why the hell aren't we down there? He died defending me!"

"Shocking," Morgan says dryly. "Jason killed people for a living. He was a mobster."

"And I'm an accessory to all of that! I lead the mob for a week or two!" Carly exclaims. "He's a good person, we know that."

"We're not in charge of the decisions, Carly," Courtney attempts to comfort her best friend. It's a nice attempt. "That's for people with a lot more clout than us. If it was up to either of us, I promise he'd be here but you'll never see him again."

Never see him again? Oh hell no. "Is there any way to get sent down to hell with him?" This is impulsive and reckless and Jason wouldn't encourage it but she's got less care. She needs to see her best friend again, goddammit."Some paperwork I can file, some people's husband's I can seduce?"

"Someone can submit you for reevaluation."

"Great! Is Emily here?" Emily hates her, she'll surely want to help!

"Somewhere, yeah. Why?"

"Emily hates me. Can't blame her. Anyways, look, I want to help her write my reevaluation. I've ruined a lot of lives."

"Which Jason has always helped you feel better about."

"That's because he's my best friend, Morgan."

The next few weeks are spent making sure every single one of her transgressions is on the list and resubmitting her,,, whatever the hell it's called, Emily never gave details.

So it's really not a surprise when she's dragged down to hell by some gross creature, waving goodbye to her son and Courtney and sister in law (that's a weird thing to think about).

And when she gets there, it's just like a darker version of heaven. It's the same fucking place (away from the fire), just more her color palette. Weird.

"Excuse me, where's Jason Morgan?" She asks the creature who dragged her down here. "I was informed he'd be down here."

A shrug is all she gets in response. Well then, she's able to roll with the punches and searches up and down for him, eventually finding him in a room without decorations or anything but basic necessities.

She's got some decorating on her hands.

Carly walks right through the half opened door (he really didn't lock it? Weirdo) and gets the response of, "Get out."

"Don't expect me to start knocking just because we're dead," she quips, a smile on her face. Knocking is overrated. He looks normal and as he registers what's going on, he gets all squinty.

Once he actually realizes it's her, she's already half attacked him in a hug that he reciprocates. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Little bit of bargaining, Emily's assistance and voila! You'd be amazed at how many bad things I've done. Everyone sends their love, of course. Are there any stores down here? This room is so boring," she changes the subject.

"No, I mean why are you dead? You're supposed to be alive."

"I died three hours and twenty three minutes after you. Heart attack. Monica told me about you dying. No one else would." That was a very bad time when he was dead and she wasn't.

"Does this mean-"

"No, you are not responsible for my death. If anything, I'm responsible for yours. I'm sorry, more than you'll ever know," Carly tells him, eyes welling up with tears.

"You're not responsible. I got shot. It happens." Way too nonchalant for death.

"Because you were defending me, like always. Seriously, take a nice vacation off of that and start using your survival instincts. I don't have Emily to help me this time if I need to transfer afterlives."

"I was defending the business."

"Bullshit. I told you Vince threatened me and you already planned to kill him. You saw your opportunity and instead of shooting him, you got shot and died. This is my fault, 100%, and I will not let you make me feel better about this. You could've patched things up with Britt, hung out with a bunch of people but no, you had to die protecting me. Take a week off of being my hero, please."

"I'm not going to do that. The last time I thought about it, you took over the business."

"Well I can't just ask you to forgive me, so take a day off."

"You'll get kidnapped. And I don't hold you responsible because it was my choice to defend you and my choice to want to kill Vince."

"You're overprotective and it's nice but not when it kills you."

"You spent twenty five years running off every woman in my life because you were convinced they'd hurt me, you hated a ton of people because they did something to me and you almost committed several felonies. And I'm overprotective," he rolls his eyes.

"Not the point, first off and second, you've killed and kidnapped for me. In a very fucked up way, it's sweet. And you totally ran off the men in my life!"

"How did I do that?"

"By being the only person I can depend on. I don't know, look, they've all- except for Sonny, most of the time- hated you because you intimidated them. So you did the same thing, just not on purpose."

"Then it's not the same thing."

"How did we get so off topic? I'm sorry for being the reason you're dead. Do you forgive me?" Strange sentences.

"You're not why I'm dead, I made that choice-"

"You chose to die?"

"I meant the choice to jump in front of you."

"Which was instinctual, you've always protected me."

"Might have to do that even more down here. There's some real creeps."

"I really don't think they'll care that much. But okay."

"Vince is here."

"No revenge."

"He killed you and I'm just supposed to sit here and ignore that he did that?!"

"Maybe we can talk this all out."

"Carly, what part of this aren't you understanding? He killed you. I hurt him, that's how this works, so he knows better than to mess with you."

"Or we could go shop for decor. I'll pick out nice stuff, come on let's go!"

"I'm not going shopping. I'm planning revenge."

"It'll be safer if you're there with me."

"I hate it when you're right."

"Love you too."

"Love you."

The end fuckers :)

oh it's beautiful. thank you for this

[whats-the-story-tc]

13th-15th of May, 2020

"The One Where the Mask Drops"

[INCREDIBLY LONG SORRY]

Hey, I'm not dead! And to show you how incredibly not dead I am, let me tell you a story.

It's around 2 AM that Wednesday, I'm going to sleep. God knows I'm incredibly exhausted, but there's one last thing I needed to write into my diary. One last thing I couldn't go to sleep without.

"please be good to me today"

I went to sleep hoping that finally, after two weeks of feeling like shit when I thought about us, the tide would turn.

That morning, it rained. I immediately remembered a rainy Wednesday morning just like this two months ago, when the rain brought V back to me. I got very excited. Things were going to change for the better again, I felt it. Suddenly, I couldn't wait for class.

8:30 AM that morning, I'm getting ready for my 9 AM class. Google Classroom–notif. V. Private message. Uh-oh, I thought. The make-or-break moment, and not a minute too soon.

V: Thank you very much for your work!

I almost laughed out loud. "Wow, [Name], don't strain yourself!" I remember saying as I read it.

One infuriatingly boring English (as a foreign language) class later, it was time for V's class. I was ready five minutes in advance, but as I went on The Platform That Shall Not Be Named... no one was there. I found it odd. Usually, there are a couple of us by now. Anyway, I didn't enter the voice channel. I waited five minutes in solitude outside for someone to show up.

Well, V did. And I wasn't very well going to leave her alone, now, was I?

She greeted me 0.1 second after I joined. I tried not to be awkward about it just being the two of us, I immediately stroke up a conversation. I told her how I was already waiting, all the stuff you guys already know, and she asked if we had any lessons prior. I told her about one third of us having had English just now. We spent about two minutes alone together, as I rambled about the awkward and unfortunate situation and she listened, mostly in silence.

She was very audibly tired, and said very little, that much was to be expected from a 10 AM class. But... I might just be overthinking it, but I heard something there that concerned me. Something crushed and disappointed, something that told me she wasn't expecting only one person to show. There was something painfully lonely in that voice.

Bookworm Friend joined, about 3-ish minutes into class, and Debate Friend a minute or two later, but they were both muted, so I carried on. I asked V to tell us what happened in school in the past two days, what we missed out on, enthusiastically replying to everything I could, so she wouldn't feel like she was speaking into the abyss, so she'd know I was trying my hardest to be there for her. Then she brought up the tests she was correcting at the moment, even naming a really stupid mistake she encountered with a little laugh. But what really smacked me in the gut was when I brought up the small attendance, and she said: "There's nothing we can do." in this very melancholy voice, like she was giving up. She even texted the class group chat that she's waiting.

How do I know that she wasn't just simply tired, and that's why she sounded like that, so worn and discouraged, especially at first? Because as soon as the others, who don't belong in my friends' circle, started showing up, her voice and entire behaviour did a 180°, as if she suddenly woke up. But she didn't. I know for a fact she didn't. Nobody just wakes up that suddenly.

It took me until that afternoon to realise that I'd just spent 5 minutes with the real V, the same V I spoke to in early December, who didn't try to hide her emotions. Not from me.

If you only heard the next thirty minutes of class, you could never tell she was feeling sad to begin with. And there was a LOT to be heard. Starting with how she mispronounced "cheat somebody out of sth" as "EAT somebody out", which is... well... all I'm saying is, I fell on my knees and tried to laugh as silently as I could. Prime moment.

She said something along the lines of "We're all very sober here", after which I just texted my friends:

S: "Darling, you tell us drinking stories every two weeks, would you mind if I didn't believe you?"

and sometime after, this text was also sent, for which I will not be offering context:

S: "[Name], that was enough sex for 10 AM, I'm gonna pass out"

And, of course, after all that went down, V saying "you can't satisfy everyone" sounded VERY different.

At some point, I attempted to joke around, but as she was reading a message in the chat that was sent at the same time, I got quite the half-assed response. But what happened in the last five minutes? Oh, that changed everything.

Art Friend knew how upset I was that V didn't reply at all to my assignment, and I told her I wanted to talk to V about it. During class, she texted me if I still wanted it, and I told her no, because I'm no longer upset with her. And what does this madwoman do? SHE ASKS ABOUT THE ASSIGNMENTS.

V is absolutely enthusiastic, she goes on about how much she liked what she saw and how creative we were. Art Friend asks about hers. Then comes my leap of faith. It's now, or never.

"I hope I didn't go too far..." I said, a bit nervous, not knowing how she'd react. She never did like me trying to undermine myself. And you guys... she chuckled. Incredibly soft and warm and just what I needed to feel at ease. That already threw me off, but then, she followed it up with: "No, I really-really liked it." I could tell she was smiling on the other side of the screen and that she was completely honest. I had to sit down after that, because I just couldn't believe what I heard. That I really just witnessed all that, that I got a reaction I couldn't overthink and/or misinterpret, because I heard it with my own two ears, in real time. I felt like I could do anything in the world.

And yet, the next day, I didn't do my usual notes for her test. Because what did Specs do all evening instead? I was fucking singing. I couldn't deny being a goddamn theatre kid if I tried.

Friday. The day of the test. I'm restlessly taking notes in the morning, but I don't have the time to get into the analytics of poems, only the basics of the dude's life and works. It makes me incredibly frightened, because V's tests are only easy if you come prepared — if you have no clue what she's talking about, abandon all hope. I had absolutely everything open for cheating that I could open, and you guys? I lucked out. Most of the test was just "Explain what [insert quote] means in 2-3 sentences", and if there's something I excel at, as you've probably noticed, it's talking. It was easy as could be.

The only thing making me anxious were my classmates. They were all trying to ask for help, constant questions and begging, everyone is hopeless, because they couldn't give two shits about preparing beforehand. They were all assured some loser was gonna give them the answers. And the some loser was me. I gave it to them, everything except for the final, longer essay. That was private, only meant for V to read. After all, how was I supposed to show them my essay, that ends like this?:

"Even if our existence is finite, it's always worth fighting for happiness."

And yes, yes it is. Always. Look at me. I powered through weeks of a shitstorm, where every single day felt like years, where I no longer knew or cared what was going to happen. And let me tell you, the sun always shines beyond the clouds. You just can't see it yet. But GOD, you will. You will.

I needed time to write this. There's loads going on at the moment, not necessarily V-related, and I'm trying to work my way through it gently enough that I can make it the end sane and healthy. Currently, it's three weeks since all this happened. One and a half weeks left until school ends. I might get to see V in person again, but we'll see how it goes. All I know is that whatever happens, I can do it. Because even if my existence is finite, it's always worth fighting for happiness.

~ S ♡

[Every story I share here, no matter how specific I get with my wording, depicts actual events from my own life.]

[sonderatc]

Triumphs & Failures: The Life of Sonder ATC (as it is right now)

As the rebrand of Sonder ATC is happening, I want to use this blog more. So, as my first official post on here, I'd like to say a few words about the past, present and future of Sonder ATC.

Early Life

Sonder originally had many titles.

For year one, I was in a group where we just all just as a group decided we'd be "Bagel Productions," with no rightly reason. For my independent projects, I went by "Finite Productions" because I was edgy and cool. Later in the year, I became a part of another group, "Fanny Pack Productions" (we were 8th graders, give us a break) and helped them with their final video once we were done.

The Fanny Pack Productions slug had a horribly played flute cover of the Harry Potter theme music.

RT5 & Transmission into Sonder

The first recorded mention of Sonder is from late September, early October. During this time, I was a bored student waiting out the year. I knew I was planning to take the Film II class at my school, so I got to planning the branding for next year.

I was brainstorming for the following year, and at the time, four of my friends were planning to take Film II with me. So I made concepts for a brand called "The Red Table Five" (god, it just makes me tense up hearing it), because we always sat at a red table in the morning.

The whole name and logo always felt incredibly forced to me, so I quickly abandoned it and started work an another one.

As I started to flesh out the brand, I had realized a few things.

I didn't want to limit it to anyone, especially the amount of people. Everyone's welcome.

I wanted it to feel home-y, and cozy.

I wanted it to be natural, not forced.

So, continuing on and thinking of these three things, I found the word Sonder; the realization that everyone has their own life. That's one. Two, to me a hand drawn aesthetic and a nature vibe sounded the best, and that also includes three. This is the thought process that delivered the original, classic image.

Something about birds have always fascinated me, and finches are stunning. The birches are quiet, but tough visually.

Trying to find a matching font for the title, I stumbled across Papaya Sunrise, which is a lovely font I still use.

After pinning down the aspects and details of the style, I made some accompanying graphics and banners too.

I did make a few and came prepared, but in the end they just lied dormant for months. That is, until Film II.

Call to Action

It was finally time for Film II, and Sonder Films was ready for action. Creating School of the Future, Untitled., Monotony, and many others that we don't like to discuss. I'll breeze right past most of it because it's basically a year long crunch of scripts, shooting and editing. However there is an important detail.

Every year, the instructor of the class sets two requirements for all videos: they have to be shorter than three minutes, and they have to revolve around a theme. Why a theme, you might ask? Well, that's because of a little student film competition called Future Voices of New Mexico. Fire, 10, the future, for ten years they had a new subject. Ours, of course, was the future.

Nearing the deadline for submissions, it was one giant scramble for video submissions, especially for year two. Most of us didn't like some of the forced, awkward videos we made. And we did them as a group, so anyone could claim them, but we each had to turn in a video that no one else had. First come, first serve.

A little background on the School of the Future, our assignment was to create a video about school culture. Having no idea what this meant, we mostly did what we wanted and spat out some old-timey looking nonsense. We liked it. It wasn't great, but it didn't have to be. It was our first video of the year. Everyone liked it until the instructor ripped it apart. The way he worked was he had a vision of how he wanted it, and would arbitrarily give the students room to be creative, but in the end be angry when it wasn't what he wanted (even though he never said what it was). So we ended up scrapping it after the rough cut, that is, for a grade. On my own, I made a final cut, and let it sit on the YouTube page.

Now, come the deadline, I only had three things left to submit, two were over three minutes and one of the two wasn't about the future. So there it was, School of the Future. Yeah, I was proud enough to turn it in. I wanted to willingly, actually. But when I said I was going to, the teacher ridiculed me and said that I shouldn't. Multiple times. And sarcastically said "what do I know, I've been in the film industry for more than 20 years."

So I turned it in to the film competition,

And low and behold: first place winner. Of the comedy category, that is. And hey, something I helped write, edit, and graphics for also won third. So look at that! Two awards in one year.

Wrapping up the year, we all had a school arts showcase, where our videos would play among other things. There, I sold my book that I had been working on for three years. I was excited to finally publish it, and hey, I also had a following from my film brand. As I was advertising it, my old English teacher walked by and saw it, saying that she is going to have a creative writing class next year and I should join. I told her I would love to.

I know Film wouldn't last forever, so I slowly transitioned from Sonder Films to Sonder ATC near the end of the school year. The year quickly ended after that, and summer came.

The next year came,

And as it did, so did creative writing. Planning the next big thing, I shortly came up with the idea to publish a series of our works about a week into school. I made a proposal, gave it to her, and recieved it with overwhelming enthusiasm. We launched a Kickstarter, which you can visit at tiny.cc/atczine, and have raised ¾ of the goal in three days.

And that's where we stand right now. The near future is to make a book, but I can't tell what the far future is.

Eventually, I will leave ATC, and Sonder will become something of it's own. And by that, I mean I'll go to college, bring it with me, and just place the school name after Sonder. I'm hoping it'll become Sonder Ithica, but no one knows what the future holds.

And that's where I'll leave it. I know this was long, and probably no one read it, but maybe I will in the future. Or some historian, looking into Sonder's history will when it becomes famous. Who knows.

Thank you.

- Jonny