#i have never made a sensible decision in my life ever

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER EIGHT: LOML

AND I'LL STILL SEE IT, UNTIL I DIE - YOU'RE THE LOSS OF MY LIFE.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, consumption of alcohol, (overly poetic) smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, technically unprotected sex even after the idiots discussed protection, minors dni

☆ WC: 3.9K+

☆ A/N: extremely sorry for the shortest chapter in this series yet. also, out of all the songs referenced for the title of chapters, this one might be the most on the nose. i kid you not, i cannot explain how perfectly loml encapsulates reader/sugar's emotions during this chapter. if you'd like the extra hurt, 10/10 recommends listening as you read. :)

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

 “Can I kiss you, Sugar?” 

You’ve made your fair share of dumb decisions in your life. Plenty of moments have slipped right between your fingers due to hesitation that you’d later regret, you have a catalog of embarrassing encounters to serve you a lifetime. You’ve said yes when your answer should have been a resounding no, you’ve made promises you knew were impossible to keep, and you’ve always had an unexplainable habit of digging yourself into graves that will surely bury you alive. 

This moment is no different. 

The correct reaction is to tell him no, to push him away and end the night here. You should leave before either of you make any mistakes and ruin whatever fragile thing resides between the two of you any further. There’s a million other options you should be taking, but at the end of the day, you still nod your head. 

Not even a second later, Eddie’s lips are on yours, and it’s hard to call it a mistake when it’s the first time you’ve felt like you could properly breathe in two years. 

He tastes like bourbon, and mistakes, and regret, and a youthful type of love impossible to grasp onto. A vague memory you never get to hold, but always learn to miss. When his hands travel slowly to your hips, you’re only pressing closer, deepening the kiss with the desperation of someone starved. Someone stained. 

You were an idiot to think it wouldn’t end this way. You were in his apartment, and you were drunk. You were brimming with bad decisions. It was always going to end up this way. 

Your knees somehow end up digging into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, your recollection of how you climbed into his lap nonexistent. Had it been his doing, his own needy hands guiding you here? Or had it been you? You, with an ache that rang throughout your entire body, soothed only by sharing each of his breaths with him when he finally pulls back from the kiss. 

“Are you sure you want thi-”

“Don’t ruin it,” you beg, silencing him as you look into those deep autumn eyes, memorizing rivets of soft auburn that never really changed. An ever changing kaleidoscope, but there were simply parts of Eddie he’d never be able to hide from you,to change, “Not yet. Please.”

You don’t know if you’ll want it come morning. You can’t estimate just how deeply the regret will burrow once it’s all said and done; you’re not in the mood to think sensibly. No hypotheticals, no curiosity for the future. 

You just want him. Right here, right now. Far beyond just sex, and far beyond casual touches. But it’s the only way you can have him, the only way he can have you, for now. 

His fingers are more skilled these days. More deft and nimble as they race up and down your sides, quickly undoing the button of your jeans and easily sneaking beneath your shirt. Two years could be two seconds with the way he still knows you and your body, knowing exactly where to apply more pressure as he plucks on every string beneath your skin that makes you sing out for him. Hums, gasps, moans – they all sort of blend together at some point, don’t they? 

“I’ve missed you,” you swear you hear him mumble against the skin of your neck when his mouth begins to wander, “I’ve missed this.” 

You convince yourself he didn’t say it just to avoid ripping yourself apart any further.  

Instead, you busy your mouth with kissing him harder, faster, more desperately. You’re all but burying yourself in him. Your hips grinding against his, your lips swallowed in his, your hands finding themselves tangled in his hair. 

You’re drunk enough that you convince yourself that this is it – this is home. 

It feels natural to let him run you down this way. It’s instinctual as he takes his shirt off and your hands roam over bare skin that whispers with the ridges of paths you’ve traced before. You know that scar on his right hip from when he got his appendix removed as a child, you know that lightened patch of skin on his left thumb from when he’d managed to burn himself with a lighter while cutting class one day with you. You know him – so much better than you’d let yourself believe these last few weeks. 

“Do you have a condom?” you pant, and you both pretend like your words are choked up from gasping to recover the air you’d offered to the kiss, and not the emotions rearing their ugly heads. 

He does. Of course he does. He’s a rockstar now – he has women throwing themselves at him constantly. Of course he’s prepared. 

It happens somewhere between him pulling the condom out of his wallet, and managing to pull his own shirt off. At some point in which you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, hips grinding down on his in sloppy circles, he lets out a low and drawn out moan. All your movements stutter, nearly halting, as that sound rings out around you. You swear, it echoes off the walls of your own head and not the eerily empty apartment. 

You break as you gasp out, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

Another dumb decision for the books. All it takes is you sighing his name for him to flip the entire script. Suddenly, you’re no longer straddling his lap, no longer biting his lip and gripping onto the back of the sofa for balance. 

Your back collides with the cushions below and he hovers over you, kissing with more intent and purpose this time. Each press of his lips is followed by the nipping of teeth, desperately trying to mark you up along your chest, completely oblivious to the way he’s already left his stain. 

You’re convinced if he presses his lips just hard enough, if he bares his teeth just sharp enough, he’ll see right through you. Your skin will become all but cellophane and he’ll see all those blooming violets and deep maroons still left behind in the shape of his mouth. He’ll see the way another has never followed these paths, not after him. 

All the failed rebounds, all the failed distractions. There’s never been another person capable of taking your mind off of Eddie Munson. No one’s kiss ever made you bleed the way he’s capable, no one’s touch could ever erase the mark of his. 

The wine still makes your head swim as your chin tilts to the roof, giving him all the room possible to paint whatever picture he’s vying for on your skin. You let him leave his physical mark; you let him leave a physical reminder of something to regret. 

“Do you know how many times I played this moment back over in my head?” his voice is a murmur that vibrates against your sternum, words not quite slurring, “Do you know how many times I swore-”

You don’t know – and you never find out what exactly he had sworn time and time again as the trill ringing of a cell phone shatters the entire atmosphere. 

One moment, Eddie’s lips are painting portraits along your chest and neck, the acceptance of making a mistake settling deep into your bones. And the next, he’s lifting up, looking wildly towards his kitchen, where you’re sure that it’s his phone buzzing erratically on the counter. 

“I-” he looks wildly between you and the distant phone, pupils blown out and lips swollen, “Fuck, I-”

All the air leaves your lungs.

There will be no mistakes tonight. 

“Go answer it,” you whisper, deflating as you accept the interruption. The moment’s over, fading in between the lipstick marks on your wine glass and the glow of the lamps scattered throughout his living room, “It’s fine.” 

It’s not fine. It’s written plainly across his face that this is the furthest thing from fine at this moment. But duty calls; his phone is ringing, your mind is buzzing, and the moment is simply gone. 

It has to be fine. You have to be fine with it. 

“I’ll be right back,” he swears as he lifts himself up off the couch, but you know he won’t be. 

Your shirt is already back by the time he’s reached the counter, laptop already tucked safely back into your bag as he answers the call. 

“Hello?” he asks, eyes flitting over to you as he watches you gather your things, picking up the wine glass that had been yours the entire night in order to carry it over to the sink he leans against the counter next to. A bit of chatter comes from over the line, and Eddie’s entire face twists, “Am I busy? Yeah, yeah – as a matter of fact, I am.” 

Just as you sit the glass into the sink, you bring a hand to his bicep, letting it rest there selfishly. Feeling his bare skin one final time, drinking in the heat he radiates through your palm, giving yourself one last chance to memorize it. 

You’re not busy, you mouth to him with a sad smile. 

He’s not. Because there will be no mistakes tonight. 

You go to pull your hand away, prepared to somehow call an Uber or taxi, but he’s quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist just as your skin slides from his. It’s not forceful, but simply firm. Clinging with a desperation you can’t recognize. 

Stay, he mouths back, the person over the line clearly continuing to speak without Eddie paying them any mind.

You almost do. You falter and consider dropping your bag then and there. You nearly stay, wait out the phone call, sit pretty and patient until he returns to you just as he had promised. 

But he had left you with a promise of later once before, and he hadn’t kept his promise then. 

“Oh,” you whispered, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. You missed hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”

Later had never found its way back to the two of you all those years ago – why would it now? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds,” you whisper, soft enough to guarantee whoever was on the other side of the phone call wouldn’t hear you. The fall of his face is almost enough to make you take back the words and swallow them back down. 

“Wait-” he’s not whispering, almost as though he’s forgotten about the call entirely. You can hear the silence over the line, probably in confusion, as you walk away, “Wait- No- I-”

You motion to the phone still pressed to his ear and cheek, trying to remind him that someone else can hear. 

He removes it and ends the call before you can protest.

“Eddie-” you start to scold, but he refuses to hear any of it. 

“No, no,” he sounds as though he might be begging. And you can’t tell if he’s begging you to not reprimand him, or if he’s begging you to not leave, “I don’t care. It was just Matt, he can wait till morning.” 

It doesn’t answer the question of what he wanted from you. 

“It’s getting late, anyways,” you’re still trying to detect your escape route, the longer you spend in the aftermath making your chest tighten more and more.

You can’t do this. 

You can’t stand in this room with him and pretend that it’s all okay. You can’t act as though the wine’s effects are slipping away from you and you can’t brush off the feeling of his lips across your chest. You have no patience left to act as though your lungs aren’t shriveling up in your chest, unable to get enough air when he’s too close all while being all too far away. 

It would have been a mistake, and you’re both better for the interruption. 

Eddie shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh, “We aren’t doing this again, Sugar. We aren’t going to just pretend that didn’t happen-”

“Why not?” you challenge him, “This�� it’s better this way, Eddie. If we kept it up, we both would have regretted it, and it’d just be another mistake-”

“Who’s we?” he cuts you off. 

We. You, me, both of us. We’d both regret it, wouldn’t we? 

But you still didn’t regret kissing him. You still didn’t regret sitting in his lap and drinking him in, you still wouldn’t take back whatever moment was shared prior to the phone’s interruption. 

All your regrets are spoken in future tense. All the mistakes are somewhere ahead of you, your mind running to things that haven’t happened yet.

How do you know if you’d regret it? How do you know if he’d regret it?

Your hold on your bag begins to loosen, “I- Both of us. We’d both regret it.” 

“I wouldn’t regret it. I don’t think I could ever regret you.” 

This is the part you walk away. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, you tell him to have a goodnight, and you leave. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you’ll pretend this conversation never happened. 

Except you don’t.

Your bag falls to the ground, a muted crash that probably pisses off his downstairs neighbors. The toes of your shoes knock into the worn bag, kicking it to the side with more gentleness than you should be capable of right now. When he reaches out a hand to hold you, you take it. 

You let him get his hot palms back on your body. You let his lips find their way back to yours. 

You finally just let the mistake happen and take the chance on finding out if the regret is nothing more than shadows in the closet, make-believe once you turn the light back on. 

The couch isn’t the destination this time. You’re almost sad that you don’t get to admire any of his decor as he drags you down the hallway, but you also doubt there’s even a sliver of the ghost of the man holding onto you in any of it. He’s not on the walls, he’s not in the pictures; he’s right in front of you, kissing you heavily and desperately, letting his feet stumble right over yours as he finally reaches blindly for the knob of the door behind you. He’s in the rings pressing into the skin of your hips and he’s in the wavering cologne that bursts from his sheets as he carefully drops you back on a bed far too large for one man. 

He’s in the shadow hovering over you, he’s in the slide of his leg as he spreads your thighs to find home between them. He may not haunt this apartment, but he haunts you. Your body, your mind, your senses. 

Always have, always will. 

Alcohol isn’t clouding the moment anymore as each kiss is gentler, retracing the bruises already forming across your collar bones. He’s taking his time, enjoying himself, no longer rushing through the process of getting to know you again. The loss of your shirt and the unbuttoning of your jeans is done with shaking hands this time. Less sure, but far more determined. 

Your own hands are steady, though, as you undress him. You’re sure. This is your mistake to make, your mistake to regret. And maybe he had a point – maybe it is impossible for either of you to regret each other. For all the tears shed and all the nights spent cursing his name, it’s never once crossed your tongue that you wanted to erase him. You think if someone were to try and take him, take all that you two had shared together from you, that they’d be met with white knuckles and deathly screams. A rancid animal foaming at the mouth, refusing to let go of the one thing it had ever managed to sink its claws into. 

You’d forgotten just how well you know him. 

It was beyond superficial scars and childhood stories. You still remember the exact pulse point that makes him moan out with just a brush of your mouth against it. You can still find that spot above his hips that spasm when your hands grip them, encouraging him to grind down onto you. You know his body, you know his past, you know his mind. 

Words are no longer necessary as it finally happens. 

Prayers of each other’s name, ignorance in the way this entire moment was becoming too gentle for two fools rekindling. A practiced dance you once only ever dreamt of swaying to with him. 

You would have given him everything. You did give him everything. Your youth, your future, your aspirations, your daydreams of a glittering gem on your sacred finger and a list of baby names the two of you had argued over endlessly. All those things still belong to him, even now. Even as this new version of him hovers over you, lips trailing with purpose over your abdomen, making his way down to your core. 

You can’t tell if he’s a stranger when he places a hot kiss over the cotton of your underwear. You can’t tell if you ever spent two years away from him as his hands hold down your hips when they buck in response. 

“Eddie,” you beg, fingers lacing into his curls just as they had earlier, gripping onto him for dear life. You’re looking down at him between your thighs, refusing to blink on the off chance that he’ll simply vanish when you do, “Please.” 

“Please what, Sugar?” 

“Touch me,” you gasp out as his fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, colossus course against soft skin, “Kiss me, fuck me- I just-” 

No further explanation is needed. Your wish is his command. 

Your panties are tossed to the hardwood floor at the edge of the bed as if they always belonged there. His mouth ravishes you as if this was just a nightly routine between the two of you. As if he didn’t have to second think what pace you might prefer, or when to add the first finger. Or the second. He plays you beautifully, crooking his fingers and nipping at sensitive skins and nerves alike, listening to the way you only seem to remember his name. Like you don’t remember the sound of a dial tone instead of declarations of adoration, like you don’t remember the excuses for him denying you all his attention. 

You wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Him, buried between your thighs. All hurt and all stains forgotten when he builds you up to the edge, when he murmurs against your clit about how pretty you look for him right now. 

Cheap wine soaking Halloween costumes. Hazy rooms, smokey with youthful desires and incense. Dancing in an apartment filled with boxes not yet unpacked. Whispers of something being real. Late night trips to the gas station and all the pride in your eyes as you heard his song played on public radio for the first time. The terrible waiting, the messy kisses of more teeth than lips. A simple necklace adorned with a simple ring, burning with more promises than either can comprehend, still gathering dust at the bottom of your jewelry box to this day. 

Just in case. Just in case he ever came back; just in case you ever returned. 

By the time he’s climbing back up your body, you have one foot in the past, cleaving yourself in two as you cling to him like water. 

“Look at you,” he whispers when his face is back above yours, lips still slick with you, “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” 

You swear, for just a moment, his eyes are mirrors. And you can see that dazed look you wear, the face of a woman still trapped by her past. The face of someone who can’t let the dead stay buried. Someone you wouldn’t describe as beautiful, but Eddie would. 

You should have left. You should be regretting this. You only pull him closer. 

His boxers bunch at his ankles, your fingernails dig into his back. When you feel him press against you, the tip of his dick just barely tapping against your clit, your entire body tenses. This was it. This was the mistake you had taken responsibility for, this was the choice you’d decided was worth damnation. A simple slip up, a quick fall backwards, and you’ll be right back where you started two years ago. 

“You still want this?” he sighs into your ear, clearly feeling the way you’d froze up. 

Your breath catches for just a second. More memories, more images that cut straight through you. Every careless afternoon, every serene morning. Every haunted night. 

“Yeah,” your entire body relaxes, muscle by muscle, “Yeah, I still want this.” 

You mean more than just the sex. 

The press of your heels into his lower back is all the encouragement he needs to finally push into you. The stretch burns, but it’s welcome all the same. Just an aftereffect of years of emptiness, of failing to ever find something that could make you feel as whole as he does. 

The moan he lets out as he’s wrapped in your warmth sends shivers down your spine. You swear, laced in it, there lies a gasp of relief. A sigh of coming home after a long tour, the huff of an exhale just before he crosses the threshold of a front door and has you in his arms again. 

You don’t know when the tears started. 

But between his thrusts, between all his wanton groans and your own quivers of excitement, your cheeks turn wet. 

“Then I say let it burn.”

You can’t tell if it’s sweat or his own tears seeping into your skin as your bodies press together harder, your head thrown back in ecstasy. 

“I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.” 

You find your hands tugging on the roots of his curls even harder as you try to tether yourself back to him, but it’s no use. 

“When I get back, all I care about is you.” 

It all comes crashing down on both of you as his face is buried in the crook of your neck and your thighs squeeze around his hips – all the love that was there, all the love that was lost. All the love that still remains. 

“Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

He’d always warned you this would happen. That one day he’d come back to you. That he’d only ever come back for you. 

It doesn’t matter how deep of scratches you leave across his back, or how many hickies he paints your skin with. There will never be enough bloodshed between the two of you to wash away the truth. It’s not a mistake, it’s not something to regret. You wish it was; you wish it were so simple. No, this moment was one thing and one thing only – inevitable. 

They always did say that your life would flash before your eyes right before you die. 

And flash it does – a lifetime of love that was had and love that will never come back to you – as Eddie brings you both to your graves from the most cursed of little deaths.

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[bethanydelleman]

Hello!

I rewatched Pride and Prejudice and it's surprising how my thoughts on it changed over the years 😃

When I was a teenager, Elizabeth Bennet was the plucky heroine that I wanted to be (lol) , now I'm older with a mortgage and responsibilities/bills, I'm like what was her plan in life?

Because she wasn't really educated per se (im thinking about how she answered lady Catherine about what she has to recommend her re:drawing, playing the piano etc) so I guess a 'career'(no matter how little it would be available at that time) was out of the question, but accepting marraige to the (admittedly obsequious) Mr Collins was also out of the question as well as Mr Darcys first proposal (which I get why sge turned it down!) ...I guess I'm asking what Elizabeth's plan for her future.

I've heard this from a lot of people upon re-read, "Why isn't Elizabeth more worried about her future?" I think there are a few things to note.

Early 1800s or not, Elizabeth is 20 years old when the novel begins (the average age of first marriage for women was 23). 27 year old Charlotte is in more of a future panic, but Elizabeth is still young. She has done practical thing like learn to play piano, but like most young people, she's probably just hoping for the best. And it's not like there is much she can actually do, Elizabeth is putting herself out there, she's dancing, she's playing piano, but otherwise she can just hurry up and wait. Her mother's marriage schemes are seen as vulgar and mostly backfire, and we would hardly want Elizabeth to act like Caroline. We read across Austen's novel's that women are largely stationary and it is the men who move in and out of their lives.

Also, I think a big part of Austen's point is that women are in a position where they feel the need to accept any and every proposal, because as Mr. Collins says, they may never receive another, but that this leads to misery (just look at the older couples and how many of them are unhappy!). While somewhat foolish from a financial perspective, Elizabeth is thinking about her long term happiness. She has watched her father turn bitter in an unequal relationship, she does not want that for herself. Elizabeth is choosing possible spinsterhood over being married to a person she knows she could not respect. Marrying for love, or at least on a basis of respect, is a big theme in Austen's novels. Let me add this quote from Mansfield Park to illustrate this point:

“I should have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man’s not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself.... And, and—we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.”

So yes, Elizabeth Bennet isn't being financially prudent but she is being sensible in preserving her happiness. And for realism, we know Austen made this decision herself! She turned down an eligible offer.

Next, Mrs. Bennet is somewhat exaggerating: they are very unlikely to starve or be destitute. While it is never explicitly stated, Mr. Gardiner seems to be doing very well, and would probably very happily take at least Jane and Elizabeth if Mr. Bennet died. Mr. Philips is also doing well for a country attorney, he could take in his sister-in-law and nieces. It is going to suck, the Bennets should have planned better, but it's not the end of the world. We also do not know Mr. Bennet's age, but he may well only be in his late forties. He's no Mr. Woodhouse who may die tomorrow in a stiff breeze.

So what is Elizabeth's plan? She doesn't have one, she's 20. She's hoping life will throw her a man with a decent income that she doesn't hate. It works out in the end, but I don't think she would live to regret either turned down proposal if she had never met Darcy again.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if i cut off someone reaching out for help on tumblr? i am a very anxious person. ive been on tumblr a very long time because most all other social media terrifies me as someone who grew up with the wild west internet a decade past (im in my late 20s) so i feel sometimes with how reckless and spurractic people can be online in chatroom and especially clearly public platforms where any stranger, malicious or otherwise can just archive your digital presence for personal use.

more recently as someone who has been here during the pornban and as an asexual really enjoyed the quiet with no drama farming and a slow pace to talk about more unique political topics in a measured way it is something im strangely nostalgic for and a great example of my sensibilities to people when they insist that i use other platforms like discord or twitter or whatever clone for these services comes out of the old guard introducing feature creep to copy everyone else or any other indi "were the anti corporate version" of the endless scroll apps. i just dont want it. tumblr is special because im desktop only, been here for years, and i have kept track of every single change made so i have manually adjusted the change through hacks to evade every bad decision on here and make my set up look identical to how it was in 2010. so let it be understood that i tend to be a loney person because of this stubbornness. web 3.0 is too dangerous to people with addictive tendencies that my adhd brings out and my need to wear my heart on my sleeve. so i hope i defended my personality type enough to show why someone like me would see a post about some horrible abuses they have fell victim to who also share alot of the marginalized status as me and writing depressive things in the replys of others posts as to attention seek about it.

i directly interact with this person, not only to check if they are real (but wow, modern chat bots make this part horrifying for me. we really cant ever know for sure what is real anymore. trying to find warmth on the internet feels impossible now a days) i have multiple conversations at this point both venting and just casually shooting the shit. but the begging for me to constantly repost their paypal makes me so nervous in a way that i feel so guilty for because it reminds me of all the scams that get associated with this kind of ebegging and the reminder that capitalism takes away all warmth from human interaction to make them purely transnational and conditional. but then it just has been escalating where im so scared that now its not enough that im reposing on my 8 follower, all mutual blog, they are asking me to share it on other socials. accounts i do not have i have a flip phone and a laptop and i am tinkering with a windows 7 tower that will never be connected to the internet so i can always have software sit perfectly in its time capsule for when i need it. i do not have a way to help this person outside of what i learned from collage psyche classes. a part of me is so scared to just abruptly cut them off and just delete my entire account like i tend to do often on tumblr for a multitude of reasons, its a part of what lets people survive being here this long but i worry that would crush them if i did that, i dont want to make them feel more hopeless and unwanted then they already talk about. but i am text on the internet through a screen. i can only do so much. so would i be the asshole if i just deleted my account with a "i hope you hang in there, the world is a harsh place but keep moving" to cut someone so similar to me who is struggling out of my life?

What are these acronyms?

[theloveoffootball10]

sᴛɪᴄᴋᴡɪᴛᴜ : s ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ

m a s t e r l i s t

s ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ

Arriving back home on the Tuesday night I slump back on the sofa with a huff. The whole weekend has been incredible and now I have to prepare myself to go back into the office tomorrow. After I left Lando at the hotel on Monday morning I spent the rest of my time with my dad.

We went for breakfast before I met him back at home in Oxfordshire for the night. Being at my dad's home has always been one of my biggest security blankets and getting to spend the time there with him always reminds me of being a kid. Although I grew up with my parents not being together my mum would always drive the near 6 hour round trip from Cheshire to Oxfordshire and back again if I wanted to see my dad and he was home. We'd never tell him, we'd just jump in the car and be welcomed with open arms at the end of the journey.

"Hello to you as well, talk about moody Margaret walking through the door" my mum says from her spot in the corner of the sofa.

"I don't want to go back to work tomorrow" I feel like I'm on the biggest comedown of my life after spending so much time with Lando.

"Right who is he?" My mum asks as she pauses whatever she has playing in the background "come on tell me. You're never this depressed when you come home from your dads and you've been in the house less than 10 minutes"

"Mum do we have to" I say with a groan. I don't mind telling my mum what happened, I tell her literally everything I just don't know if I'm ready to have this conversation out loud.

"Yes we have to, you're not having a pity party for one over this. Which driver is it?" Turning my head to my mum I nearly give myself whiplash as I frown "don't give me that look. I've been there. Only a formula one driver can turn a girl to this"

"Lando Norris. Fucking hell I can't believe I'm saying it out loud to you"

"Ooh he's a good looking lad Lucía! He had a good weekend and now I think I know why" I can't believe my mum has just said that! "Look, I've been there Lucía and you've grown up in that world so I'm not surprised you've met someone working in formula one, if Lando Norris makes you happy then I'm made up for you"

"Muuuum nothing has happened other than sex" I say with a groan knowing in her head my mum has my wedding planned and is thinking of names for her future grandchildren "he wants to take me out in Miami for an actual date though"

"And I'm guessing you said yes? I'm sure he's got something insane up his sleeve if it's in Miami but after that date you had with that Jake lad even going to Starbucks for a brew is an improvement"

"Don't ever mention that date again! It was traumatic, I think I'm mentally scarred from that experience! Who tells a girl they're taking her out, tells her to dress to impress then takes her fishing! I won't ever be over that mum" I cringe at the thought of the worst date I've ever been taken on, sitting in the rain at the side of a lake surrounded by fishing gear absolutely freezing was never my idea of a good time.

"To be completely serious for a minute though Lucía, if you think you could have feelings for Lando give him a chance. If you don't that's fine, you're an adult and I trust that you're sensible enough to make the best decision for you. As always this stays between us until you're ready for your dad to know anything"

"Thanks mum. I appreciate it. We both have completely different lives but I'll see how it goes in Miami and then go from there" I can always count on my mum to make me feel better about a situation "did the stuff I need for Tomorrowland come?"

"You've got a load of parcels that came over the last few days so I'm guessing so. When is it you go?"

"Just under two weeks time, so this weekend I don't have plans then I have Tomorrowland, I'm home for like a week then fly to Miami" when it comes to summer I'm always back to back with plans. Since I was old enough to do my own thing I've always made the most of my anual leave throughout the summer. It would be easy for me to not work and live off my dad forever but I actually really like my job.

"I won't see you until you're back from Miami. I fly to Ibiza with the girls on Sunday when you're in Belgium. I'll make sure I leave your birthday present for you to open before you go or for when you're in Miami" my mum may be in her forties but I love that she still has girls party holidays to places like Ibiza. Me and some of my friends have been on holiday with my mum and her friends one of the most memorable being a long weekend in Magaluf.

"Mum don't worry about it. I can get it when we're both home. I'm going to shower and get sorted for work tomorrow" making my way to my bedroom I throw myself on the bed. I need to shower but I can't get Lando out of my head. Checking instagram I notice I don't have any messages from him which makes me wonder if this was just a Silverstone thing. I suppose I'll have to see what happens between now and Miami. I'm not saying I want scheduled phone calls from him but a few messages would be nice especially if he is serious about taking me out in Miami.

Nine days later I arrive in Belgium with some of my closest friends for Tomorrowland, the sun is shining and we're staying in a mansion rather than camping this year so the ten of us can stay together. As a group we do this trip every year, kind of like a ritual but we've grown up together and since we were all old enough it became our thing. Posting a photo of the girls to my instagram story I pour the first of many drinks I'll be consuming this weekend.

As we're all getting settled in our home from home for the weekend I sit on my bed when I see a notification pop up on my phone. Lando Norris replied to your story. I've spoken to Lando a few times since we left Silverstone and still it's always a dm. Neither of us has asked for the other's number but I always feel like I have a heard of elephants in my stomach when I see his name on my phone screen.

landonorris

I guess I'll see you Sunday and won't have to wait until Miami x

emselucia

You're coming to Tomorrowland?

Aren't you in Hungary?

landonorris

I'm flying straight over after the race and when I'm done with media x

I might just sack off the media now I know you're at Tomorrowland x

emselucia

That wouldn't be a good idea would it Mr Norris. I can only imagine how much the media and your PR manager would disapprove. However I would appreciate seeing your face x

landonorris

Mr Norris is my dad plz don't ever say that again 🤢 you can see my face as much as you like. Enjoy the weekend as much as you can, I'm jealous I can only be there Sunday x

emselucia

we both know your weekend will be even better when you see me though so it doesn't matter if you're not here for the full weekend 😜

See you Sunday Lando x

I'm fucked. Lando Norris has well and truly got me under his spell and I'm hanging on his every word. I might love Tomorrowland but I'm wishing the next three days away until it's Sunday and I get to see him again. The fact I get to see him before Miami has made my weekend.

[villain-in-love]

i keep switching between tasks and losing track of what i'm doing but anyway. do you want to answer any more of those pining ask game questions for Liang? because like. i'd like to throw some more at you. ❌🚫❓ (@canarycurse)

I'm finally done with this ask! Thank gods.

One one hand, I like receiving asks and talking about my ships, but on the other hand, sometimes questions catch me off guard and I realize that I have no specific answer on hand ready, and therefore I have to sit there and think about it, even when I'm not ready to think about it... (I can't force ideas, they usually just naturally come to me by themselves.)

Anyways, thank you for the ask, and I'm sorry you had to wait for almost the entire summer for me to write down my answers.

🚫 what was holding you/them back from making a move or confessing your feelings?

If you said that to him, Liang would look at you like you’re an idiot, before gesturing vaguely at the entirety of Zero, being like: “I don’t know, how about common sense???”

Literally, though, getting together with Zero must have been the least sensible decision he ever made in his life, and that’s after he tried to fight Hajime (I'll never let go of that one scene, oh my god, Liang, the idiot that you are...).

1. First of all, it’s a known fact that Zero will never leave this jail (supposedly…) This relationship is going nowhere.

2. After that, Liang is genuinely not sure if he would be able to handle whatever expressions of love Zero could possibly try to inflict on him.

3. He’s still on the fence whether he wants to tie his life with a human-eating monstrosity who doesn’t differentiate right from wrong.

4. He already started letting go of his prejudices, but he still has no idea how to court and approach relationship with women. He knows that there are some expectations. But what exactly is he supposed to do? (Luckily for him, Zero has no expectations and doesn’t give a shit about human dating customs)

5. Does he even want to get into relationship? Especially before he got his life in order? He’s not sure if it’s a good idea to form this kind of attachment.

So as you can see, poor boy went through a major crisis.

Meanwhile Zero was just chilling. She made her intentions and feelings crystal clear from the very start, so she was just waiting to see where it all goes with Liang. The fact that he was clearly going through such an inner turmoil amused her.

❌ did either of you ever try to get rid of your feelings for the other?

Liang tried to persuade himself, thinking about all the awful qualities Zero possesses and why it’s not going to work out, only to end up frustrated that even that wasn’t enough to convince his brain chemistry. Then he tried to simply ignore his crush, hoping that it’s temporary. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to act out on his unfortunate attraction, he will be shutting down any attempt Zero might make at being inappropriate, and he will be throwing hands with the next person who jokes about him and Zero being a couple.

Liang managed to keep up this attitude for a few years before giving up. And even then he calmed himself by thinking that everything will be over when he gets out of prison anyways (while at the same time dreading the thought of it being over and having to leave Zero).

Zero didn’t want to get rid of her feeling – on the opposite, it was something new and interesting that she wanted to study about herself. However, she did consider that, after she figures out the phenomenon and maybe gets enough of it, she might try to toss it away for convenience. But it’s just her speculations for the future.

❓describe a time one of you did flirt or make a move, only for the other to remain totally oblivious.

I think that for this question, it’s time to pay more attention to Zero. She knows how to flirt in the way humans do, BUT- This time she doesn’t need to hide what she really is. And since she’s aiming for a long-term companionship, it’s better to be herself from the start, right? It’s not like she would be disappointed if Liang doesn't reciprocate anyways.

Yeah, anyways... CANNIBALISM.

There was one time when a brilliant idea came to Zero's head. She told Liang that maybe, if they had a chance, she would have loved to share a meal with him. He doesn't have to kill anyone, obviously – Zero will hunt and bring the body herself. Then they can even cook it (after all, it's unsafe for humans to eat raw meat) and have a dinner together.

And listen, it's not that Liang wasn't able to understand that it was likely Zero making a move on him. However, he was too distracted trying to process WHY WOULD SHE OFFER SUCH THING TO HIM, and how he can avoid it.

As for Zero, her thought process was sound – perhaps if Liang tries her food for himself, they would come to a better understanding and a stronger bond. She wanted him to get over his "prejudices" and realize that "it's just meat".

I guess Zero views it as a cultural exchange of sorts. Meanwhile Liang is going through another crisis upon understanding that this creature really doesn't understand humans morals.

In the end, it all just turned into a long argument regarding the ethics of eating human meat...

[philtstone]

Taylor Swift prompts! 5 for Anne/Aramis

#5 -- once upon a time, a few mistakes ago on a whim i returned to my old constance owns a small town inn au today and i thought what better way of filling this prompt than sharing an excerpt from the yet-unpublished chapter 5, "what happened to anne and aramis", which was meant to be a flashback sequence after the very dramatic late-night reveal that theyd slept together its very unlikely that ill ever be able to finish this fic, but i do love it so much.

For all the goodness in his heart, it must be stated that René Aramis d’Herblay has been, and always shall be, the sort of young man who very frequently makes mistakes. This is not his fault, necessarily, nor can it be said that these mistakes are those of the Earth-shaking, life-destroying variety. Most, indeed, are fairly mundane, and have to do with simple things such as his daily intake of caffeine (too high) or the average hours of sleep he manages per night (too low). But perhaps the greatest mistake Aramis has made thus far in his life is not his childish impulse to neglect his piano lessons at the age of ten, nor his impetuous decision to join the army at age nineteen, nor even the stubborn insistence that he use his middle name as his first. In fact, some might argue that this last point was a perfectly allowable decision, though anyone who knows him could testify that the René suits him just as well, if not more, than Aramis ever has. No -- the greatest mistake Aramis makes in his youthful twenty-eight years on God’s green Earth is that he never once takes his father’s oft-repeated advice, and makes nearly all of his decisions with emotion, rather than logic.

Now, it would be remiss of the narrator not to point out that this is not a trait inherently faulty. Indeed, a young man of Aramis's education and reading might breeze through most of his life making decisions that are blessedly the correct choice despite their emotional backing, for a strong ideological basis, borne of a broad and illustrious education, is generally helpful in internally nudging a person’s mind in the right direction. Aramis, whatever other faults he may have, possesses this ideological basis perhaps unusually strongly for a young man his age.

Ana Maria Mauricia de Bourbon is not the first to notice this, nor the last. But she is the first to take it, and tuck it away in her heart, in a way that precious few others have. It is here, then, that the narrator must take yet another step away, and point the reader back to that fateful day wherein the fae, well-meaning wife of their little town’s incompetent mayor was nearly brained by a ceiling tile in the middle of Monsieur d’Herblay’s second-grade classroom.

On the afternoon of the day immediately after this incident, Anne donned her most autumn-appropriate cardigan (a soft cream-coloured cashmere), swept her hair up into its most sensible updo (the one bordering on severe, which Louis had always hated), and slipped her smallest pair of pearls into her ears (these, Anne knew, were barely visible, and brought no attention to her ears, which she believed to be her most shapely feature). Having thusly prepared herself, she took a deep breath, clasped the delicate gold chain of her favorite crucifix around her neck, and walked the short distance back to the public school to check on the state of Monsieur d’Herblay’s ceiling.  

Monsieur d’Herblay’s ceiling was doing just fine, and his children -- for that was what he cheerfully called them -- were doing even better. They flocked her upon her gentle knock at the doorway, clambering over each other and disrupting their daily Reading Circle to be the first to greet her at the door. Chirped cries of, “Monsieur d’Herblay, Monsieur d’Herblay, Madame de Bourbon has returned!” and overloud “HELLO MADAME”s, and, most amusing of all: “are you dying, Madame de Bourbon?” rang out in abundance.

“Oh, no, I am in perfect health, Henri,” Anne had assured the little boy, clutching her handbag with perhaps more force than she might have usually. “The ceiling tile missed me, you see.”

“Were you very scared?”

“I don’t think I --”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

“Marie, I really don’t think --”

“I don’t think you were scared,” had declared Suzette, a little girl more rolly than polly, who enjoyed wearing corduroys at every given opportunity. 

“She is a superhero,” whispered Victoire in agreement, from Suzette’s left, only she lisped most of the word, for she had just lost her two front teeth the night before.

“I am --” 

“She is indeed.” 

And here, the narrator may say that Anne felt once more rescued, just as she had been rescued from a terrible head injury the day before, as the lanky figure of Aramis swept smoothly through the children and in front of her, somehow managing to usher them back into a bad imitation of a half-moon and relative silence without uttering a single word. Anne wondered if this sort of skill was cultivated, or if he had simply possessed it since birth. (This was not a sign of her own naivete. To be sure, Aramis himself had no idea.) “Madame,” his smile was soft but infectious nonetheless -- Aramis had many of these smiles to give -- and Anne found her grasp on her handbag ease.

“I simply wanted to make sure that everything was in working order, Monsieur d’Herblay. It would be a shame if any of your students were injured by more falling ceilings, you see.”

“I’d protect them with my own life were that to happen, Madame,” said Aramis very seriously. The reader might have realized by now that Aramis was very rarely a truly serious sort of person, but that this was certainly one of those rarelies. “I assure you.”

“Like he protected you,” offers Henri, from around Aramis's leg.

Anne, whose skin was cursed to be fair and quite susceptible to flushing, turned pink. However, she did not deign to acknowledge this, but rather cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. This was a tactic that she had picked up from Constance. She found it was a great help in faking sensibleness when one felt a resounding lack of it. Sensibleness was something she needed tremendously just then, as she was suddenly infused with a surge of reckless courage.

“It was nothing,” said Aramis, smiling warmly, but was gently cut off by Anne’s voice, in it an odd note both hesitant and hopeful.

“Oh, it was certainly not nothing. In fact,” Anne took quite a deep breath, “I am in your debt, Monsieur, and as such, I would like to give you a token of my gratitude.” 

Aramis blinked, a few times, and then said, “Oh?” very curiously. There was half a smile in his voice.

“Yes,” said Anne, taking a step forward and lifting her chin. Carefully, she reached around her neck and unclasped her crucifix, and then held it pretty and dangling in front of her. “A good luck charm -- for protection,” she explained. “In case there are any other falling ceiling tiles.”

“Would you not need it yourself,” asked Aramis, though his tall frame was already slightly bent over, as though instinctively anticipating her next move of clasping the necklace very carefully behind his collar.

Anne was determinedly trying not to let her fingers brush against the tanned skin of his neck as she fastened the chain, which was perhaps why she did not think before she said, “Oh, but I am sure you will always be there to rescue me again.”

She straightened, bringing her hands down abruptly and smoothing them carefully over the front of her blouse; she did not break eye contact with him, but did flush just a little more, contrite.

Aramis, however, was looking somewhat entranced. The children were watching the proceedings with rapt attention.

“Of course,” he said, his voice impossibly soft.

Anne could have sworn she was floating. She wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or something else entirely that she could not have for the life of her identified just then, as she had very little experience with these things overall. “Yes,” agreed Anne, although there was nothing to really agree about. She then hesitated, surrounded by the colourful paper posters lining the walls alongside the children’s macaroni artwork, as people like Anne caught in such situations are sometimes wont to do. “Goodbye then, children,” she said, her voice a little high pitched, taking a step back to go and once more clutching her purse.

“Say goodbye,” Aramis had whispered loudly over his shoulder.

“Goodbye, Madame de Bourbon,” chanted the little class. Anne made it all the way to the doorway, before turning back to give the class a final little wave and a smile.

And Aramis had smiled back at her, as people like Aramis caught in such situations are sometimes wont to do, and it was for this smile that Anne did not leave the classroom and put the incident completely out of her mind, as she had vowed to do so as to save herself long stretches of internal embarrassment -- but instead, not a week later, returned.

**

Once again, in preparation, Anne donned her second-most autumn-appropriate cardigan (a delicate off-yellow wool), swept her hair up into its second-most sensible updo (elegant, but discreet), and slipped in her smallest pair of pearls (her ears, Anne thought, with a small pang of regret). Having thusly prepared herself, she took a deep breath, tucked her most cherished copy of C.S Lewis’s The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe into her handbag, and walked the short distance back to the public school.

Anne’s faint little knock on the door was noticed first by the sweet red-headed Henri, who leapt to his feet in the middle of Reading Circle and declared her presence with great gusto.

“Madame de Bourbon! Madame de Bourbon is here again, Monsieur!”

One hand paused over his guitar, Aramis had stilled as he looked up at her from their lopsided circle. There was a look on his face, one that neither Anne nor the children quite understood, but made everyone in the room feel as though something was about to Happen. He was still wearing her crucifix, Anne noticed, and for that she took a deliberate step into the classroom, inhaled silently (she would later confide to Constance that it felt far louder than it actually was), and reached into her handbag.

“I was -- I brought you a book for Reading Circle,” she said (Anne never blurted anything in her life, but it was a close thing), and held out The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe in front of her. “Monsieur. If you need another one, I thought that the children might enjoy --”

Anne's words came to a stop -- not because she was the sort of person who faltered, but rather because she was caught off-guard by the growing smile on Aramis's face, the kind that started small and grew to be enormous, like the lights of a Christmas tree flickering on when the electricity is a bit unreliable.

(You see, here, that Constance’s earlier narration was quite accurate.)

“Oh, but this is brilliant,” Aramis was saying, scrambling to his feet, guitar still in hand (it twanged a little where his knee bumped it), as Anne managed to focus on his voice, a smile of her own growing on her face. He stood properly and strode through their now disarrayed circle, half-turning back to the children and then swiveling back to face Anne, as though he did not know whether to address his class or the book or her. “This edition -- I’ve been looking for Lewis for years, but I’ve never found this one again, anywhere, I --” He looked up from the book -- “I had it as a kid -- my mother gave it to me, but I lost it when I moved away and she -- it’s the only one --”

“-- With the good illustrations!” Anne finished for him, her own smile shining like one might expect a fairytale star to do up close. 

“Yes! You’ve read --”

“It’s my most prized copy,” Anne admitted, a little bit breathless, because the topic of books was always an exhilarating one. 

“Well,” said Aramis, positively beaming. “I’ve found a kindred spirit, it seems! Kids -- guess what we’re going to be reading next!”

Anne had laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. The children were all, once again, watching with rapt fascination, which was an important detail, for, as we all know (but most forget), children are an awfully perceptive sort.

“I’m glad it was a good choice,” said Anne warmly, and Aramis turned back to her, grin still firmly painted on his face. His eyebrows raised, then, as though realizing something, and quickly held up a long finger in the universal gesture for Wait, just a moment, for you might be an angel and I think that I’m dreaming. Anne did not read this far into his finger-raise, but waited curiously as he turned around and nearly stumbled to his desk, depositing his guitar in the desk chair and lacking half of his usual grace in his enthusiasm. 

“It’d be rude of me,” he started, rummaging through what Anne identified as a battered canvas backpack, covered in pins and marker and looking as though it was on its last legs, “not to give you something back, Henri, wouldn’t it be so awfully rude --”

“The rudest,” Henri confirmed solemnly, nodding at Anne with all the gravitas a seven-year-old boy might possess.

“Un-for-giff-ble,” added Victoire, nodding furiously.

“We’d sack him,” said Marie, as though they even had that sort of executive power.

“Oh, dear, you really don’t need to --” started Anne.

“-- Aha!” cried Aramis, and held up a book. “Constance says you enjoy Shakespeare, Madame, and Shakespeare is certainly too much for us struggling students to grasp --”

“I could grasp Shookspeare if you’d let me, Monsieur d’Herblay,” complained Suzette.

“I shall give you Hamlet tomorrow, little bird,” Aramis said, very seriously, before turning back to Anne and holding out what must have been the most battered collection of Shakespeare’s comedies that Anne had ever seen in her life.

Once again, for a moment, Anne felt -- and, indeed, this time looked -- as though she might be floating.

“Oh,” she said faintly, “this is wonderful. I don’t know how to -- I’ll return it as soon as I can, Monsieur --”

“Aramis,” said Aramis, interrupting her. And, perhaps for the first time that day -- that week -- that month -- Aramis felt his face heat up with a blush, the sort that creeps up on you in moments of great excitement, where you have just met a person whom you think to be the terribly decent sort. “Um, you could -- well, Madame, if we’re exchanging books.”

“It’d only be right,” agreed Anne solemnly, and held out a hand. “It is very good to meet you, Aramis. I’m Anne.”

“Anne,” said Aramis, trying out her name in his mouth.

(The narrator must be appropriately dramatic about these little moments, after all.)

They shook hands, the beaming smiles still present (but perhaps a little softer), and Henri tugged on the hem of Aramis's professional teacher-appropriate cable-knit sweater.

“Monsieur d’Herblay, may I call you Aramis too?”

Anne laughed.

Small moments such as these are actually not nearly as rare as we may believe them to be -- such as these referring to the small event of two souls knitting together over a mutual delight. For some, it may be ping pong. For others, long walks in gardens, or contemplation of the night sky. Still others may collide gently into one another because their dearly beloved pets decide to sniff at each other’s bottoms, and for some, their eyes widen at the discovery that their coffee order is the same, down to the brand of cream they prefer, and everything shifts a little bit.

For Anne and Aramis, it was not books -- as one might expect after all that -- but kindness.

[sasoxichomoshi]

are the pathless and abzu related? yes, and this connection is way more important than people give credit for (i will be rambling now)

visual cues are everywhere; the beheaded shark statue right at the start of the game, the purification process and the spirit realm architecture all nods to the previous game as the shells and the locked door at cerno's domain are literal imports from abzu, which are all sweet references present in the pathless

everything that concerns the spiritual realm has a touch of abzu (pantone abzu blue when)

i'd also add that i have autistic urges to just write about how the pathless feels like this result from accumulated knowledge/experience from past Nava games - the pathless has both the 'myth of creation' and the journey of the hero combined in order to tell this lil story with these silly characters (i see it all as if giant squid team woke up one day and said "what if we made like a fancy fanfic yknow" really best decision ever), however knowing myself it''d just feel like nonsense rambling (even worse than this) and a bit off topic, but i had to mention or my skin wouldn't stop itching

anyway back to the two games -

i have this recurring impression that abzu allegories and symbolism are woven in the fabric of reality in the pathless - it's not about them directly, but are foundational for whatever is being told here and now

you cannot, in full consciousness, tell me that these are just easter eggs in the pathless that giant squid introduced because it's a past title from the studio; not when there was giant effort in blending the two games sensibly - abzu is brought up in the symbolism, the color palette (red/blue), in the environment, and it's even present in the soundtrack

in short, tying the universe of the two games together was intentional

but despite visually tied, it still made no sense to me; ok we share the color palette, we wander around with the help of a tall one, we defeat the bad one, what else there's to it? is it just the start of the giant squid MCU? giant squid cinematic universe? or gaming universe? (i feel stupid)

regardless, as i answered the question to how, i wanted to understand why - and to make sense out of it all, i resorted to a feature unique to the pathless: written text

what is so important to tell the player that you need written text, something you were avoiding in all your past games but that suddenly you bring back out of nowhere to tell a story in a way you havent done before? i can just assume some topics were too necessary to just left it implied (at best), or never explained (at worst)

one of the reasons i have written this blog post until this point (the main reason, actually) is that i feel there's a bit of an overlook of an essential part in the established the pathless n abzu crossover (can i call it that?), something that permeates everything, but it's not really visible in a literal way

--

as i played the game, godslayer perspective and motives stood out - they are the focus of a good part of all the tablets and dead people's memories - and as i dived deeper into the abzu connections (pun not intended) certain lines got too remarkable:

so,,, godslayer deems this world broken because it's made out of pure chaos, ok i guess it makes sense uhhh wait wait im having flashbacks i have seen this befo-

uhh oooooohhh ok ok get it i can see some parallels ughhh woooow just wow omg

the underlying factor here is that chaos is origin, foundation for both games universes (tho we can all see that at this point it's the same universe)

in abzu, by ordaining chaos the diver brings back life; in the pathless the ordained chaos, the one that constitutes all life, is at risk because someone decided that having everything made out of (essentially) chaos wasnt really suitable for the second industrial revolution i guess

note: if you know nothing about abzu i recommend reading this post cause it explains a bit about what chaos means in abzu, hence it's relevant to the pathless too

and understanding the chaos that impregnates existence as a whole is central in the pathless, which brings us to another focal point the game brings up: religion

you see religion a big deal in the pathless in the sense that it defines factions; you pick a side, and it's what drives the line of action of almost everyone in the island - the pathfinder quest against the tall ones, the godslayer followers vs the tall ones followers, entire communities dedicated to their local gods, and so on

superficially, it's easier to go to the "bad vs good" route where godslayer must be defeated to keep the order and the light and tall ones good guys whatever, the problem of this line of thought is: too much black and white and no gray to be seen

the pathless final message speaks about decision making: you are free to trace your own path (and this message is reinforced through game design and the title and at the final boss fight, you can name it) however, here lies the detail: similar to the chaos surrounding us, it goes unnoticed that the will to take a determined path comes from within

that's why religion is a hot topic in the pathless, it's what allows people to trace a path in a chaotic world, literally

the myth of creation - the eagle mother, the branch, her children - in itself is a form of understanding reality, religion - prayers, sacrifices, lines of conduct, contemplation - is also a form of grasping the real, and from this understanding, this particular view of the world, you are invited to take action; you cultivate the land and you build temples dedicated to your god

you take action based in what you believe, and you can see it better in the dead followers you can commune with through the island, they are fierce in their beliefs, which leads them to make a stand or fight back

it also stands out how the tall ones are imbued with negative traits; nimue shifts moods like summer rain, kumo is terribly jealous and childish, sauro despite everything will resort to violence, cernos is too shy, heck even eagle mother as gentle as she is let atrocities took place before any meaningful action was considered

all the tall ones have their virtues and imperfections because in the end they are also made out of chaos, essentially they are not that different from any tree on the plateaus; but, as the tablets about the masks state, they see things beyond this realm, and with this knowledge they try to guide those that dont see it - it's like this for their followers, and hunter is also guided by them

godslayer is no different, he took a path lead by his beliefs, beliefs those that reject the idea of having life from chaos, which lead to his obsession of fixing what he deemed broken; from his perspective, he suffered in the hands of the tall ones and their followers which made him believe that anything of their nature was treacherous - he failed tho, failed to understand that a single path would lead to perpetual suffering (as some memories states, "i was not meant to bloodshed"), which was a fate his followers had bittersweetly tasted

in this scenario, hunter is special: she's an outsider, she doesn't comprehend her mission just yet neither knows those lands; she's facing chaos in its pure form and in order to make sense of her new reality, she takes the eagle mothers advices; upon taking on the trials of the island she witnessed chaos in its many forms, and she assimilates it, not good nor bad but a 'in between' - that's why (from my understanding), on purifying the godslayer final form, her eyes glow in bright blue not because she's some 'declared since birth' allied of the tall ones, but because it signals purpose, she understands the chaos, the one that causes life and death, and she embraces that view from within and translates it into strength to fight back and endure

there's not a single creature in this world that doesnt feel lost and be it whatever creature - human, tall ones, demons, animals, everyone is trying to make sense of this confusing world we live in, be it through any path at hand - and religion is just one of the possible ways in the sea of infinite available paths

as hunter explores deeper into the island, she bonds with the tall ones but make no mistake, she's not really a faithful follower - and she doesn't need to be - cause she has the understanding that the tall ones represent this organized chaos necessary to the flux of life, she respects them

pathfinder, unfairly treated, will look at the tall ones and see just lies, refusing their guidance, he will strive for a new path not taken before and ignore any previous knowledge about the world, he will build up a single vision for a brand new reality absent of chaos because that's how he was conditioned to see and absorb the world around him

(and that makes godslayer feels even more tragic, having the possibility of seeing the world through new lenses by wearing the mask of the ancients yet he persisted in his views and ignored the reality as it was - chaos neatly woven - perhaps out of hate and sorrow for all past injustices; even in the end he resisted to accept the world that nurtured him, as he too was made out of chaos - and for that he's forgiven)

you and i can both worship sauro, but in the end we will look at the surrounding chaos from different perspectives and i will decide that pottery is the way to go while you see the sword as the suitable option; as the truth stands, this is a pathless land - there's no defined answer

the pathless, beyond the 'pathless land' lesson, has something more to tell - that perhaps the path is already established and to you is given the choice of going forward that path or re-evaluate and change directions;

if i had to define the pathless i'd say it's about what touches the eye and where you rest you hand (which can also explains why the eye is an ever present image throughout the game); through perception you grasp the world around you, you create your views and based on it you take action - will you release the bow string? will you strike with your sword? will you cultivate the land? or will you shed blood? what have you seen that made you act like this?

what a chaotic world

anyway, i have too much to say and no one to listen so my only options are write Big Blog Post or bang my head against the wall if you read until here (complete madness) thanks for enduring until the end

(cant wait to see the pathless references in sword of the sea i have faith)

[kiyfra]

My new fic is out! Scorpio can be read here or on A03. Pokerus AU belongs to @monsoon-of-art.

“Why did you sting me, for now we both will drown?”

“I can’t help it, it’s in my nature.”

---------------------------------------------

Ingo forced himself to take slow even breaths as he laid in the messy bedding of Lady Sneasler’s abandoned den. She had taken her kits and relocated the nest elsewhere in the Coronet Highlands, refusing to disclose the location to her warden.

Her decision was a sensible one, not one borne out of disdain as Mistress Calaba believed, even if her words did nothing but repeat in his head.

“He’s an outsider that doesn’t know our customs or share our values. It’s not surprising that he’s done something to offend her.”

She had always been the most critical of him since he was first offered a place within the Pearl Clan and had been one of his harshest critics since he was appointed as Lady Sneasler’s warden. Many of the more traditional members of the clan took issue with his position, but they couldn’t argue with a decision from the Lady of the Cliffs herself.

Most of the Pearl Clan was welcoming or warmed up to him quickly. They were content to think of him as rather odd with his strange mannerisms and knowing a startling amount about pokémon while lacking basic life skills such as starting a fire or food preservation.

Ingo wondered if he was imagining things when he saw Pearl folk giving him dirty looks after he was the first of the clan to show symptoms. But ever since Calaba voiced the belief that he had brought a curse upon himself and the clan, he heard people whispering about him when they believed he was out of earshot, especially after his lady’s perceived scorn.

Irida had stood up for him and had taken a stand against talk about curses or divine punishment from Sinnoh.

“Don’t pay Calaba any mind. It wouldn’t be the first time she accused a guest of bringing a curse into the settlement.”

A guest.

Her reassurances inadvertently confirmed what he had always feared, that the Pearl Clan viewed him as fundamentally other. The place he would have to live and would be his home for the rest of his life would always consider him an outsider and he could never truly belong.

Ingo supposed it didn’t really matter now.

It was a short while after his physical transformation was completed that he made the decision to leave the settlement and isolate himself on Mt. Coronet. Several times he had lapses in memory where he couldn’t recall where he was or what he had been doing, coming to with people staring at him, shocked and horrified.

Irida and his fellow wardens had similar episodes, snarling at and trying to bite or claw anyone that was close, leaving children crying and their parents looking at them with such contempt. These episode grew more frequent as time went on and Irida was giving serious consideration to sending the rest of the clan away to protect them from its wardens and leader.

She found Ingo carefully storing and removing belongings from his tent while carrying a pack containing a few days worth of food, ready to leave his home as if it was never lived in.

Irida was still wearing her traditional garb, the tails trailing behind and dragging on the ground. It was quite cumbersome and impractical with her new quadruped build, but she refused to let the gradual and painful transformation into a glaceon rob her of this sense of dignity.

“Ingo, what are you doing?”

“I am performing my safety checks.” He turned towards her. “Lady Irida, I want to thank you for everything you and the Pearl Clan have done for me. It has been an honour serving as one of its wardens.”

“Don’t talk like that. We’re not going to die,” she said sternly.

“I truly wished for a better outcome, but I can’t ask any more of you.” He bowed his head. “Goodbye, Lady Irida.”

“Where are you going? Ingo? Ingo!”

He ignored Irida’s shouts as he flew off towards the old den to wait as the rest of his humanity faded away, the clan leader tripping over her coat tails as she tried to chase after him.

Ingo spent several days in the spacious nest his lady had left behind, curled up in the bedding and trying to cry out the names of people he didn’t remember.

He could feel his mind changing and slipping away from him as his body had, all hard edges and points. Layers of soft flesh had peeled away to reveal dark purple chitin, massive pincers and a quick stinger loaded with poison. His human exterior had been stripped off and left him with the rugged body and jagged fangs of an alpha gliscor that welcomed any venom and was the bane of his lady’s kind.

The tattered wings wrapped tightly around him couldn’t replace the weight and comfort of his coat, the one he arrived in Hisui wearing and refused to part with for many years. He expected and dreaded the day that the wear and tear would eventually render the garment unusable, not expecting his body would be altered to the point clothes became untenable.

His stomach growled loudly. The rations he had brought with him ran out yesterday, but he refused to leave the den to find something to eat, even if he found himself longing for the coppery taste of blood.

To feel the satisfaction of his prey’s panicked struggling growing weaker as he drained the life from them and shearing at tender flesh. Or hearing their surprised squeals as they were abruptly snatched up and carried away; he could probably find a paras or a shinx still up and about that strayed from the careful watch of their parents, maybe a sneasle if he was lucky.

He should leave to go hunt. How could he provide for a fledgling gligar if he wouldn’t even feed himself?

She’s not your child, you fool!

“Ingo!”

A tiny blue gligar stood at the entrance to the den, dripping wet from being out in the night’s rain. He rushed over, wanting to wrap up his nestling in his wings to protect them from the dangers of the world until they were ready. Keep them safe and warm until they were a proud gliscor.

“Ingo, I need somewhere to sleep for the night. Can I stay here?”

The hazy image of a blue gligar faded from his vision and was replaced by a dewott with a red scarf and large satchel tied around its waist. Ingo blinked hard several times to try and clear his head.

“Miss Dawn? W-what are you doing here?”

“I was trying to catch Cresselia,” she admitted. “We found her at Moonview Arena, but she kept running away. I chased her all over Mt. Coronet for hours, but it started raining and I didn’t know where I was-“

He cut her off.

“Miss Dawn, I’m afraid you must remain behind the yellow line as this station is not safe to stop at. You should attempt to locate one of the Survey Corps camps. My lady would be happy to assist you.”

He wanted nothing more than to let her stay the night; sending her back out into rainstorm didn’t sit right with him. But he couldn’t trust his senses to remain intact or the nature of his delusions to remain consistent. Already his vision was distorting and showing him a shiny gligar in her place.

“I-I know you said you didn’t want me to come back here, but I’m sorry I didn’t choose to save you,” Dawn said, her voice wavering.

That’s what this was about? The warden felt the guilt over his prior behaviour worm its way back through him.

“I thought saving some researchers to help find a cure made the most sense,” she explained.

Ingo was there when she made her report after visiting the three lakes. She had announced to a room with all the clan leaders and wardens that there was a way to prevent the infected from losing their sense of self to the virus, much to everyone’s elation.

There was bad news though. Each blessing from the lake guardians could only be used on one person, meaning only three people in all of Hisui could be saved. Dawn followed that bombshell by stating that she had already made her choice and used the blessings on three members of the Survey Corps, reasoning that their scientists would need their minds intact if they wanted to find a permanent solution.

Everyone in that room was furious they weren’t even considered, Ingo included. The two of them were close, sharing a love and understanding of pokémon beyond that of their contemporaries. Dawn trusted him as a mentor and confidant as the only other person in Hisui that had been in her position and he always strove to be worthy of that trust.

To hear that she made the decision to leave him to a horrible fate so easily, he did feel angry and betrayed, even if he understood her utilitarian approach.

In retrospect, he acted shamefully, refusing to accept reality and demanding to know how she could abandon him like that. He was desperate for this child to save him, even knowing it would have been at someone else’s expense.

Dawn started to tear up.

“I still want to help you but I understand if you hate me...”

“No, no!” Ingo knelt down to place his serrated pincers over her shoulders.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. It was never fair you were forced to make a decision like that to begin with and I’m sorry you were made to feel responsible for my problems.”

The dam broke with her shoulders trembling and tears flowed freely as she started crying. She wrapped her arms around his chest plate and buried her face against his neck.

“I’m going to fix a-all of this, I’ll find a way to turn you back to normal... A-and then I’ll bring- I’ll take you back home with me...” she struggled to get through her bawling.

Given how Ingo’s expression rarely changed and how much he relied on his words, he didn’t know what to do when words were failing him. He wanted her to understand the world’s sorrows weren’t her duty to solve or reassure her this wasn’t goodbye.

But he would not lie to her.

Instead he scooped up the girl to cradle her against his chest, mindful that his pincers could snap and sever any protruding body parts without even really trying.

With how many impossible expectations were being placed on this child by the Galaxy Team and the clans, Ingo bitterly thought about how he should never have been amongst them.

Dawn continued to sob against him and he wanted to rub her back or smooth her hair to comfort her, but couldn’t with his awkward, dangerous claws. So he remained stationary to let her cry into his shoulder for as long as she needed to.

Ingo felt overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings and he couldn’t tell if they truly came from him or if they stemmed from his delusions that he was a parent. He had always felt responsible towards her and was always proud of her. But even after she had taken to calling him ‘Uncle,’ he never felt this way before.

It wouldn’t be the first time he wondered if he had been a father before he lost his memories, though he certainly hoped not. Neither was he presumptuous enough to think he could replace the loved ones she left behind.

Whether it would have happened on its own or if vague notions were being filtered through an animal’s brain, in that moment he truly wanted to be her father.

A tuft of mussed up fur was sticking out and Ingo took note of it, wanting to lick it flat. Dawn would not appreciate such a gesture and he wasn’t that far gone yet.

“I did consider using the blessing on you,” she admitted quietly. “I don’t know if you remember, but you’ve hissed and growled at me like you didn’t recognize me. You were scaring me. Especially after what happened with Iscan.”

They had been visiting the Cobalt Coastlands and Iscan had insisted on teaching Dawn how to swim. Ingo agreed with him that it was a valuable life skill to have, so he doesn’t know what came over him when he heard the girl throwing a tantrum.

There was something about her dismayed squeaking in the hands of the man turning basculegion that caused an irrational and uncharacteristic rage to overcome him. When he regained his senses, the Diamond Clan warden was thrashing under the hold of his claws, his throat bloody and torn.

The incident had been proof that Iscan’s theory was true, that the PokéRus victims were gradually loosing their minds and succumbing to violent impulses.

It was also deeply upsetting for everyone involved, though Basculegion’s warden didn’t bear a grudge. One shudders to imagine what would have happened if Paulina hadn’t been there to pull him off of the man.

A lot of people were put off by Ingo’s constant frown, loud voice and intense silver eyes long before his metamorphosis exaggerated his frightening characteristics. He hated being thought of as intimidating or scary and put a great deal of effort into presenting himself as someone reliable and trustworthy.

Despite his haggard appearance, Ingo was one of the most warm and kind individuals Dawn knew. So to hear that the girl who felt a great sense of kinship and looked up to him as a role model was afraid of him must have been a bitter pill to swallow.

“I understand, and I’m sorry,” he said.

She had no more tears left to cry, so they continued to hold on to each other, not saying anything. Neither of them wanted to let go, understanding this would likely be the last time they could appreciate each other’s presence before they became unrecognizable to each other.

“It wouldn’t be so bad to be remembered like this,” Ingo thought.

Whatever people he left behind beyond Hisui, he hoped they remembered him fondly.

“I guess I oughta head out. Volo’s probably waiting for me,” Dawn eventually said, removing her arms from around his neck.

His blood turned to ice at the name. There were many things about the merchant that irked him; his fixation on the rift and Dawn’s possible connection to it, him giving away so much of his inventory as though he was trying to buy her loyalty, his insistence that the wardens were a danger to her and his false sense of cheer and flattery.

“Like a used car salesman,” his mind added unhelpfully.

None of these meant much on their own. Curiosity wasn’t a crime and it was hard to disagree with his assessment on the danger posed by the PokéRus victims. The man made his living as a merchant, so it made enough sense he was prone to insincere flattery. Even the gifts from his shop inventory could be explained by the gravity of their current situation. But taken together, everything about the merchant rubbed him the wrong way.

“Volo accompanied you to the highlands.” It wasn’t a question. “How did you become uncoupled from him?”

Ingo had levelled a serious look down at her and Dawn felt as if she was being interrogated.

“Well, Volo couldn’t get close to Cresselia without spooking her and he thought I’d have better luck. She still kept running away and he put more and more distance between us until I lost track of him.”

That could have been an honest mistake, but it severely bothered him that Volo had been blasé enough about her safety that Dawn got separated and lost on the mountainside during a storm at night.

If Ingo had been accompanying her, he would have insisted on a rendezvous location and urged her to drop the pursuit until morning.

Was Volo actually concerned about her well-being?

“My good friend, I certainly hope you don’t hurt anyone with those claws!”

What could have been genuine concern came across as a barbed insult with his fake cheeriness. Volo had gone on to address Dawn and speak about the warden as if he out of ear shot when he was only a few feet away.

“I just worry that Warden Ingo will snap!”

Ingo wondered if his own personal bias was colouring his perception of the events. He had no proof of wrongdoing, but he didn’t like how the merchant was driving a wedge between her and the other adults in her life. Lady Sneasler’s warden did not want Dawn seeking refuge with Volo.

The man turned gliscor spent a long minute staring into space in silence to consider his choices.

“Alright. You may remain at this station to rest your cab until morning,” he finally declared.

“Really?” She was surprised that he changed his mind so easily.

“I pride myself on my ability to get passengers safely to their destination. Rest assured, I won’t allow myself to be derailed by current events.”

He had made the decision against his better judgement, but it should be fine. It was just until morning and he could keep a hold of himself until then.

---------------------------------------------

The dewott weakly kicked and squirmed in his jaws, its pained squeals little more than noiseless wheezing through its crushed windpipe. Delicious, iron infused blood seeped through its fur and he considered what good luck he had that such an easy meal would so foolishly wander into his den. It should tide him over until he could go hunting for himself and his growing gligar.

If his hatchling was awake he would have let her play with the injured critter for a bit, have some fun killing it and honing her hunting skills under his supervision. But she was sound asleep deep inside the den, unperturbed by the commotion.

He would just have to tear some strips off for her when she woke up. Maybe he could bring some other creature back for a plaything, break a few bones and sting it a couple times in case it got any ideas.

Tiny paws swatted at his face to no effect and in response he bit down harder, blood streaking down his chin. The dewott would stop struggling soon, then he could feed.

---------------------------------------------

Ingo bolted awake in a panic, the sky still dark and sunrise a few hours away. He was laying on his back in the soft bedding with his wings wrapped around him and tail coiled defensively around his chest, Dawn nowhere in sight.

A sick uneasy dread filled him as he was seized by the notion that something horrible must have happened in the night, that he did something eerie and unforgivable after failing to perform his safety checks.

There was a warm weight on his stomach. Visions of violence and gore danced in his head as he unfurled his wings, fearing what he would find but needing to know what happened.

His small passenger was curled up beneath his chest piece, intact but completely still, and he tentatively lifted her chin up with the tip of his pincer.

“Miss Dawn? Dawn!”

“...Mmm...?”

She groggily looked up at him with heavy lidded eyes, barely awake. Relief washed over him at seeing she was unharmed.

“It’s nothing. You may go back to sleep.”

Dawn didn’t need to be told twice. Laying her head back down, she was out in a matter of seconds.

Ingo was still shaken and wouldn’t be able to return to sleep, wanting to fuss over her to soothe his nerves. Fret over the tiny creature in his care to make his heart stop pounding so loudly.

His sensitive hearing was all to keen to pick up on the dewott’s heartbeat, signaling a warm body full of blood that made him salivate at the prospect of biting down and sucking it dry.

The warden was horrified and disgusted with himself for having such thoughts. It had been two days since he had last eaten and he was starting to have tremors from the low blood sugar, but it was doubtful he’d even be able to keep anything down now. Ingo felt nauseous and wanted to retch until the phantom taste of blood left his mouth and throat.

He never thought of gliscors as monstrous, despite their fearsome appearance and morbid feeding habits. They were quite caring and nurturing towards their offspring and colonies. His own was a highly intelligent, sociable creature and a beloved companion that was deeply worried about him.

But Ingo felt like something that crawled out of a child’s nightmare. A creature made of dark chitin, creaking leathery wings and dripping fangs that would snatch up crying children to sate its hunger.

He was a fool for letting her stay when his mind was so clouded and close to slipping away entirely. First thing in the morning, he would send her away, then he could breathe easy knowing she wasn’t in any danger from him.

It would have been the most sensible to have woken her up immediately to call for his lady and take the girl to her own den, but Ingo was terrified to give himself permission to move.

Hours slowly passed by as he counted cracks in the ceiling, twigs in the bedding, anything to take his mind off of the thoughts battling against each other and to distract him from his ravenous hunger.

Sunlight eventually started to pour in, but it would be at least another hour before Dawn woke up. Her mornings were early, but they didn’t start at sunrise like Ingo’s typically did.

He suspected he wasn’t a morning person before his arrival in Hisui and his permanent eye bags were proof that he never fully adjusted. But he would sleep in till noon today after Dawn had left, given how little rest he had managed last night.

The rain had mostly subsided with on and off again showers; perfectly adequate weather for travelling. There would be nothing preventing her from heading on her way and Ingo waited anxious and impatiently for her to wake up.

She finally began to stir and stretch and he hastily unfurled his wings, unwilling to wait any longer.

“Good morning! I hope you slept well.”

Sinnoh knows he hasn’t.

Dawn remained motionless to pretend she was still asleep, but Ingo wasn’t fooled. Her heart rate had resumed its normal pace after being roused from slumber.

“I know it’s early, but it’s time to start up your engines and locate the tracks for the mountain camp.”

“Hrmmm... five more minutes,” she grumbled, curling up tighter to try and shut out his loud voice.

Ingo wasn’t having any of that. He maneuvered a pincer under her arms and placed her on her feet beside him somewhat rudely. With a nervous energy allowing him to move faster than his exhaustion would have liked, he swiftly sat upright on his haunches as Dawn was rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

He could not allow any further delays; it was already irresponsible of him to have gambled with her safety when he knew he was a danger to her.

“Please forgive my abruptness, but I must insist you remain on schedule and depart immediately.”

The girl let out a sigh, resigning herself to the fact Ingo wasn’t going to let her go back to sleep.

“Don’t you even want something to eat first?” she asked. “It’s important to ‘refuel’ and all. I’m pretty sure I still have some Jubilife muffins left over.”

Dawn turned around to look through her satchel for the pastries.

Ingo felt the prickling of sharp claws in his mind at the mention of food. They abruptly shot out and gripped his brain, squeezing and curling into him like his head was caught in the grip of a massive purugly.

He made a pained noise and tried to press his pincers against the sides of his head to relieve the pressure building up before he felt something burst in his sinus. The unknown creature that had taken residence in his head kept squeezing tighter, a warm trickle from a nosebleed dripping down his face. Searing hot talons like a branding iron burned holes into his own thoughts and Ingo gave a loud hiss as his vision blurred into a haze of red.

Dawn huffed as she turned around.

“Well, if you don’t like muffins you can just say so.”

She didn’t expect to find Ingo hunched over on all fours, eyes wild and taking on a red gleam with blood dribbling past a pained grimace.

“Uncle Ingo?” she asked tentatively, taking a step forward.

His eyes focused on her and his pupils constricted, wings flaring out as he bared his teeth. He lunged towards the girl, jaws wide as Dawn screamed.

Ingo was hit point blank with a jet of water from the fast thinking dewott, mere inches away from his target. The attack contained enough force to blister soft skin, but wouldn’t do much more than irritate the armour-like chitin of an alpha gliscor. A blast across the face and into an open mouth made Ingo gag and struggle to clear his airway, surprised by the unexpected bout of resistance.

It was first time she had managed to pressurize the attack for a proper water gun, not just a sputtering stream of bubbles. If Ingo was in a proper frame of mind he would have congratulated her for the feat, but there was no time for celebration.

His spluttering gave her just enough time to scrabble away and turn tail to run towards the cave entrance, kicking up grass and shed fur from the bedding in her mad dash. She didn’t dare check behind her as Ingo recovered from the distraction and scurried after her, an enraged shrieking only encouraging her to run faster.

A window of grey light from an overcast sky was less than a foot away, but Dawn could feel the flecks of spittle from the mad gliscor hot on her tail. The girl threw herself through the cave entrance and a pincer snapped shut where her head had been moments prior.

She landed hard on the gravelly slope outside the den and slid down several feet,  the rough terrain leaving harsh stinging scrapes all over her front and down her face. Some of the larger stones she bumped over would leave nasty bruises.

Dawn looked over her shoulder to see Ingo standing in the cave’s entrance, claws tightly gripping the edges and stinger raised threateningly.

A series of confusing and contradictory emotions flickered across his face before his posture relaxed and he vanished back into the cave, returning to his solitude.

A hallowed out feeling settled inside her chest at the sight of the man disappearing into the den, knowing it would be the last time she would get to see him as anything other than a monster.

The man that went to such great pains to be a supportive figure during such a tumultuous and uncertain time in her life and the closest she had to family, would be gone forever if she couldn’t shoulder the burdens of Hisui.

Deep inside Lady Sneasler’s abandoned nest, her warden lied curled up facing the wall, unable to stop trembling. There was only a single request on his mind, the only one he could reasonably make.

“Please stay safe.”

[alj4890]

If you get this, answer with three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs! Anon or not, doesn’t matter!

Oof, I got five of these requests now 😂 Does that mean fifteen facts? I'll try to do three for each ask. I'm nowhere near interesting enough for this 🤣 Thanks @jerzwriter @angelasscribbles @twinkleallnight @peonierose @aussiegurl1234 for the asks 🥰

1. I have never left the United States. There were multiple times where I'd planned a trip or planned on spending a semester of school out of the country, but something major would happen to keep me stuck here 🤣 I don't think I'll ever get out of here😂

2. I'm an only child who grew up outside of Memphis, TN on fifty acres of land. My only neighbors were family members. My cousins are fourteen, eleven, and nine years older than me, so it was up to my imagination to entertain myself 😂

3. I married an only child. My husband and I decided to have at least two children after his father became seriously ill with his heart and we saw how hard it was on my husband in having to make all the decisions concerning life support. That's how I ended up being the mother of two.

4. I've never had to study. If I read something once, I'm able to remember just about all of it. Not really a photographic memory but close to it. I'm the same with hearing something. I can usually walk out of a movie theater, quoting lines from certain scenes.

5. I never wanted a big wedding (even though I have a huge extended family) because I hate being the center of attention. I dreamed of eloping somewhere beautiful, on a spur of the moment decision. I kinda got my dream. My husband gave in to eloping in the Smoky Mountains during a very snowy January, but he wanted it planned with a tux and wedding dress and just our parents. I gave in and was happy I did after finding the perfect dress and in seeing how much it meant to our parents

6. When I was twenty-nine, I had to have a complete hysterectomy. Benign tumors had taken over my ovaries and were embedded in my uterus. The ones in my uterus had grown and stretched it to the point where it was the size it would have been if I was three months pregnant. Since I wasn't pregnant, it was some of the worst physical pain I've ever experienced with it pressing into various nerves in my back and pelvic region. I've never been more excited to have surgery than that day.

7. I'm not really a crier. I can watch sad movies, lose loved ones, be depressed, but the tears rarely fall. People have been shocked and thought I either didn't really love them or that I have no heart. Trust me, I do, I just don't really cry. The few times I have broken down and actually had tears, my loved ones and friends have panicked not knowing what to do since I'm supposed to be the stoic one of the bunch. It ends up being like that scene in Sense and Sensibility when Emma Thompson breaks down 🤣 Everyone freezes or tries to leave the room 😂

8. I love to laugh and joke around. I have both a silly and extremely sarcastic sense of humor. I use humor in everything and as often as I can. I'm the one you sit by during serious situations if you want to diffuse the tension with a giggle. I've even made people laugh at funerals during my eulogies (all respectful and usually just a funny, sweet anecdote about my loved one). Life is too precious to not find all the little bits of joy we can.

9. I did everything that my late aunt predicted I would in life. She said I would get a teaching degree, which I did. She said I would meet my husband before I graduated college, which I did. She then said I would teach a few years before having my first child, which I did. She then said I would probably get my masters degree between my first and second child, which I swore I was done with college when I graduated but I did do that very thing and got my M.A.Ed. focusing on library sciences between having my two. And to make it all the sweeter, I ended up being like her with having two sons who were exactly the same years and months apart in age as hers were. She was beyond thrilled that I was just like her in that aspect 😂

10. I always thought I would have girls (most of my family has nothing but girls or at least one) Me and my late aunt were the only two to have nothing but boys. It worked out great for me. I've never been into fashion, not really into anything really girly, can't fix hair at all 🤣, and always loved all the superheroes, video games, and Star Wars stuff that makes me the perfect mom for my two boys.

11. I love classic movies. The silent era, the thirties (especially Pre-Code) and the forties are my favorites. I'm amazed with the special effects, the stunning sets, stories, and amazing acting the stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood created. I will devour not only their films, but biographies on anyone working during that time, documentaries, and any tidbit I can find. I was born during the wrong era.

12. I truly believe I could survive happily on nothing but cheese dip, chips, and salsa. And peppers! Jalapeno and Pepperoncini are my favorites. Ghost pepper is becoming a favorite too. Last night, I made a bowl of peppers and ate them like popcorn while watching TV. I love to burn 🤣

13. Winter is my favorite season. Snow is beautiful and I wish I lived somewhere where it was guaranteed to fall for months on end. That's the dream. One day, I hope to move either to Wyoming or to Maine (I've visited both and fell in love with both of them) 😂

14. The hardest thing I've ever experienced in my life was when I suffered a miscarriage. It was my first pregnancy and it was one that wasn't planned. My husband and I had only been married for about six or seven months when I discovered I was pregnant. I was over the moon excited. I bought maternity clothes, started buying baby things like little outfits, bows, toys, etc. Then I started cramping near the end of the third month. Tests were done and it showed the baby stopped developing at eight weeks. No heartbeat. Nothing. I was devastated. I actually prayed I would die during the D and C. I hoped I would have an allergic reaction and die right there on the operating table. I thought it would be easier for my family to lose me that way. I felt like my body had betrayed me in the worst possible way. I hated it and I couldn't stand the depression that set in. This was one of the few times I cried, especially when I woke up after the procedure and saw I'd survived. I continued to pray for death for a few months after it. I knew I couldn't hurt my family by commiting suicide, nor could I talk to them about my feelings, so I begged God to make my heart stop, make my car run off the road and hit a tree, anything to stop the pain I felt. I then begged my husband for a divorce. I didn't want to be around anyone. I didn't want comfort, couldn't stand for anyone to touch me or hug me. I hated our home and the memories it now held for me. I wanted to simply disappear and feel nothing. I didn't want to talk to anyone, respond to what was going on around me, pretend that life was still going on. It was the darkest time in my life. I've written about the one night I broke down the hardest with my husband in a Thomas Hunt fic which was almost cathartic. Everything he and my OC say is the conversation my husband and I had that long and painful night. It still hurts after all these years later, though nowhere near that it once did, and every May I can't help but think I should be celebrating my first child's birthday.

15. That above fact shouldn't be one to end on, so let's end with something funny. With my oldest son, I had an ultrasound to find out if he was a boy or girl on April 1st. Our technician was known to joke around, so I was highly doubtful I was having a boy. I was convinced she was pulling an April Fool's prank on me 🤣 Until he popped out and the proof was in front of me, I thought he might end up really being a girl so I made sure to have a gender neutral outfit packed just in case it really was a joke 😂

[quillquencher]

Romeo and Juliet could not begin to shift the tides of their fate to meet the intensity of grief I felt when I perceived your disappearance.

You had lifted the grueling burden I had been pushing uphill since my eighth year of breathing on this planet in the short amount of time I had known you. The burden of discovering a safe person to love the way I want to be loved.

No word, no syllable, no SOUND could compare to the greatest depths that I would be willing to go to let you know that I am MADLY in love with you.

There is not a single circus performance or folk music festival that could entertain my spirits as much as you do when I talk to you.

Life’s treasures amaze me every day, but my dear, you enlighten me.

Your touch is so tender to my cold hearted, aching skin. I tense not from discomfort but from such an overwhelming wave of comfort. Of home. A home that doesn’t look like the one I knew beforehand, in fact it looks completely different. But the feeling is quite indefinitely similar.

Your laugh, your smile, your voice, all with notes of pure intention and sensible decision. You are a virtuitous anomaly I have yet to come to a logical conclusion of about it’s existence.

I feel it is a disservice to myself to ever let you believe I am not interested in knowing every detail I can about you.

The slight tired in your voice when I’m on the phone with you and it’s past 12 in the morning and you’re listening to me ramble, the unique way you phrase and say certain words, your accent, your gentleness in tone, all of it I adore.

I find the way you embrace me so endearing, I would have stayed in your arms forever if i knew that I could feel that same tender touch each second forward.

Every single detail about you is, in my eyes, written by a woman. But not just any woman, Goddess herself. Morrigan wrote you with golden ink from the stars and a pen made from the quill of a phoenix. She wrote you on parchment made by a sliver of the moon, neatly and gracefully. You were sent to this mortal realm, I feel, for me. She folded you very carefully like an innocent paper airplane and threw you to my path. For that ethereal reason alone, I am so very gratuitous.

I would NEVER lose interest in the man written by the universe for me to gaze my eyes upon. I am so very thankful for the opportunity to know you. You are my prophecy.

- JM

[lpdwillwrite4coffee]

Okay y'all. This is the story of how I owe $17,000 to the guy who propositioned me during family night at a local brewery and now I'm committed to bringing sensible wine options to his house for Thanksgiving.

Our tale begins like most do - panic crying in the living room while my house floods. Because of a freak polar vortex like day in February, my old drafty house and the rust bucket of a boiler in the cellar created a horrific one-two punch that ended in me nearly freezing to death in my own home and almost all of my heating pipes cracking and leaking, flooding my first floor and basement. It was terrifying, beyond stressful, and most importantly to this story, expensive.

After 2 and a half months of living in a hotel, battling insurance companies, daily anxiety attacks, and having 4 grand of insurance money stolen by my bipolar, narcissistic mother, I hit my absolute fucking limit. Friends of mine who are much better off financially than I have ever been in my life offered to help me out of the dark, lonely, and cold hole I'd wound up in. Three text messages and a lot of tears later, I was in possession of a check for $17,000 and had an official start date for construction. Praise Dolly.

A hop, skip, and a jump through time and we're now in July. I'm paying my friends back in monthly installments and trying not to crumble from the knowledge that it will take me 4 or 5 years of consistent payments to get out from under this loan. But at least I have heat. It's the little things I guess.

My friend, let's call him Mitch, and his wife, who unfortunately shares my name but for this we'll call her Lucette, are kindly checking in on me and inviting me to coffee/dinner/drinks to hang out. Things seem like they're back on track to being normal.

Lucette gets a new job that requires a ton of travel, so I don't see her as much as I do Mitch, but that doesn't bother me, as Lucette and I were never particularly close and spending more than an hour of time with her makes me feel like a dirt poor 19 year old who showed up to a nice dinner party in paint stained jeans and a ripped band tee. We are not energetic or socioeconomic equals.

One weekend, Mitch and I get drinks just to catch up, and he tells me that him and Lucette have made the decision to try out ENM (ethical non-monogamy). They've been married for 7 years, have had a bit of a dry spell due to pandemic close proximity, and there's just the general vibe that they want to try new things. I get it! And I'm encouraging. Life is too short for bad sex, I tell him, and he's thankful I'm not judging them. We have a good laugh about it all - particularly the bit about them seeing my profile on Feeld, as they have one too - and after another beer, I go home.

This is probably the part of the movie where the music changes, warning the viewer that some event is looming and possibly dangerous for our protagonist. If only life had such a soundtrack I could hear.

Throughout the summer and into September Mitch and I see more of each other and I take notice of the uptick in chill weekend day drinking and texts. Nothing about it feels off or motivated by anything other than being bored and wanting to hang out with a friend. And because I know about his ENM journey, I think there's the appeal there of getting to speak freely to someone who won't wrinkle their nose and make jokes about bringing pineapples to neighborhood BBQs. In a stunning change of mental pace, I don't overanalyze it. Perhaps this was a mistake.

One morning I wake up a text from Mitch cancelling plans. I'm secretly thrilled - I didn't want to shower that day anyway. But I can also tell something has gone horribly wrong on his end, but he doesn't say what, so I just "yeah, sure, let me know when you're free next" my way out of the conversation.

When we do talk next, he tells me why he cancelled. Lucette cheated on Mitch during a work trip. They'd established rules within their ENM arrangement that she broke. And she broke them loudly, multiple times, and with her iPad still logged in and left on the kitchen counter in full view of Mitch. Horrible words are said, declarations of 'the best sex of her life' are sent to several group chats, pictures are seen. It's bad.

Mitch is unwell. I comfort him as best as I can and he tells me that he and Lucette aren't pulling the divorce lever yet, but he's still heartbroken and scared he's going to lose his marriage. I feel awful for him. I offer to buy him another beer. He shows me the texts he saw. It's officially A Lot.

From that day on, I become his "my wife cheated on me with the guy she told me not to worry about" therapist friend who he can unload on and get sympathetic words in return. I've been imprinted on by the depressed baby bird hatched by infidelity and low self-esteem. It's not the first time, and I'm certain it won't be the last.

Tell me, how's that soundtrack only you, the audience, can hear? I bet it's tense and full of cello.

A few weeks later, I get a head cold. It's not the end of the world but it's annoying. I'm fevered, stuffy, exhausted, and I have not a drop of soup or broth in my home. Mitch sees my Instagram story about being sick and offers to bring me soup. "Aww, that's so nice of you, thank you." "Of course! I'll go get it and be right over." "Awesome! Just text me when you drop it off." Thirty minutes later my doorbell rings. My dogs bark their heads off. I'm a little annoyed. The bell rings again. I see Mitch's car in my driveway. I mutter to myself about why he didn't just leave it on the steps as I go to the door. I look disgusting and I'm flushed with a solid 100.2 fever, but I guess I'm having face time with Mitch now. I open the door and he hands over the soup almost immediately, but with an odd look on his face. I thank him and ask what I owe, but he refuses for me to pay him back. I thank him again. He doesn't make a move to leave. I tell him I'd invite him in but.... *gestures widely to the PJs I've worn for 3 days in a row and the broken capillaries in my nose and the dogs still barking behind the second entryway door* He smiles awkwardly and says it's okay. He still doesn't leave. "So... how are you, Mitch?" His shoulders slump. "I'm not doing great."

Ah. There it is. Mystery solved. My time has been bought with soup and he's lingering to collect on it. So I lean on my door, sniff back a disgusting level of mucus, and brace myself for whatever is about to be said. Turns out, Lucette couldn't stop texting the Best Sex Ever guy and possibly is fixated on him due to some weird aging hot girl nonsense. Mitch tells me he and Lucette are separating. She's sleeping in her home office. The mess got messier. I tell him I'm so incredibly sorry, this is awful, etc etc etc. He stays for 20 minutes to tell me all of this and get as much of a pep talk as I can muster while trying not to sneeze directly in his eyes.

In the interim, I've gotten several strangely loaded texts from Lucette, telling me she's glad Mitch has me and that she knows he values my friendship and advice on things. Alexa, play "She Knows." But I keep things as vague as possible, because I don't want to shove myself even more in the middle. I didn't choose to be imprinted on, but I can choose not to encourage a more permanent bond. Call me a wildlife rehabilitation center.

Being sick takes me out of commission for a while, and I have to reschedule multiple things, including getting beer with Mitch. That doesn't deter him from messaging me of course, but I don't see him for a couple weeks. When I'm feeling better, I tell him we should check out a brewery we've never been to before and we set a day.

This is probably the part when the audience yells as the protagonist not to go. Don't get in the car. Stay home.

Ah, to not be a participant in the narrative.

I get to the brewery and immediately I notice 2 things: 1, it's family Sunday Funday, and 2, the vibes around Mitch are........uncomfy. I turn into a socially anxious motormouth. I can't stop talking about literally everything that doesn't matter, including the child at the table next to us playing a solo game of Uno and the 80's music playlist. I order my beer and finally force myself to chill tf out. Maybe I've picked up on a vibe that has nothing to do with me. Maybe he's just feeling weird. Maybe I'm just insane. All of these options are valid.

Halfway thru our drinks, Mitch brings up the odd texts from Lucette. "I think I know why she was being weird with you." "Oh? Why?" I sip my beer and wait. He says, "So, back when Lucette and I decided to open up our marriage, we had a discussion about who we'd see ourselves dating..."

Hey audience, how's that music crescendo?

I blink. Mitch gestures with his beer. "And obviously, your name was at the top of my list."

And because I'm the definition of smooth, I practically shout, "REALLY???" so loudly 5 people turn around and look at me. Mitch doesn't even look away from me. Instead, he stares deeper into my eyes and asks, "Do you ever see that becoming a possibility?"

Me. Dating Mitch. After months of supporting him through a painful, messy separation that hasn't even really become official. After knowing way too much about his sex life. After all the sad boy memes and depressed 1am texts he's sent. After being forced to read his angry, sexually charged break up poetry in front of him 2 beers in at the bar.

AFTER I HAD TO BORROW $17,000 FROM HIM AND LUCETTE.

I verbally flounder for a painfully long 12 seconds while watching that little girl beat herself with another Uno Reverse card, and finally land on a gentle but firm rejection of the idea. I don't have a chance to mentally process all the messed up parts to this messed up puzzle in the moment but when I get home it starts to click.

They had that conversation in the spring. Around the time that I had to borrow the money in the first place. And while I don't have proof, I can almost guarantee that Lucette vetoed Mitch's suggestion of bringing me into their situation, and now that they're breaking up, he feels like he can take a swing at it (pun? unintended?)

Which means that every single interaction, every single conversation and hang out, every single dollar bill I borrowed is colored with the knowledge I now possess which is that Mitch, for however long, has wanted to fuck me. He's wanted to fuck me so. Goddamn. Bad.

Audience, I bet you're the star at your optometrist's office with all that 20/20 vision. I'm honestly jealous.

No wonder Lucette was sending probing texts with the energy of "I know you know, and now you know I know." No wonder Mitch attached himself to me like a duckling trying to cross a busy road. No wonder both of them were so earnestly checking on me when I first moved back into my house. NO WONDER MY SUBCONSCIOUS MIND HAD BEEN SCREAMING "YOU'RE IN DANGER GIRL" FOR WEEKS.

And before ALL of this, Mitch had organized Thanksgiving at his house since Lucette would be out of town, and one of his friends created a list of what people can bring. I signed up for wine, since it means I don't have to cook. And when this entire thing came to a head, I started to write an "I'm bailing" text to Mitch. But before I could pull that trigger, our mutual friend messaged me to say how happy she is that I'll be there and that she's missed me.

So now, after finding out that Mitch has wanted to get his dick in me for months (if not longer) without even considering the power imbalance of me owing him SEVENTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS, I have to pick out a sensible red and white wine and show up at his house at 2pm on Thursday.

Audience. Reader. Friends. I am.... stressed. And in serious debt.

And apparently hot enough to possibly instigate an argument between spouses.

Cue the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving song. This year I'm grateful for autonomy and friends willing to come up with a code word in case I need to escape quickly.

[bethanydelleman]

How Does Jane Austen Feel About Charlotte Lucas?

Two women are given the option to mary Mr. William Collins, one staunchly refuses, the other agrees. In a novel that’s thesis could probably be summed up as, “Where does discretion end, and avarice begin?”, how does the narrator want us to feel about Charlotte Lucas?

Charlotte tells us early in the novel, “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.  If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” And yet this statement goes against the general sentiment in Jane Austen’s novels, where knowing a person, especially their character, is the ideal. Best summed up by Mrs. Croft in Persuasion here:

“We had better not talk about it, my dear,” replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; “for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before.”

We learn a good deal about Mr. Collins’s character through Elizabeth. So much of it is readily apparent that it’s impossible that Charlotte is not aware as well, given that she does spend some time with him. She knows:

“The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature... Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary.”

Charlotte herself says, “I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”

This means Charlotte has actually not followed her above advice. She knows Mr. Collins, she is aware of his character, but what she knows isn’t exactly good. And yet she goes for it. Elizabeth condemns her in thought, “but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage.” Elizabeth is appalled that Charlotte would marry for money without any hint of love.

Later, when Elizabeth is leaving Kent, she thinks this: “Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms”

Charlotte is not left resolved; the narrator never tells us either way if Charlotte made the right choice or not. Charlotte was a woman of action, she saw a chance and jumped at it. some readers admire that. Unlike Mr. Bennet, who has an unequal and unhappy marriage, Charlotte was not deceived by lust (a big Austen no no), she did understand the character of the man she married. We are left with a “yet”. 

I think because Austen is telling us to draw the line. She lays out the parameters, 27, never handsome, no fortune, keeping her sisters from marrying. Is it okay for her to accept a man that she knows she will never love? Elizabeth is against the decision, but she’s 20, not standing in anyone’s way, and pretty enough. Where is the line between prudence and avarice? Will Charlotte ultimately be happy?

Was it worth it in the end?

[blackwood-library]

I did a past life reading for myself as well. I don’t know why I felt the need to post it, but I suppose practice is practice, right?

My first card, representing who I was in my past life, is the King of Cups.

The King of Cups represents balance, diplomacy, and compassion. It suggests that I was somewhat of a people pleaser before, desperate to be liked. I tried to fix the things and people and relationships around me because I felt diplomacy was all I was good for. I tried my hardest to help others, weather because of the way I cared for others, or because I did not see any other purpose within me. I wanted to be liked, to be needed, and to be useful.

My second card, representing what I did in my past life, is the Queen of Pentacles.

The Queen of Pentacles represents sensibility, practicality, and generosity. She suggests that I tried to be sensible, but I would not hesitate to give pieces of me away. It made sense for me to care in the position I was in, because if I didn’t, no one would. I loved wholly, I offered love and kindness when no one else could or wanted to, and in the end, I held onto that love tighter than anyone else around me.

My third card, representing what challenges I faced in my past life, is The Magician.

The Magician represents resourcefulness, logic, and influence. While I could be resourceful, logic is where I struggled. I struggled to think logically in high stress situations, and it always got me hurt. I was easy to influence, even in my attempts to influence others, and because of this, my adaptability was effected. I was not strong willed enough to keep fighting when I needed to be, and because of it, I needed to be rescued.

My fourth card, representing how I died in my past life, is the Knight of Wands.

The Knight of Wands represents riskiness, adventure, and self-assuredness. My death was calculated. It was a decision I made, and one I knew I would be happy with in the end. I took a risk in my death, but I was confident in my decision- more confident than I had ever felt before in that life. I knew what I was doing, and even now, I know I’d do the same thing again.

My fifth card, representing the lessons I learned in my past life, is The High Priestess, Reversed.

When reversed, The High Priestess, my signifier card represents duplicity, repression, and isolation. I was isolated in my past life, in a way I learned I never wanted to be again. I learned that I deserve to find my own happiness, that I deserve to feel loved, and while I still struggle to believe it now, I know one day I will. I know that even if I don’t believe it, I know it deep in the pits of my heart, and that I will never be lonely again.

My final card, representing how I have been influenced by my past life in this one, is the Wheel of Fortune.

The Wheel of Fortune represents cycles, destiny, and serendipity. I have entered a cycle similar to the last, and I am destined to fall into a similar pattern. Perhaps my destiny is connected to the people I know- people I knew before that I have loved, that I have not met yet, but I am back where I was at the start. This time, though, I will not be trapped in the same dark isolation I drowned in before. I am loved now, I am destined to complete and continue the cycle, but I am not alone how I was.

[burdenedreverance]

The Importance of Duty and Choice

du·ty

noun

a moral or legal obligation; a responsibility.

choice

noun

an act of selecting or making a decision when faced with two or more possibilities.

If someone hasn’t guessed a big theme of this blog is the overarching idea of ‘duty’ and ‘choice.’ At what point does someone’s responsibilities end and the consequences of choosing. I like to believe that in writing the character that is Hayden I’ve somewhat developed a throughline in his threads and asks, that he feels obligated to use his natural abilities for a ‘just cause.’ Often times that manifests in a physical bravery and moral courage, as it is the easiest that comes to him. 

But a big question people might have is why does he feel compelled to act this way? When one takes a duty onto them it is usually by some outside force more often than not; society, work, religion, etc. These external forces which speak of responsibility and the burdens we share as a collective. That is not always the case. It has been well documented that an individual might simply feel compelled to aide in the public good, for no reason other than it is the right thing to do. Regardless of the sacrifice to themselves, or livelihood. It is why we place such high emphasis on personal responsibility and personal sacrifice. You do not have to do these things, you choose to. 

Hayden falls into the latter category, of those who merely feel compelled to look after his fellow man because they are human. That by merit of sentience, existence, and common history he has a responsibility to look after them. To fight the battles that some cannot. He was born with a higher-than-average physical ability, and he is a strong-willed man. If he was born with more wit, perhaps smarter, then he might turn those attributes to the common good. 

But he was not. By circumstance and the choices he made, it has made him a fighter. A warrior. His duty isn’t to merely offer his life, to die, it’s to achieve something in the process of it. If by living his life he can better those around him, himself, and the world; than that is his duty. It’s also his choice. I think it’s important to recognize that. That he doesn’t follow dogma merely because of the faction or organization he serves, if he did then his duty would end and begin where they told him it did. 

Is it tragic? Maybe. I don’t particularly see it as that. I don’t think Hayden’s story is particularly sad, to me at least. I think it has elements of sadness, of strife. It also has reassuring moments of victory and vulnerability. He falters, he fails, he grows. When someone is guided by their heart, they’re gonna make the wrong choices. It’s accepting those choices, learning from them, that matters more. 

It might even seem idealistic, or naive. After all, choosing to suffer on the behalf of those who would regard you little is an net loss. There are some people who will never improve, some people who are beyond saving. There are values that you could potentially attach to the lives of people in dangerous situations. ‘Should I protect myself because my worth and skills are of more use than that of this child? This random civilian?’ The answer is always the same for Hayden. It may not be the right answer, it may not even be the sensible answer. 

Circling back. Duty and choice. Responsibility. Burdens are not easy to bear. 

He chooses to be obligated to the world. ‘If not me then who?’ You can’t begin to change the world, or even those around you, without mastering yourself. And these standards, yes standards, he sets for himself is in the hopes that those after him does better than he ever could. The biggest misconception of Hayden is that he thinks he can do it on his own; in reality he’s just someone who believes in setting the example. 

I think at the end of the day, his joy outshines any melancholy in him. 

[fizzingwizard]

Over the past almost two years, give or take, I've been reading every Austen novel (the completed ones, maybe I'll try Sanditon some day, but after this I'm gonna read some other things ^^). I'd read most of them before, except I had never finished Persuasion, and I'd never read Mansfield Park.

It's been really amazing getting to know books I read as a teenager (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice) as an adult with a different perspective. In a similar way, I think the reason I didn't finish Persuasion when I was younger was because I needed to be older to connect with Anne. I recall that when I first tried to read it around 18 or 19, I felt that Anne was so sad and dreary, and really saw her as much older than she's meant to be. I guess it's that childish way of imagining life stops after you hit 30, haha. But the second time around I was invested in Anne specifically because she was such an older protagonist (for a romance heroine *wink*). I really wanted to know what kind of message Austen had for women who no longer have the liveliness of youth, their feminine ignorance, or their untainted hope.

Persuasion ended up being one of my top favorites, specifically because of the ending - not because she gets the man, but because she's able to tell the man that she doesn't regret the decision she made rejecting him the first time around. "I loved you then as now, but I was right." To be honest, I was not expecting it - I thought validating the heroine whose hero is giving her a second chance was too much to hope for! After all, how is male pride supposed to survive the trauma of female rejection? But if there's one thing Austen hates, it's people who chose incompatible partners for stupid reasons. For example, men who like silly, stupid women because their silliness gives the man plenty of openings to show off his knowledge and lead her. And women who purposely flatter the man's ego by pretending to be stupid. Either way, you're going to wind up miserable: a man with a stupid wife and the world on his shoulders, a woman whose destiny is never, ever to be taken seriously even in matters that concern her. The triumph of Wentworth is that, even though he's a man, he becomes humble, empathetic, and practical enough to understand and respect Anne's choice. And the triumph of Anne is that she's able to recognize her own sense and strength of mind no matter how the narrative tries to punish her for being a woman who doesn't let a man make her choices.

I'm on my final book now: Northanger Abbey. It's one I read probably fifteen years ago. My impression of it then is that, in total contrast to Persuasion, Northanger Abbey is an Austenian YA novel. It's comparatively very easy to read, it moves fast, it doesn't linger and introspect as much as others. The main character is a teenager who's never been away from home before, and it's easy to draw parallels between Catherine's journey to Bath and Lydia's trip to Brighton in Pride and Prejudice. Unlike Lydia, Catherine isn't flirtatious, and has a lot more good nature, and potential for good sense to balance it. But she is young and impressionable. I'm always interested in the way Austen's novels treat younger female characters like Catherine, Lydia, Marianne, even Brandon's ward. On the one hand, when a suitor enters her life, or when she enters society, that flips the switch between childhood and adulthood. It's very sudden. You're terribly young, but you're now expected to make proper decisions - decisions even adults struggle with - and heaven help you if you fail. It's essential to be rich, if you mess things up, because there's no going back when you've lost your virginity, or worse, ended up pregnant.

Being a young woman in an Austen novel is so fraught with constant peril. Among low income families, the boys are more likely to be sent to work dangerous jobs at young ages. But Austen families are typically decently well off, and in many cases the men have no pressure to work at all. Men with money aren't in much danger. But women always are, because all women have purity to protect regardless of class. Or age. Austen did with her young protagonists what she did with everyone: use them to critique the ridiculous in society. It's ridiculous that we judge the mistakes of very young women away from home for the first time the same way we would an adult with twice their age and experience. A teen girl makes one mistake, easy to make when you think it's for love and you've been taught your whole life that true love can't be wrong, and now she's saddled with it forever. Meanwhile, men like Willoughby knock up Brandon's ward, break Marianne's heart, then marry a rich woman he doesn't like who questions his loyalty (it's not paranoia if it's true!), and while it's nice he's capable of some self-reflection about, he's done so much damage before he realizes now he's squandered something precious. He even still has the gall to be jealous of Brandon because he thinks Marianne will probably marry him. And Henry in Mansfield Park, after declaring his devotion to Fanny, goes off and has sex with Mariah, which does very little to affect him but means the ruin of Mariah's marriage and confines her to living as a spinster with her aunt. Mariah made her own decision, but there's such a difference of impact. I'm reminded of George Eliot and how much more a pariah her messy love life made her than it did her husband.

In other books, the question of how reasonable it is to have such high expectations of people who are still basically girls is part of the framework. But Northanger Abbey makes it central. We've got a heroine who reads novels, and novels, of course, give girls fanciful ideas and lead them astray. However, Catherine meets characters like Thorpe who dislike novels ("there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones" is peak humor y'all, I'm laughing for ages) and they are the ones who lack sense, lack virtue, and can't see beyond their own noses. And the characters who are kind and decent not only like novels, they even make fun of the notion that men read good books and anything a woman likes is impossible or a man to like. By contrast, Isabella loves novels, and is petty, self-centered, and mean. But she isn't that way because of the novel: rather, she reads the novels a certain way because of who she is. And Catherine reads them in a completely different way, according to her nature. Austen takes care not to make Catherine a paragon of virtue. Catherine messes up - her imagination runs away with her. But it's hard to censure her when we've just spent so much of the book watching her be manipulated by people and always attributing any misunderstanding to her own lack of experience. When she fights off Isabella and even her own brother!! when they try to force her to cancel plans with the Tilney's, it's an amazing win for Catherine, who finally trusts her sense of right and wrong over the guidance of older, wiser folk. She is punished every time she does anything: when Thorpe lies to her that Tilney won't come, she goes with him to the castle, when she discovers the lie, she has no way to escape, and when they turn back without ever seeing the castle, no one cares at all that Catherine is upset. When she puts them off the next time, they blame her for why they now can't go on the trip at all, claim she's selfish, and then go anyway??? by asking Thorpe's other sister to complete the party, the exact method Catherine suggests!

Her innocence is used and abused and no one is protecting her. That's the thing. Her parents trust the Allenses, like the Bennets trusted Col Folster to look after Lydia in Brighton. But being a family friend isn't the same as being a parent. Just because someone is nice to your kids doesn't mean they know what to worry about or where they'll need help. The Allenses don't want any harm to come to Catherine, but they're completely incapable of predicting it. And the person who should have most been interested in Catherine's well-being, her brother, is too enamored with Isabella, and only interested in his sister as an excuse to spend time with Isabella without it looking improper.

So young women are thrust into the dangers of the real world, where all women regardless of class are in constant peril, and no one protects them, and the consequences of mistakes are lifelong. Austen never gets so terribly bleak about it (her protagonists still generally don't have to worry about much, and characters like Col Brandon's ward are peripheral only). But she does question it and satirize it and, ultimately, her usual message of "Women, use your own sense, trust your own wits, and know your own worth" comes through loud and clear. Isabella is a Gothic novel heroine-wannabe. She is the most ridiculous character ever. She has conversations no one else is involved in - she makes up drama for drama's sake - she is basically writing her own novel in her head in which she is the most Mary-sue self-insert ever. Only she's doing in the real world. She's half the manipulative temptress, trying to get what she wants (admiration, and money), and half the clown without one drop of self-awareness. Her behavior is for a purpose, but it's also who she is. She imagines she has the world figured out, but in the end, what she gets is treated the same way every other young, unlucky woman who makes mistakes does. Not a heroine's happy ending at all.

I think it's funny that years ago, my impression of Northanger Abbey was "Austen's YA novel." Because it's not young adults who most need to read it. It's adults, who have power over the young, and world experience to manipulate abuse them, but who like the Allenses tend to be so comfortable in their belief that since they intend no harm, no harm can happen. Adults need to reflect on the stupidity of expecting greater restraint and foresight from children than we expect from ourselves. Adults need to remember how much we skate by on luck, how little can be controlled, and then maybe we'd have more empathy for the folly of youth. Instead, we pat ourselves on the back for making it this far and decide it must be because of our superior virtue and wisdom. So many of us are Jameses and Thorpes to the Catherines of the world and it's a wonder more of them don't turn out like Isabellas.

[medeaied]

ON MISTER AND MISSUS MERCY. i mention archibald too much to not talk about him or offer insight into the marriage between archie and lillian. rest in peace my woke king, you were the only normal parent ever.

this post makes mention of the following: miscarriages, adultery, pregnancy, emotional abuse, and murder. please read with caution.

THE [ RIGHT ] HONOURABLE ARCHIBALD "ARCHIE" VINCENT MERCY, ESQ. ( b. january 18th, 1785 - d. summer of 1846 ). archie's lot in life was set from birth; the third son of the baron mercy - he would never inherit the title or estate. from an early age, it was impressed upon him that his lot and life would be that of a working gentleman, and that he would have to earn the luxuries he had grown up with. though well out of the line of succession, his parents - the baron and baroness mercy - were present, and encouraged their youngest song to follow his passions and find something that he excelled at. a studious youth, archie was never one to rebel - and held a healthy respect for his father and his position; as well as the honour that his family inspired and had earned via a spotless reputation.

it was only natural for a archie to pursue a degree in law at oxford university, then - entering at sixteen years of age in 1801. law careers, at the time, were one of the few lucrative options for wealthy young men - and one of the very few acceptable ones to wealthy society and the landed and unlanded gentry; and for a young man with a good family name and a good head on his shoulders, it was wildly believed by his family, friends, and acquaintances that he would do well there - and he did. it was at oxford that archie met the future lord ( and judge ) edward turpin ( b. 1781 ); four years ahead of him in his courses. eager for a leg up and a helping hand, the two, for a time, became close - though it did not take long for the two to chafe; with archie finding turpin's proclivities for lavish and wild parties hindering to his own studies. archie had never been the most social man on god's green earth - and muchly preferred to focus on his future. eventually, the two drifted and fell out of contact.

after graduating oxford in 1805, with archie passing the bar exam with ease. he began to work as a junior partner at lawrence graham, llp; headquartered in london. a hard worker, archie made partner in 1809; and senior partner in 1811. while a quite man outside of court; in court, archie was powerful, decisive, and charismatic - defending his clients with ease. now secure in his position and an independently wealthy man, archie turned his sights inwards, to his own life. he had always thought of himself as a family man - he had the means to support himself and others, and no one to share it with. in that same year, he entered society with the intent to find a wife. while there were a few half courtships attempted; no one caught his eye that year - and in 1812, he returned to the season. the earlier half went the same as 1811 - some decent starts, but ultimately no match. by the summer, archie had grown weary of the season - and apprehensive about once again entering the season. he was not a grand conversationalist; and much preferred being at home. in the later months of the social season, lillian fitzwilliams caught his eye. young, beautiful and vivacious - lillian was an expert conversationalist who had attracted many a suitor; and could make even archie mercy feel at ease enough to get him talking. it was a simple trade: the fitzwilliams were not gentry, but they were wealthy - and archie could provide them entry into the world of london's elite through their eldest daughter. the match was sensible - and all agreed that they were both a striking couple and an excellent one at that.

the two were married in the spring of 1813 - it was not a love match, but archie was confident that they might become friends, at the very least. this soon proved to be difficult - lillian was his opposite in every way. where archie wished to stay at home after a long day of work in court, lillian wished to - and was always - be out. and while she could be charming, lillian could be cold in turn - and was prone to starting arguments, which perplexed and frustrated archie to no end. unwilling to be at home for long periods, archie spent longer hours at his work. he had hoped that children might lighten the mood in the house and bring them closer - but that proved difficult as well. after almost 10 years of trying and 5 miscarriages, lillian asked archie that they cease trying, as she could not take it any more, in 1822. archie agreed.

by 1823, archie's devotion to his work was rewarded; and archie was made the right honourable judge mercy; and was appointed as circuit judge in the crown court of england; serving at the old bailey. the appointment brought with it prestige, substantial funds; and allowed him to cross paths with an old school friend - judge turpin. looking to move to a more fashionable area of town, archie inquired as to if any properties near hyde park were for sale - and ironically, there was: 59 lancaster gate; the manor next to turpin's. archie was only too happy to put an offer down; and lillian and archie moved in that year - celebrating their success - with a little bit too much wine; and archie is overjoyed to welcome their first child, elizabeth, in 1824.

as i mentioned previously, archie does recognise his faults. he is an absent husband, and while he has tried to make amends with lillian, it never quite works out - but he is devoted to his children; and is the sole stable parent in the children's lives. he loves all four of them dearly; and is a buffer between the children and lillian - especially the girls, who he adores. of course, 3 out of 4 of the children are not his - something he does not know or suspect.

the barker incident in 1830 left a sour taste in archie's mouth - and he began to become aware of turpin's less than scrupulous activities and the way he took advantage of his position and the power it gave him. while the two are on speaking terms ( as archie has no desire to run afoul of the man ); archie is distant - and has been slowly gathering evidence of bribes, bad rulings, biases, and cover-ups turpin has taken and made over the years; hoping to eventually indite turpin and have him removed from his seat of power. progress has been slow - as the man is well-connected, and archie often finds himself stonewalled.

in addition, he mislikes lillian's proximity to their neighbour - and while he supported his daughters being johanna's playmates in their youth, he does not wish them ( or his sons ) to be around turpin for too long. and yet, he finds himself in a very strange 'family unit'; one in which he quietly seethes in.

by 1846, archie feels as though he is ready to finally present an inditement against turpin - but wishes to get his own house in order beforehand; sending his eldest son alexander into navy service in order to get him into shape and prevent the boy from turning in to a wastrel and a rake, as well as remove christopher, his youngest, from turpin's mentorship. the only thing that archie is able to do, however, is send alexander to his new post - having gone to a new barber after hearing a lawyer in court commend a mister todd of fleet street. archie vanished in the summer of 1846 - and was presumed dead by november of that year.

ON ARCHIE'S RELATIONSHIP WITH LILLIAN. oh my god, they were roommates. their marriage is not a love match, certainly - and some days it is barely a partnership. while drawn to lillian's charm and beauty, archie is often frustrated and confused by lillian's outbursts and the way she treated their children ( especially their daughters ) when they were young. partly, he does blame himself for the current state of the household, the children, and their marriage - he knows he was absent as a husband and more concerned with work; and attempted to rectify that absence with his children to varying degrees of success, as he loves them dearly and wishes to see them grow up well and enter the world as good, hardworking people. in addition, archie was not in the habit of denying lillian anything she asked for; and just as he believes that lillian has spoilt their eldest son, archie knows he has spoilt her and enabled her behaviour, and has only now begun to put his foot down. while lillian and archie have every capability of working in tandem for the long term, they both live mostly separate lives under the same roof by 1846; presenting a united front for both public and private events - or when it is required of them for family affairs. lillian and archie are simply too different to truly be compatible at the end of the day - and have long since grown apart and stopped trying to be any closer.