#it is a culmination of life maybe. the long years of nurture. in the nature vs nurture sense

[soldier-poet-king]

"I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me" except tracing patterns between my recurring favourite character types has ended with me being pepe silvia as I slowly come to the realization that all the awful weak parts of me are apparently interconnected in ways I havent fully grasped yet

It is. Occurring to me. That I have an extremely fucked up relationship with the notion of consent??? Like not just in a sexy way but also in an everyday normal general way. And this is related to dissociation as a coping mechanism but also dissociation as something I often find comforting, in a way. Which is linked to my desperate need for control and my obsessive freak behaviours (à la ocd and need for certainty) but also how desperately tired I am of being in control and how I want nothing more than to just let go entirely and let someone else be in charge. Which ofc doesn't work because there's no scenario in which I can be forced to give up control entirely, nor is there anyone I actually would fully wholly trust in that level of complete and utter control. Which ofc I guess also links to my god as lover thing, in a way, BC this is all probably applicable in a divine way and in an everyday way and in a sexy way, what do I know. But also my deep awful need to be cared for instead of caretaking, which again circles back to trust, and also issues of obedience and people pleasing and submission to duty. And how the servitude of people pleasing can be both comforting and full of ecstasy because I still have a 'use' and that use is the purpose (y'know like. The Clarified in Baru Cormorant. I'm not looking at it, I refuse to acknowledge it), but it's also a defense mechanism and a habit born out of self preservation and fear and something I hate doing and hate about myself. And how can it be both those things, which brings us back to consent. Personhood????

I'm. Hm.

Normally this is smthn I would say hey we should journal and keep ur thoughts to urself but also we never ever acknowledge or talk about this stuff ever and I feel like an unwell little freak who is fundamentally shattered in ways I am only beginning to understand and I'm just!!! Oh!! Oh i am realizing things and I don't know if that's good or not. And why don't we talk about these things in non therapy ways I am going insane in my own head

[azenari]

reo | 11.6.20

originally written for a teacher and a friend -- “You don't always get the dog you want, but you get the dog that you need.”

Thanks to some combination of nature and nurture, I’ve been a fairly high-strung, anxious person for as long as I can remember. Emotionally, I have a lot to work through when it comes to self-esteem, belonging, and neuroses/insecurity as it pertains to my relationships. I lost my mother unexpectedly at a young age and was the one who discovered her body when I came home from school one day. I have intense survivor’s guilt, and I’m constantly waiting for the floor to fall out from under me because I’ve been hyper-aware ever since that moment that it can happen anytime.

I struggled with depression for a number of years - mostly alone or with the support of other friends who were also struggling - and made a couple suicide attempts which, thankfully, did not succeed. I had some less-than-ideal experiences with psychiatrists because strangers put pressure on my father, a single dad and a widower, to seek professional help because I smiled and thanked them for coming to my mother’s funeral (which I thought was what she would’ve wanted me to do. I still think that). It took me years to come around to the fact that maybe I’d just seen the wrong therapists at the wrong time, vs. believing that therapy just wasn’t for me.

This shift in mindset occurred not a moment too soon, because after years of denial, I recognized that one of my closest personal relationships was and had been increasingly abusive (culminating in sexual assault). I developed and was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). At last, I went to therapy. This time, I was lucky to find someone who could help me - in her words, it was also because I was ready to be helped.

It’s been a few years since then, and while I’m not always successful at maintaining a healthy state of mind and body, I’m a lot better than I used to be. I listen to myself a lot more, for one. I’m working through the survivor’s guilt. I’m lucky to be married to someone I consider both a best friend and a soulmate, the latter of which I thought was more of a fairytale than anything else until I met him. I have trust. I have people and places I call home. I sleep and eat on a regular basis. I still challenge and push myself in life because that’s who I’ve always been, but in such a way where I can really feel the joy in doing it, rather than the dread of waiting for myself to fail.

Three years ago, I made a decision I knew I would always make someday, deep in my gut. I decided to get a dog.

I’ve always been a “dogs welcome, people tolerated” person. My family and I have been rescuing sick, lost, or injured animals since I was a little girl. When I was growing up, my best friend - and the only living being in the world I felt comfortable confiding all my thoughts in - was our neighbor’s dog, who was born and brought home the same year that I was. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever met a dog I didn’t love at first sight.

I was 23 by the time I’d saved the financial resources and created the infrastructure I thought I would need to support a dog. I was incredibly lucky to already have one - my husband’s dog, Nyx, who by that point was 2 years old and the absolute joy of our lives. Though she started as his dog, Nyx became our dog and continues to see us both as her parents; but she was his decision, and he brought her up with his own two hands (a Herculean feat for a 21-year-old navigating his first job) while I was still in school.

While I would’ve loved to adopt a bigger dog, my husband and I lived in a small apartment in Los Angeles and knew we didn’t have the space to support one, so we decided to look for another mini Australian Shepherd or Shepherd mix who would be a good companion for Nyx. I intended to rescue, so I followed a lot of rescues in the area, waiting for a puppy I could learn to raise myself. In the midst of all this research, I made the mistake of following a single breeder: A teacher with a family farm in Northern California who bred miniature Australian Shepherds and Italian Greyhounds out of sheer love for both, which I thought was such a hilarious combination that I wanted to follow their activities from afar.

A couple of months went by, and the teacher in Northern California posted about a new litter of mini Aussies on Facebook. She uploaded pictures one by one, and we followed along, trying to hold ourselves back - which became easy enough because one after the other, someone would claim the newest puppy in record time and ask to bring them home.

One day, she posted a picture of a puppy that was one of the smallest in the litter and frankly didn’t look anything like any other Aussie - or even dog - that we had seen before. When we saw him, even though it was technically just a photo, it felt like he was looking straight at us. I remember showing him to my husband (then boyfriend) and the first words out of his mouth were: “Is that our dog?” … Call it a gut instinct.

Knowing that we wanted to rescue and imagining that this puppy, like the others, would not have any trouble finding a forever home, we told ourselves that we would wait a week and see what happened. Usually in a matter of 24-48 hours, the dog would be spoken for. But for some reason… days went by, and no one came for the puppy.

I caved and sent the teacher a message.

After what felt simultaneously like a lifetime but also five seconds, I was flying to Sacramento to meet her and bring our baby home. I remember the moment when she gently placed him in my arms. It felt like something that had been empty in my chest for years was suddenly not empty anymore. I know people describe human motherhood as a singular experience, but as someone who had gone through life for years questioning whether she would ever form a permanent connection with any living creature - or have anyone or anything to come home to - I can’t imagine that the moment I have a child (if I’m lucky enough to have a child) will feel too different from the moment I held Reo for the first time.

I remember the first night as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. We ordered a crate beforehand, but a long and complicated series of circumstances led to me having to fly to pick him up the day before the crate would arrive. That night, he and I both slept on the couch - he with his body mostly in his carrier, curled up on a blanket that smelled like his siblings, with the door partially open to give him room to stretch and breathe - me haphazardly tucked next to him with one hand lightly touching his back just so I would know if something happened. He slept pretty peacefully, actually, but I woke up every 15 minutes in a panic, worrying that something would happen to him or that I would do something wrong or that he would disappear and this would’ve all been a dream. But he was there every time I opened my eyes.

Fast forward a few years later and Reo is, for the most part, a goofy, roly-poly force of nature who is incredibly loving to the people he considers to be his “pack”. He’s also... anxious and fairly high-strung (where have we heard that before?), especially around strangers - and especially if he perceives there to be a potential threat to his mother, who he seems to constantly worry is at risk of being attacked. God willing, I don’t think he’ll ever have to experience finding my dead body one day when he comes home from school; nevertheless, he seems to have inherited the lingering, irrational paranoia I developed from that experience.

I’m no different, really. PTSD isn’t something that truly goes away. At best, it’s dormant, manageable, something I’ve learned to appreciate as an indicator of when my body feels overwhelmed or unsafe. I’m still generally anxious, neurotic, and high-strung; and though I’ve learned to not let it dictate the way I live my life, I’m also still a little insecure.

I’ve gotten a lot better at hiding it from humans. But I’m incapable of hiding it from my dog.

Which brings me to where we are today. Like me, Reo is the way he is through some combination of nature and nurture. He’s always going to be a little anxious about life, and I only gave him more reasons to feel constant concern. We’re both too aware, too worried, too afraid of the million things that could go wrong at any given moment.

On the other hand - like me, Reo is also capable of change. And growth. And building trusting relationships with others, based on a shared understanding that you reinforce through time and practice until you slowly start to believe it might be real.

Reo and I have both learned to perceive our physical home as the only true “safe space” we have in the world. Despite our mutual love for adventure, fear of all aforementioned things that could go wrong keeps either of us from wanting to leave. After a lifetime of constant harassment from strangers (predominantly male, predominantly malicious, always a vivid reminder of abuse), I’m on high alert every time I leave the house, and that compounds when I bring him with me. My dormant PTSD symptoms seem to stir like sleeping lions as soon as we so much as swing open the door. For both of us, there are triggers lurking around every corner, waiting to scare us into giving up.

But if we continue hiding within the confines of these four walls, we’ll miss out on so many of the joys of life. And even if I could’ve reconciled myself to that type of existence, I don’t want him to suffer the same fate just because I’m terrified to set foot outside.

So we’re working through it. We’re fortunate to have a strong, loving, and patient support system. We’re fortunate to have the financial resources to ask for professional help. Recently, we met our “therapist” - a teacher and behaviorist who can understand and guide us both. Based on how our first day went, I think we both instinctively recognize that she’s the right person to help us, because she understands where both of us are coming from. To Jo: I don’t know what it is you went through, or what your triggers and traumas are… but even just from our interaction today, it felt like you could recognize my experience, especially in seeing how it manifested in my relationship with Reo. I realize we’re asking you to train me a lot more than we’re asking you to train him. I’m deeply grateful that you're still willing to do it.

I know it doesn’t seem like it when we’re out there, but I have a lot of conviction when it comes to this relationship. Of course, I think my body (easily triggered, hyper-reactive, always the most skeptical part of my ecosystem) has a hard time believing that we’re going to be okay. My mind has its moments; sometimes it thinks we’re going to be, sometimes it has to fight itself to remember what we’re working towards.

My heart, on the other hand, has remained hopeful through all of these experiences. It’s part of the reason I’m still here. And my heart really, truly believes that we’ll get there - we being Reo, and also me.

I’ve spent a lot of time wishing that Reo had better luck finding a mother. Someone who was sure of herself. Someone a little less traumatized, less anxious, less afraid… but the fact of the matter is he wound up with me. Instead of wishing that I could be someone else, I’m going to focus on being grateful that he came to me when I needed him most. I’ve done a lot of healing over the last few years, and we’ve both come pretty far relative to where we started. But we still have a long way to go.

For his sake, and my sake, I want to keep moving forward.

[trillian-anders]

chambers - xiv

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: violence, angst, slow burn

word count: 3164

description: post-endgame. Steve Rogers has passed away from old age. The one remarkable thing is that no one knew his heart would be in the condition it was. He was able to save one more life. After receiving his heart, strange things start happening. Including something that would change your life forever. (Inspired by the Netflix series of the same name.)

He couldn’t see it before. 

But he could now. 

It was in the details. How you moved around the kitchen in the mornings, how you sat on the couch, the way you moved your fingers across his back as you passed him in the hall. It made sense. Whether nature versus nurture was more beneficial there was one true thing. You gained that from Steve and Peggy. The pure will and determination. The perseverance. The way he would lay you out on the mat and you’d get back up, the way you pushed to match his speed around the lake, and the way you argued with him. 

Incessantly. 

“I just think we could be helping a little more.” You shrug at him, dismissively. He could feel his jaw clench.

“We are doing what we are supposed to be doing right now.” Training, laying low. 

“Hiding.” You bite. “Letting Zemo’s fear tactic work.” Bucky rolled his eyes,

“Sam is taking care of that,” He threw back what remained of his coffee, the temperature still slightly too hot. It scalds his throat on the way down, an instant regret. “What we need to worry about is your training.”

The mat, a relic from Pepper and Tony training in a similar way to this right now, up here at the cabin with their small little family. A way to stay sharp. It was laid out next to the cabin on some flat ground. The thick black mat gave a little to your feet but was still firm enough to take the air from your lungs when your back would hit it. 

And you found your back against it, a lot. 

Bucky was relentless, but you already knew this. Icing muscles that would be healed by morning while watching the evening news. Eating enough food for your growing metabolism became a full day of constant snacking, a jug of water sat by your bed for when you woke at two am ravenously thirsty. 

“It’s like that at first,” He explains to you, “It’ll get better.” You had a hard time believing him when you then spilled said jug all over the floor of your room, you’d sopped it up with the towel you’d discarded from your earlier shower and took the soaking thing down to the laundry room, along with the rest of your laundry. A domestic task you hadn’t thought too much about until right now. 

The steps back up from the basement creaked and had dust footprints from where you must assume Bucky had done laundry earlier in the day, a couple of his shirts were hanging above the dryer still. He knew you were coming, but he still didn’t move or look up. 

Bucky sat in the kitchen, illuminated from the light on top of the stove, a steaming mug in front of him. A strange thing about Bucky is that he was really into loose leaf teas. There was a small cabinet in the compound filled with glass containers marked with chalk paint, along with measuring spoons and right below it a temperature controlled electric kettle. 

“Different teas brew at different temperatures.” He defended, not that you’d asked. But he said that they help calm him down at night, when it’s time to finally rest his mind. And he liked variety. 

“Can’t sleep?” You asked him, his slumped form looking tired, exhausted. 

“Had a video call with Sam.” His voice grumbled, raspy. “Only time he could get on.” Your gaze moved to the clock above the stove. It was almost five in the morning. You mourned the minutes you wouldn’t get to sleep because there was no point. Bucky stared at his mug for a moment more before looking back up at you and saying, “I’m gonna go back to bed.” 

“Are you okay?” Bucky never went back to bed. He was a strict, 5 am riser, didn’t go to sleep until 10. Every day. Every day that you knew him as long as he could help it. He had routine. He nods, taking a sip of tea and looking at you with half lidded eyes. 

“I’m fine.” 

It was a quiet moment. Peaceful for the first time since he couldn’t remember. This was worth it. It was worth it. All the sacrifices he’d made. Everything he had to do to get here. All of the pain it initially caused him, culminating to this moment. 

Peggy was still recovering, asleep just feet away. The first night of good rest in a long time. All due to the small bundle laying on Steve’s chest. The bare skin to skin contact he remembered was really good for babies. Calming. There was a rattle in your lungs still and he wondered if this was what it was like with his own Mother. 

Did she lay awake just like this, constantly making sure he was still breathing? The worry that doesn’t go away. He thought about his baby every minute of every day. Is she still breathing? Is she hungry? Does she need to be changed? 

He’d lay her out on a blanket in the living room. Her wide eyes watching him while he cleaned, cooing and babbling, wiggling on her belly or back. She was still so small, eating a couple ounces every few hours, needy, and cried more often than not. 

But this is why he came back. And it all made sense to him. 

He didn’t know he could love another person so much, and it terrifies him. 

The lake was calm. In any other circumstance you would think this would be a nice vacation. A cabin in the middle of nowhere, on a beautiful lake somewhere lost in the woods of upstate New York. You could almost imagine it with a blanket of snow, thick on the ground. Sitting on the porch covered in a blanket with a hot cup of coffee, maybe some tea or hot chocolate. 

You loved these runs now. Running with Bucky was better, but without was okay. Relaxing even. Your thoughts go blissfully blank as you listen to the birds chirping, sun coming up over the horizon and bathing the sky in soft blue light. 

You’ve seen him in the corners of your eyes, but never face to face. Steve. Your father. His ghost having haunted you for months now seems to be keeping himself away. Maybe his intervention only came with the cost of crisis and high stress, none of which you’d been feeling since you got back to the cabin with Bucky after seeing your parents. 

Something seemed to shift between the two of you that soothed that yandere type want you had for him. 

Yes, you still loved him immensely, but now he wasn’t pushing you away. 

Not really. 

He was affectionate. Years of being touch-starved and lonely meant he would spend a lot of time in the same room, something always touching. A shoulder, a hand. Your cheeks have stopped heating up from the contact when he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger while reading. 

But there was something there. Something that made him pull back. A forgetfulness he’d lose himself in for a minute, before he’d pull away, leave the room, or bashfully apologize and try to explain the behavior away. 

It’s hard. You know that. It was hard for you too. Both of you hadn’t talked about it since. Just like Steve the conversation seemed to be absent. 

He apologized for how distant he’d been before. And now it was safe to say you’d call him a friend, but this nagging in your chest, that pull of wanting those touches and wanting to say, “I’m completely fine with you touching me.” But you don’t because you don’t know if that’s Steve talking or you. 

Which now that you’ve discovered your parentage seemed a little gross. Your biological father, Captain America, loved this man. But you were starting to think, maybe you do too. 

You thought in passing about Strange’s words. What they implied. If Steve didn’t go back he would lose everything. It gave you a sinking feeling in your gut. What does that mean? What difference would you make towards the future of this world? A world you wouldn’t exist in if Tony Stark and Scott Lang hadn’t invented a time machine. 

It seemed insane that you wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Thanos. 

You wouldn’t exist if Doctor Strange didn’t tell Steve to go back. 

Or if an older Steve didn’t tell Doctor Strange to tell the younger Steve to go back. 

It was complicated. 

But what seemed more complicated was Eric’s understanding of you not texting him back. 

“Don’t send anything out to him.” Bucky warned. Bucky was very clear about contact with people from the outside. The phone you’d been given was Stark technology, it was a closed and secure circuit for the most part, but Bucky didn’t trust Eric and he didn’t want to risk your location being given away just for you to tell him that you can’t talk right now. 

He didn’t seem to want to give up. You blocked his number this morning. 

“We’re going to work on your knife skills.” A brief flash of memory. The dexterity of his fingers flipping and tossing that knife from hand to hand throughout the fight. The ability of it was practiced and fluid. It was intimidating. “In the event you get close combat, we are going to pair your hand to hand skills and instead of you being on the defense it will give you leverage to take on the offense and take down your opponent.” 

Zemo was a fighter, but we’ve seen that he’s gotten men to do his dirty work for him. Never showing up, but having others show up to fight for his cause. 

“I just don’t know how I feel about stabbing someone.” You stand across from him on the mat, a dummy knife in his hand. His eyebrow raised, 

“You’ve crushed someone’s windpipe before.” 

“It was an accident.” You defended. “I wasn’t in control.” He stands still for a minute before sighing, 

“I don’t want you to have to stab anyone either,” honestly, “But in the event that it’s you or them… I’d rather you be prepared to take them down any way possible.” 

This little dummy knife fit in your hand like a real knife, but had a blunt end unable to actually harm someone other than a couple bruises. Yeah, you could probably crush someone’s windpipe with this, but you quickly dismiss the thought and look back up at Bucky. He had an identical dummy knife. You watched his fingers flip the dummy knife back and forth over his hand. Over and under his fingers, smooth and easy. 

“It’s an extension of your arm.” He explains. “You should think of it that way, make sure you keep a steady grip, not too tight but not loose either.” 

The sun was hot on your back, mid spring in full swing the temperatures were rising to mid-60s and 70s every day. You could feel the sweat running down your back as you flipped the dummy knife from one hand, trying to catch it with the other, Bucky’s elbow meeting your stomach, the dummy knife falling and your back hitting the mat, wheezing. 

“You’re overthinking.” His hand gripped your forearm, your hand gripping his as he pulled you up from the mat. “You can do this. Try again.” 

A reset in stance, you tried to remember the first time Steve saw him again. When he was still the Winter Soldier. The way he fought. It’s the same way he fights now, the style ingrained in him from 70 years of practice. The Winter Soldier did well on the offense, he came in hot, overpowering. That’s what Bucky still does and he didn’t like being on the defense which had been shown to you when he taught you hand to hand. 

Bucky was good at gaining the offense and backing people into a corner. That’s what he’s teaching you to do. Gain the offense, take down your opponent, don’t let them keep you on the defense. 

You need to run at him first. And you do, your arm goes up ready to bring the ‘knife’ into his shoulder, his arm coming up to block, you drop the ‘knife’ from your right hand down to your left, waiting, bringing the ‘knife’ to his gut. His hand grabs your wrist, you twist your body to make his grip awkward and yours sure. A pause. Unsure what to do. That’s your mistake. His elbow meets your arm, the nerves of your arm spasming and releasing the dummy knife, his foot meets the back of your knee and causes you to drop, your knee giving out and putting you in a lunge on the mat. 

“How do you recover?” He pauses. You have one free hand, his body is above yours, standing firm and gripping your captured wrist tightly. You debate for a second, taking your free hand to mimic a cheap shot without actually hitting him where it really hurts, his hips back away from your oncoming fist regardless, at the same time dropping your weight down and dragging him to the floor. You quickly grab the discarded dummy knife, flipping him onto his stomach and twisting your fingers into his hair, sitting on the middle of his back you grip the strands tightly and yank his head back, sticking the ‘knife’ to his throat. 

A pause to catch your breath before releasing his hair and rolling off of his back, staring up at the sky beginning to gather clouds. 

“Good job.” A sigh as he rolled onto his back beside you. “You’re getting better.” 

“What did Sam say this morning?” You asked, both of you now rolling the mat to save it from the oncoming rain. Bucky lifted the mat over his shoulder, bringing it up onto the porch and depositing it on the side of the house. 

“He wanted to check in, they’re finishing up cleaning Times Square and they’ve had meetings with Pepper about donation money.” There’s guilt in your gut, acidic and raw. And as if reading your mind he continued, “We didn’t know he was going to do this Y/N. You didn’t know he was going to do this.” That’s what probably hurt the most. Not having the control to stop something so horrifying. 

You almost watched the news to punish yourself at this point. The death toll. People crying about missing family members. Bucky had caught you more than once, scolding you, shutting off the tv before pulling you into his side and giving you a minute to cry. It was heartbreaking. But you couldn’t help it. 

The guilt festered in your stomach. It ate at you relentlessly. You wanted to get out there. You wanted to stop him, but was that nature or nurture? With the revelation of your parentage you wondered if it was the biology or the heart giving you an intense craving for  justice. 

“I have to make this right.” You told him. The sun setting below the horizon, Bucky took a step towards you on the porch, placing his hands just above your elbows. “I can’t let him get away with this.”

“And we won’t.” He soothes, “But I’m not going to put you in danger.” You scoff, removing yourself from his grip. 

“The people in Times Square weren’t given a choice.” You could see his jaw clench, the muscles twitching. “What else did Sam say?” Bucky tugged his bottom lip between his teeth before sucking in making a ‘tsk’ sound. 

“They’re closing in on Tanzania, where Zemo has some allies. They’re trying to get confirmation on the gun running they’re doing there…” Bucky’s eyes looked over your shoulder, sighing, before returning to yours. “We think he’s also trafficking humans.” Funding an international crime ring was hard work. You could taste the bile bubbling in your stomach. 

“So what do we do?” 

“Sam is taking care of it.” 

“So nothing?” Bucky rolled his eyes, hands on his hips, a heavy sigh, “Bucky, I’m just saying, we’ve been out here for almost two weeks. I’ve improved. I literally took you down just forty minutes ago.” 

“Because you needed a win.” He admits. 

“So you let me take you down?” The anger was palpable. You knew he could feel it. You felt confident after holding that dummy knife to his throat. You felt like you could actually do something, actually maybe defend yourself, and apparently you were wrong. 

“Yes.” 

You turned abruptly, taking a step away from him before making a split second decision. You turned back quickly, throwing a fist at his face. One he easily dodged, bringing your other hand to meet his dodge, having him lean into the fist coming to his gut. A step backward. His arm reaches out, going to grab your arm but you drop down, foot hooking around the back of his knee, yanking forward he falls off balance. A quick flip and he regains composure, coming forward to grab your wrists quickly. He crosses them, spinning you around to hold your back against his chest, wrapping your arms around your body. You push off the ground, hard, butting your head against his nose and knocking the both of you to the ground as his grip didn’t relent. 

“Y/N, stop!” He grips you tighter, the muscles in your shoulders straining in his grip. It was a blindingly clear sign. You weren’t ready. And it was endlessly frustrating. Hot tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. You stopped struggling. His grip loosened. “It’s okay,” He says, “You’re okay.” He was bent over your back, legs framing yours, arms still wrapped around you. The tears didn’t fall this time. Your heavy breathing synced with his and you leaned back against him, resting the back of your head against his shoulder, looking back out onto the lake, the sky now dark. 

“Listen to me,” he says, “We are going to stop him.” His thumb softly tracing your skin. “We are all doing what we can right now, and I need you to understand that doing what you can doesn’t mean you’re not doing anything.” 

“You said that to Steve.” His hold loosened. You turned to look him in the eyes, his lips parted, close. “I’m not Steve.” 

“I know you’re not-”

“No,” You shake your head, “I don’t think you do.” You push yourself up from the ground, heading towards the front door, and into the house. 

...

“This is Atlas, checking in.” The recording started, “Moves are being made. It should be time to progress with the plan, but I've hit a small snag. I’m sure I can get it worked out shortly in one way or another.” A pause. “Cell 229 has been compromised.” 

Zemo clicked off the recording, before replaying. 

“This is Atlas, checking in…”

.

.

.

tagged //  @nutellakirb @witch-of-letters @torntaltos @emotionallysalty @an-lover @lbuck121 @rainbowkisses31​ @artisticrogers1972 @flightlessbirdiee @sanniegirl1214 @sarcastic-and-cool @sincerelymlg @justanotherpaigeinthechapter @albinotigerpython​  @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​ @the-soulofdevil​ @tinmunky​ @gifsbysimplysonia​ @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious

[littjara-mirrorlake]

Green, from a Simic perspective

people often talk about green as the color of acceptance, tradition, and simplicity. i, and my red tertiary, initially recoiled at those words, ones I’ve come to associate with oppression and the preservation of the status quo. but i grew to realize green can become far more than that. it was a process to come to terms with it as half my color identity, but now i can confidently say that i am green, just as much as i am blue.

it’s important to remember that no one who identifies with a color can at once show every expression of that color, because colors by nature cover a huge variety of traits. this is just my personal connection to the color green, as a red (or is it black??) tertiary simic.

(long post under the cut.)

while white is the color of religion, as in dogma and moral codes and ideals, green is spirituality. it’s a humbling feeling of interconnectedness and awe independent from the concept of an intelligent God, or any set of cosmic decrees. combined with blue, it is a deep reverence for the complexity and intricacy of nature, the million molecular processes that knit together into the miracle we call life–and, thinking even beyond that, the universe as a whole.

green is the color of ancestry, of returning to one’s roots. my view of ancestry goes deeper and broader than merely humans, extending back through time to include all my evolutionary predecessors–once again influenced by the blue values of science and progress. 

so what is heritage, to this simic? this is heritage: my ancestors swam the oceans before they ever tasted air, and the same four nucleotides compose the story of my being within my cells as in theirs, long ago. i am one branch on a tree of life that extends to every being that draws breath, twitches a minute flagellum, calls on ribosomes to assemble its proteins. although i am an individual with my own thoughts and aspirations, i am also a long evolutionary line culminating ever so briefly in human flesh, part of a living, breathing whole much greater than myself. scientific study is an act of reverence for my ancestors and how far they have come, how beautifully they have diversified.

and there, too, arises the green idea of wholeness, of all things being connected.

another green concept is belonging, more abstract than white’s notions of oath or people or nation. I believe aligning one’s self with groups can often enhance, not erase, individuality. I am proud to define myself as a member of a chosen family, or a biologist, or a Simic. maybe it’s the blue in me, but i tend to focus more on chosen groups than those you’re born into and cannot change.

i don’t believe in destiny–my blue half assures that–but i do believe in nature’s rhythms, the inevitable rise of new growth. green is life and death, in tandem. both holdfast and upwelling. even in a cruel world, life triumphs in the end–otherwise, how would we be here now, breathing and feeling and living after a billion years? in this way, green–or at least simic green–is a progressive force, calling for uprising and unity in the face of our oppressors. (this take, of course, is further colored by my red tertiary–or is it black? I still haven’t figured it out myself.)

and green is a nurturing color. i love and revere life, and for that reason, i foster it. in laboratories, in aquariums, in the fuzzy friends i adore.

so there’s my take on green, at least for now. my spirituality is the rhythm of the heartbeat and the song of a billion life-forms evolving together in this world we call home. i am the legacy of my amphibious, scaled, finned, single-celled ancestors. i am an agent of progress and a member of a vast family. and i am simic.

[medablvck]

cis female / she + her. ┊ if you’re looking for ANDROMEDA BLACK, you’ll probably find HER in the SLYTHERIN dorm with the rest of the SIXTH years. they’re the TWENTY year old PUREBLOOD who looks kind of like KATIE DOUGLAS. they seem INQUISITIVE, SELF-RELIANT & ANALYTICAL to me, but apparently they’re also CYNICAL, INTROSPECTIVE & TACTLESS. maybe that’s why they remind me of rain on dark windowpanes, the heavy sweetness of red wine, ink-stained fingers. dark curls escaping from pins, burnt out matches from a guilty cigarette, and looking your mother in the eyes when you lie.

CHARACTER  INSPO  INCLUDES:  fitzwilliam  darcy  (  pride  and  prejudice  ),  huntress  (  birds  of  prey  ),  mei  (  a:tla  )

PRE-HOGWARTS  !!

andromeda  &  her  mother  have  what  u  can  call  a  strained  relationship.  from  her  moment  of  birth,  druella  saw  everything  andromeda  did  as  an  act  of  rebellion,  whether  it  was  a  childish  question  asked  in  the  wrong  place  at  the  wrong  time,  or  getting  so  absorbed  in  a  book  she  forgot  to  come  down  for  dinner,  or  a  bit  of  accidental  wandless  magic  born  out  of  a  moment  of  frustration.  every  day  was  a  trial  against  andromeda,  with  her  parents  acting  as  the  judge,  jury  and  executioner,  &  over  and  over  again  she  was  found  guilty.

andromeda  never  meant  to  defy  her  mother,  at  first,  but  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried  to  please  druella,  nothing  she  ever  did  was  quite  good  enough.  there  was  always  some  fault,  whether  it  was  a  lock  of  hair  tumbling  free  from  its  pin,  a  corset  come  unlaced,  posture  ruined  from  hunching  over  a  book.  her  wrists  were  too  bony,  her  lips  were  too  thin,  her  skin  too  easily  flushed.

[  ABUSE  TW  ]   it  didn’t  escape  andromeda’s  notice  that  every  flaw  her  mother  criticized  was  one  druella  shared  as  well,  and  when  she  grew  older  she  realized  her  mother’s  dissatisfaction  with  andromeda  was  merely  a  product  of  her  own  dissatisfaction  with  herself.  but  that  didn’t  feed  her  the  nights  she  was  denied  dinner  for  her  ‘ misbehaviour ’.  it  didn’t  take  back  the  days  andromeda  went  unable  to  speak  thanks  to  a  punitive  silencio,  and  it  didn’t  grant  andromeda’s  wish  to  have  a  real  mother  who  loved  her. [  END  TW  ]

did  druella  love  her  children  ?who  knows.  maybe  she  did,  in  her  own  twisted  way.  but   druella  was  first  and  foremost  a  business  woman,  and  her  main  trade  was  her  daughters.  andromeda  grew  up  listening  to  endless  warnings  that  her  mother  would  “ never  be  able  to  find  andromeda  a  husband  if  … ”  and  then  came  whichever  grievance  she’d  chosen  to  focus  on  that  day.

it  cannot  come  as  a  surprise  that  andromeda  learned  to  live  in  the  shadows,  away  from  her  mother’s  disapproving  glare;  that  she  learned  to  rely  on  herself  and  herself  only,  that  she  learned  to  watch  &  observe  &  test  the  waters,  to  think  before  acting.  (  of  course,  druella  did  not  approve  of  this  either,  and  informed  andromeda  that  no  man  would  want  a  girl  who  was  so  serious  all  the  time.  )

her  parents  often  dragged  her  and  her  sisters  to  various  pureblood  functions,  where  andromeda  stood  off  to  the  side  in  uncomfortably  starched  dresses,  disappearing  like  smoke  any  time  someone  looked  like  they  were  heading  over  to  strike  up  conversation.  she  would  explore  the  pureblood  manors,  all  silent  footsteps  &  watchful  eyes,  making  observations  on  how  the  wizarding  world’s  elite  lived  their  lives,  noting  separate  beds  in  the  master  bedrooms  &  half-empty  whiskey  bottles  in  the  washrooms.  it  seemed  like  everyone  was  only  looking  out  for  themselves  in  this  world,  trying  to  further  their  own  social  status  and  wealth.

at  home,  she  would  escape  to  the  roof  with  a  book,  whether  it  was  a  history  of  warlocks  or  the  kind  of  torrid  romance  novel  druella  pretended  she  didn’t  read,  dark  eyes  hardly  looking  up  as  the  sun  sank  lower  in  the  sky,  fingers  blackened  with  ink  by  the  time  she  closed  her  book  and  descended  into  the  house  to  face  her  mother’s  wrath  that  she  missed  her  piano  lessons.

is  it  strange  that  such  a  cynical  girl  could  have  such  a  yearning  for  beautiful  things  ?  or  would  that  merely  be  a  side  effect  of  cynicism,  to  long  for  something  to  thaw  a  hardened  heart  ?  andromeda  loved  beautiful  things,  perhaps  a  bit  too  much,  but  she  did  not  trust  them.  nothing  beautiful  was  made  to  last,  and  if  it  was,  it  wasn’t  truly  beautiful.  sunsets  faded  to  darkness,  books  ended,  lovers  grew  apart.  the  inherent  transience  of  beauty  made  andromeda  crave  it  all  the  more.  

HOGWARTS  !!

hogwarts  was  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  andromeda,  the  chance  to  experience  life  outside  her  parents’  regime.  to  her  inquisitive,  probing  nature,  an  ancient,  magical  castle  full  of  history  &  secrets  was  paradise,  let  alone  all  the  classes  it  housed.  and  the  people  —  andromeda  had  never  seen  so  many  people  in  her  lifetime.  hundreds  &  hundreds  of  students  filled  the  castle,  all  with  their  own  thoughts  and  lives  and  desires.  

an  introvert  by  nature,  she  didn’t  interact,  merely  observed.  she  made  best  friends  with  the  library  &  the  constellations,  sneaking  out  of  the  dorm  to  sit  with  her  legs  dangling  over  the  fifty-foot  drop  of  the  astronomy  tower,  eyes  finding  her  constellation,  andromeda,  and  wondering  if  her  fate  was  written  in  the  stars  too;  drunk  on  the  beauty  of  an  untamed  scottish  night.

the  unidentifiable  yearning  she’d  always  kept  tucked  inside  a  corner  of  her  heart  ballooned  until  she  could  hardly  stand  it.  it  was  a  yearning  to  be  something  more than  the  perfect  pureblood  wife  her mother  was  trying  to  groom  her  to  be,  a  thirst  to  prove  herself  in  some  way  she  didn’t  even  understand  yet,  and  it  was  this  ambition  &  drive  that  got  her  sorted  into  slytherin.

if  druella  &  cygnus  had  thought  andromeda  was  unmanageable  before  hogwarts ,  when  she  wasn’t  even  trying  to  be,  she  was  downright  wild  when  she  returned  for  winter  break  in  first  year.  now  that  she  knew  life  could  be  better  than  what  she  was  currently  living  at  home,  she  buzzed  with  a  restless  energy  that  alarmed  her  parents.  andromeda  may  have  been  troublesome  before,  but  this  was  bordering  on  dangerous.  druella  made  the  decision  that  andromeda  would  not  be  returning  to  hogwarts.  [  ABUSE  TW  ]  this  sparked  one  of  the  worst  fights  they’d  ever  had,  and  culminated  in  a  rare  but  unforgiving  physical  beating.  [  END  TW  ]  

eventually  druella  conceded,  and  andromeda  was  allowed  to  return,  but  she  was  much  more  cautious  now.  she  only  made  friends  who  her  parents  would  approve  of,  she  kept  her  nose  clean,  and  at  home,  she  played  the  part  of  the  dutiful  daughter.  there  were  still  small  rebellions,  though  —  long  curls  cut  short  with  a  silver  flash  of  the  kitchen  scissors;  a  nicked  pack  of  her  father’s  cigarettes  smoked  cross-legged  on  the  roof,  coughing  into  her  fist  so  nobody  would  hear.  as  she  got  older,  she  paired  the  cigarettes  &  book  with  red  wine ,  the  finest  she  dared  steal  without  risk  of  being  caught.  this  was  her  escape,  her  small  patch  of  beauty  in  an  ugly  world.

andromeda  keeps  to  herself  at  hogwarts  as  much  as  she  can.  the  only  people  she  spent  time  with  were  those  her  parents  approved  of,  and  she  didn’t  like  most  of  them.  she  threw  herself  into  her  schoolwork  instead,  easily  landing  herself  a  spot  among  the  top  students.  

but  she  loves  hogwarts,  loves  it  with  all  her  heart,  as  so  many  abused  children  do  –  it’s  a  safe  haven,  a  place  where  she  can  at  least  pretend  she’s  free.  she  loves  learning  everything  that  she  can  (  in  fact,  she  was  very  nearly  sorted  into  ravenclaw  ).  her  favourite  place  to  be  is  the  astronomy  tower,  and  she  still  escapes  there  whenever  she’s  feeling  a  bit  too  claustrophobic.

she  was  chosen  to  be  a  slytherin  prefect  for  her  year  and  although  she  thought  she  wouldn’t  like  it,  she’s  grown  to  enjoy  the  position.  not  for  the  power  it  gives  her  over  her  fellow  students,  but  for  the  escape  it  brings.  she  can  associate  with  people  she  would  normally  never  talk  to,  and  roam  the  castle  freely  past  curfew.  and  andromeda  isn’t  a  naturally  nurturing  person,  but  she’s  found  that  she  enjoys  talking  to  and  helping  the  younger  years.  she  sees  their  wonder  at  hogwarts  in  their  eyes,  the  same  wonder  that  she  felt,  and  has  grown  quite  protective  over  quite  a  few  of  them.

she’s  technically  in  slug  club,  due  to  her  prowess  in  potions  and  her  illustrious  family  name,  although  she  hardly  ever  goes  –  she  does  not  like  slughorn  at  all,  nor  most  of  the  people  he’s  selected  to  be  in  his  little  club.  other  than  that,  however,  andromeda  doesn’t  make  a  habit  of  joining  clubs  or  teams  or  anything  that  would  involve  her  being  forced  to  interact  with  people.

PERSONALITY  !!

those  who  don’t  know  andromeda  might  say  she’s  aloof,  proud,  detached,  all  flint  eyes  &  sharp  edges.  and  they  wouldn’t  be  wrong.  andromeda’s  habit  of  keeping  to  the  shadows  has  carried  on  into  her  hogwarts  years,  and  as  an  introvert,  her  solitary  nature  can  sometimes  come  off  as  downright  anti-social.  she’s  naturally  pensive,  and  her  pensive  face  just  so  happens  to  look  pissed  off.  

she  finds  it  hard  to  trust  people.  she’s  so  used  to  a  world  shaped  by  selfishness  that  she  rarely  meets  someone  she  doesn’t  suspect  of  having  ulterior  motives.  after  all ,  beautiful  people,  like  beautiful  things,  are  temporary.  everyone  turns  ugly  sooner  or  later;  everyone’s  claws  are  eventually  revealed.

andromeda  carries  an  unmistakable  air  of  wealth  that,  although  entirely  unintentional,  can  rub  people  the  wrong  way.  she  has  a  taste  for  the  finer  things  in  life  —  an  aged  wine,  a  silken  scarf  —  and  sees  no  reason  why  she  shouldn’t  enjoy  them.  she’s  well  read  &  well  bred,  and  has  a  vocabulary  and  accent  that  can  seem  pretentious  to  some.

do  not  confuse  eloquence  with  smoothness,  though  —  just  because  she  knows  more  four-syllable  words  than  most  doesn’t  mean  she  knows  how  to  use  them.  awkwardness  comes  off  as  aloofness  and  snobbery.  think  mr  fitzwilliam  darcy.  this  girl  is  the  opposite  of  charming.  honestly,  most  people  probably  think  she’s  pretty  weird  cause  she’s  quiet  and  like  v  awkward  when  spoken  to.  just  kinda  does  stuff  on  her  own

[dvrkprinces]

&&. ( carter blackthorn ) was just spotted in amsterdam. rumor has it ( he ) is a ( 30 ) year old ( alpha werewolf ) who resembles ( michael b. jordan ). ( he ) has been said to be ( loyal & hard-working ) but also quite ( distrusting & proud ). with all the chaos surrounding the magical underworld, he has chosen to align with ( the werewolf rebellion ). ( he ) is currently serving as ( bunny deerling’s personal bodyguard ). hopefully the city doesn’t devour them whole.

— ❝ if i cannot be better than them, i will become so much worse.❞

( hi there, kiwi here! this is the official intro for my precious bb carter blackthorn. this is the first time i’m playing carter in a group and i’m so excited to see how he fits with everyone! needless to say, i want all of the connections for him! please let me know if you’d like to plot; i’m available through both the group’s discord and tumblr ims. ♡ )

name: carter octavius blackthorn

birthplace: oakland, california

birthday: june 18th | gemini

scents: windswept shores, white seafoam, sea salt, sage, ambrette seeds, fresh woods, rugged woodland cliffs + ( signature cologne: wood sage & sea salt - jo malone london )

appearance: 6′1″ and honed from years of playing physical sports outdoors and working out, carter is in the best shape of his life and enjoys spending time running or working out in the gym or training arenas. he is an alpha wolf to the fullest physical extent and it’s obvious even when looking at him. carter has dark brown / black hair he tends to keep in a close buzz / fade to his scalp and well-groomed facial hair, though he’s been known to go without a beard, as well. 

carter doesn’t care much for fashion and tends to dress casually when he’s not working for the deerling family; t-shirts, v-necks, sweaters, jackets, and casual pants make up most of his personal wardrobe. 

personality: ( + ) loyal, hard-working, protective, kind, passionate ( - ) distrusting, proud, stubborn, emotionally distant

biography: carter hails from the great city of oakland, california, and remains a steadfast californian at heart. born to a human father and a beta werewolf mother, carter never heard the term “half-ling” or “half-breed” in his house growing up. instead, he was nurtured with all the love, devotion, and care of two parents who were desperately in love with one another and supportive of the small, tight-knit family they had culminated together. carter grew up with a love for sports, playing basketball with kids in the neighborhood during summer breaks, football for school in the autumn, and baseball training in the winter and spring months. his father thought his love for sports would soon blossom into something of a professional player, but his mother spotted his energy and physicality for what it was: carter exhibited all the telltale traits of an alpha werewolf, and though it was a term the blackthorn patriarch was unfamiliar with, carter’s parents attempted to teach their son the importance of his heritage and lineage to the fullest of their capabilities.

his father worked as a local physician and his mother maintained a classroom of kindergartners as an early education teacher, so carter considered himself fortunate enough to grow up in a family with two parents who loved and cared for him. his life changed when he was roughly 13 years old and a close family friend to the blackthorns died in a tragic automobile accident, leaving behind a young and bright-eyed little girl. the blackthorns took in the toddler, first as foster parents, and then eventually adopted her into their home. she and carter were raised like siblings, and to this day, he’s fiercely protective of his younger adopted sister, particularly because she’s recently shown signs of being an omega.

carter’s family was happy - for the most part. by the time he had graduated high school and entered university with the intentions of studying foreign language and history, tragedy struck the blackthorn household. carter was twenty years old when his father had a heart attack at work--one he didn’t recover from. the kind, soft-hearted blackthorn patriarch passed with his wife, son, and adopted daughter all around him. the grief gnawed at carter’s heart, and though his father left behind life insurance and an inheritance for his mother to survive on, her occupation as an early chilhood educator took a toll as she struggled to figure out how to raise a family of two on her own. so, to help soothe his mother’s concerns, carter took on a job serving to pay for his college classes and tuition. he assured his mother the tips were enough to get by...but they weren’t.

so rather than stress his mother out with an unnecessary financial burden, carter did all he could think of: he used his traits as an alpha wolf and his years of physical training and exertion to enter into the sordid world of cage fighting. he was good in the ring; a natural, some of his competitors often said, and the bets and cash prizes won from the illicit underground fights he participated in was enough to help push him through school. he helped his mother in whatever way he could, taking care of his younger sister and helping to cook meals and run errands after long days. it was no easy feat, to be sure, but carter knew there were many out there who had it much worse than him. he made do with what he had.

and he was good at fighting. he excelled where other fighters fumbled and fell.

finally, when it felt as though the never-ending tunnel of darkness would refuse to give way to light, carter made it through with a double major in foreign language studies and history. he acquired a job after college teaching american history to esl students, and felt he had finally found his calling when his mother told him of her concerns about his younger sister. she showed all the signs of being an omega, and with the turbulent and dangerous circumstances surrounding the rarity of omega children in the world, his mother feared that something might happen to her one day, and then their family of four would be reduced to a family of two. she claimed that she knew of a place where they could join up with a resistance and place his sister into hiding; a werewolf-led rebellion that she’d been told about from old friends and family members of carter’s mother back from her days immersed in the supernatural underworld.

though oakland was where he grew up, his family was his home. carter was quick to agree to help his mother, packing their bags and setting their sights for the netherlands. in a bid to protect his sister and mother from plans the human government might have for both of them, carter joined leagues with the werewolf rebellion and became placed on an assignment as none other than bunny deerling’s bodyguard: the daughter of a government official for the human-werewolf coalition.

presently, carter is just entering his role as a mole for the werewolf rebellion and a bodyguard to the deerling estate. he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to pull off this coup, but if it means protecting his family and ensuring rights for werewolves all over, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

after all, carter’s certain it’s what his father would have wanted.

wanted connections: i would really love to hear any connections or ideas you have for carter ! definitely some acquaintances within the werewolf rebellion, maybe some humans he’s not on friendly terms with, antagonistic relationships with fallen angels or vampires, etc. !! he’s really not that familiar with the political climate here, growing up in a household that tended towards human behaviors, so hit me with what you’ve got !

[andrmvdas]

rain on dark windowpanes, the heavy sweetness of red wine, ink-stained fingers. dark curls escaping from pins, cold coffee dregs and burnt out matches from a guilty cigarette. holy places long since abandoned, the simmering wildness of a bird caged, and the ancient ache for freedom. ┊ if  you’re  looking  for  ANDROMEDA  BLACK,  you’ll  probably  find  HER  in  the  SLYTHERIN  dorm  with  the  rest  of  the  SIXTH  years.  they’re  the  TWENTY  year  old  PUREBLOOD  who  looks  kind  of  like  KATIE  DOUGLAS.  they  seem  SELF-RELIANT,  INQUISITIVE,  ELOQUENT  to  me,  but  apparently  they’re  also  CONTRARY,  CYNICAL,  HAUGHTY.  maybe  that’s  why  their  patronus  is  A  RAVEN.

PINTEREST  !!

(  rain  on  dark  windowpanes,  the  heavy  sweetness  of  red  wine,  ink-stained  fingers,  greyish  purple  of  dawn,  cold  bones,  fastening  the  clasp  of  a  silver  necklace.  dark  curls  escaping  from  pins,  starched  white  shirts  under  wool  coats,  cold  coffee  dregs  and  burnt  out  matches  from  a  guilty  cigarette.  fog  over  the  scottish  moor,  the  soft  tick  of  a  grandfather  clock,  stars  peeking  through  an  overcast  sky,  the  stark  echo  of  a  single  violin.  the  pages  of  a  book  turning  in  a  library  past  midnight.  holy  places  long  since  abandoned,  the  simmering  wildness  of  a  bird  caged,  and  the  ancient  ache  for  freedom.  a  tempest  barely  contained  within  a  girl.  )

PRE-HOGWARTS  !!

andromeda  &  her  mother  have  what  u  can  call  a  strained  relationship.  from  her  moment  of  birth,  druella  saw  everything  andromeda  did  as  an  act  of  rebellion,  whether  it  was  a  childish  question  asked  in  the  wrong  place  at  the  wrong  time,  or  getting  so  absorbed  in  a  book  she  forgot  to  come  down  for  dinner,  or  a  bit  of  accidental  wandless  magic  born  out  of  a  moment  of  frustration.  every  day  was  a  trial  against  andromeda,  with  her  parents  acting  as  the  judge,  jury  and  executioner,  &  over  and  over  again  she  was  found  GUILTY.

andromeda  never  meant  to  defy  her  mother,  at  first,  but  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried  to  please  druella,  nothing  she  ever  did  was  quite  good  enough.  there  was  always  some  fault,  whether  it  was  a  lock  of  hair  tumbling  free  from  its  pin,  a  corset  come  unlaced,  posture  ruined  from  hunching  over  a  book.  her  wrists  were  too  bony,  her  lips  were  too  thin,  her  skin  too  easily  flushed.

[  ABUSE  TW  ]   it  didn’t  escape  andromeda’s  notice  that  every  flaw  her  mother  criticized  was  one  druella  shared  as  well,  and  when  she  grew  older  she  realized  her  mother’s  dissatisfaction  with  andromeda  was  merely  a  product  of  her  own  dissatisfaction  with  herself.  but  that  didn’t  feed  her  the  nights  she  was  denied  dinner  for  her  ‘ misbehaviour ’.  it  didn’t  take  back  the  days  andromeda  went  unable  to  speak  thanks  to  a  punitive  silencio,  and  it  didn’t  grant  andromeda’s  wish  to  have  a  real  mother  who  loved  her.  [  END  TW  ]

did  druella  love  her  children  ? who  knows.  maybe  she  did,  in  her  own  twisted  way.  but   druella  was  first  and  foremost  a  business  woman,  and  her  main  trade  was  her  daughters.  andromeda  grew  up  listening  to  endless  warnings  that  her  mother  would  “ never  be  able  to  find  andromeda  a  husband  if  … ”  and  then  came  whichever  grievance  she’d  chosen  to  focus  on  that  day.

it  cannot  come  as  a  surprise  that  andromeda  learned  to  live  in  the  shadows,  away  from  her  mother’s  disapproving  glare;  that  she  learned  to  rely  on  herself  and  herself  only,  that  she  learned  to  watch  &  observe  &  test  the  waters,  to  think  before  acting.  (  of  course,  druella  did  not  approve  of  this  either,  and  informed  andromeda  that  no  man  would  want  a  girl  who  was  so  serious  all  the  time.  )

her  parents  often  dragged  her  and  her  sisters  to  various  pureblood  functions,  where  andromeda  stood  off  to  the  side  in  uncomfortably  starched  dresses,  disappearing  like  smoke  any  time  someone  looked  like  they  were  heading  over  to  strike  up  conversation.  she  would  explore  the  pureblood  manors,  all  silent  footsteps  &  watchful  eyes,  making  observations  on  how  the  wizarding  world’s  elite  lived  their  lives,  noting  separate  beds  in  the  master  bedrooms  &  half-empty  whiskey  bottles  in  the  washrooms.  it  seemed  like  everyone  was  only  looking  out  for  themselves  in  this  world,  trying  to  further  their  own  social  status  and  wealth.

at  home,  she  would  escape  to  the  roof  with  a  book,  whether  it  was  a  history  of  warlocks  or  the  kind  of  torrid  romance  novel  druella  pretended  she  didn’t  read,  dark  eyes  hardly  looking  up  as  the  sun  sank  lower  in  the  sky,  fingers  blackened  with  ink  by  the  time  she  closed  her  book  and  descended  into  the  house  to  face  her  mother’s  wrath  that  she  missed  her  piano  lessons.

is  it  strange  that  such  a  cynical  girl  could  have  such  a  yearning  for  beautiful  things  ?  or  would  that  merely  be  a  side  effect  of  cynicism,  to  long  for  something  to  thaw  a  hardened  heart  ?  andromeda  loved  beautiful  things,  perhaps  a  bit  too  much,  but  she  did  not  trust  them.  nothing  beautiful  was  made  to  last,  and  if  it  was,  it  wasn’t  truly  beautiful.  sunsets  faded  to  darkness,  books  ended,  lovers  grew  apart.  the  inherent  transience  of  beauty  made  andromeda  crave  it  all  the  more.  

HOGWARTS  !!

hogwarts  was  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  andromeda,  the  chance  to  experience  life  outside  her  parents’  regime.  to  her  inquisitive,  probing  nature,  an  ancient,  magical  castle  full  of  history  &  secrets  was  paradise,  let  alone  all  the  classes  it  housed.  and  the  people  —  andromeda  had  never  seen  so  many  people  in  her  lifetime.  hundreds  &  hundreds  of  students  filled  the  castle,  all  with  their  own  thoughts  and  lives  and  desires.  

an  introvert  by  nature,  she  didn’t  interact,  merely  observed.  she  made  best  friends  with  the  library  &  the  constellations,  sneaking  out  of  the  dorm  to  sit  with  her  legs  dangling  over  the  fifty-foot  drop  of  the  astronomy  tower,  eyes  finding  her  constellation,  andromeda,  and  wondering  if  her  fate  was  written  in  the  stars  too;  drunk  on  the  beauty  of  an  untamed  scottish  night.

the  unidentifiable  yearning  she’d  always  kept  tucked  inside  a  corner  of  her  heart  ballooned  until  she  could  hardly  stand  it.  it  was  a  yearning  to  be  something  more than  the  perfect  pureblood  wife  her mother  was  trying  to  groom  her  to  be,  a  thirst  to  prove  herself  in  some  way  she  didn’t  even  understand  yet,  and  it  was  this  ambition  &  drive  that  got  her  sorted  into  slytherin.

if  druella  &  cygnus  had  thought  andromeda  was  unmanageable  before  hogwarts ,  when  she  wasn’t  even  trying  to  be,  she  was  downright  wild  when  she  returned  for  winter  break  in  first  year.  now  that  she  knew  life  could  be  better  than  what  she  was  currently  living  at  home,  she  buzzed  with  a  restless  energy  that  alarmed  her  parents.  andromeda  may  have  been  troublesome  before,  but  this  was  bordering  on  dangerous.  druella  made  the  decision  that  andromeda  would  not  be  returning  to  hogwarts.  [  ABUSE  TW  ]  this  sparked  one  of  the  worst  fights  they’d  ever  had,  and  culminated  in  a  rare  but  unforgiving  physical  beating.  [  END  TW  ]  

eventually  druella  conceded,  and  andromeda  was  allowed  to  return,  but  she  was  much  more  cautious  now.  she  only  made  friends  who  her  parents  would  approve  of,  she  kept  her  nose  clean,  and  at  home,  she  played  the  part  of  the  dutiful  daughter.  there  were  still  small  rebellions,  though  —  long  curls  cut  short  with  a  silver  flash  of  the  kitchen  scissors;  a  nicked  pack  of  her  father’s  cigarettes  smoked  cross-legged  on  the  roof,  coughing  into  her  fist  so  nobody  would  hear.  as  she  got  older,  she  paired  the  cigarettes  &  book  with  red  wine ,  the  finest  she  dared  steal  without  risk  of  being  caught.  this  was  her  escape,  her  small  patch  of  beauty  in  an  ugly  world.

andromeda  keeps  to  herself  at  hogwarts  as  much  as  she  can.  the  only  people  she  spent  time  with  were  those  her  parents  approved  of,  and  she  didn’t  like  most  of  them.  she  threw  herself  into  her  schoolwork  instead,  easily  landing  herself  a  spot  among  the  top  students.  

but  she  loves  hogwarts,  loves  it  with  all  her  heart,  as  so  many  abused  children  do  –  it’s  a  safe  haven,  a  place  where  she  can  at  least  pretend  she’s  free.  she  loves  learning  everything  that  she  can  (  in  fact,  she  was  very  nearly  sorted  into  ravenclaw  ).  her  favourite  place  to  be  is  the  astronomy  tower,  and  she  still  escapes  there  whenever  she’s  feeling  a  bit  too  claustrophobic.

she  was  chosen  to  be  a  slytherin  prefect  for  her  year  and  although  she  thought  she  wouldn’t  like  it,  she’s  grown  to  enjoy  the  position.  not  for  the  power  it  gives  her  over  her  fellow  students,  but  for  the  escape  it  brings.  she  can  associate  with  people  she  would  normally  never  talk  to,  and  roam  the  castle  freely  past  curfew.  and  andromeda  isn’t  a  naturally  nurturing  person,  but  she’s  found  that  she  enjoys  talking  to  and  helping  the  younger  years.  she  sees  their  wonder  at  hogwarts  in  their  eyes,  the  same  wonder  that  she  felt,  and  has  grown  quite  protective  over  quite  a  few  of  them.

she’s technically in slug club, due to her prowess in potions and her illustrious family name, although she hardly ever goes – she does not like slughorn at all, nor most of the people he’s selected to be in his little club. other than that, however, andromeda doesn’t make a habit of joining clubs or teams or anything that would involve her being forced to interact with people.

PERSONALITY  !!

those  who  don’t  know  andromeda  might  say  she’s  aloof,  proud,  detached,  all  flint  eyes  &  sharp  edges.  and  they  wouldn’t  be  wrong.  andromeda’s  habit  of  keeping  to  the  shadows  has  carried  on  into  her  hogwarts  years,  and  as  an  introvert,  her  solitary  nature  can  sometimes  come  off  as  downright  anti-social.  she’s  naturally  pensive,  and  her  pensive  face  just  so  happens  to  look  pissed  off.  

she  finds  it  hard  to  trust  people.  she’s  so  used  to  a  world  shaped  by  selfishness  that  she  rarely  meets  someone  she  doesn’t  suspect  of  having  ulterior  motives.  after  all ,  beautiful  people,  like  beautiful  things,  are  temporary.  everyone  turns  ugly  sooner  or  later;  everyone’s  claws  are  eventually  revealed.

andromeda  carries  an  unmistakable  air  of  wealth  that,  although  entirely  unintentional,  can  rub  people  the  wrong  way.  she  has  a  taste  for  the  finer  things  in  life  —  an  aged  wine,  a  silken  scarf  —  and  sees  no  reason  why  she  shouldn’t  enjoy  them.  she’s  well  read  &  well  bred,  and  has  a  vocabulary  and  accent  that  can  seem  pretentious  to  some.

do  not  confuse  eloquence  with  smoothness,  though  —  just  because  she  knows  more  four-syllable  words  than  most  doesn’t  mean  she  knows  how  to  use  them.  awkwardness  comes  off  as  aloofness  and  snobbery.  think  mr  fitzwilliam  darcy.  

but  those  who  do  know  andromeda,  those  precious,  precious  few,  know  of  her  vivacity,  her  independent  streak,  her  love  of  learning,  her  dry  humour,  the  dimples  that  appear  with  every  mischievous  smile.  they  know  the  fire  she’s  kept  hidden  in  her  heart  for  so  long,  and  the  proud,  apathetic  mask  she  slips  on  so  easily  whenever  she’s  hurting.

OTHER  !!

gender / sexuality:  cis  female / bisexual

birthday / zodiac:  jan  11 / capricorn

mbti:  intj

moral  alignment:  chaotic  neutral

temperament:  melancholic

patronus:  raven

amortentia:  dried  ink,  pine,  petrichor,  dark  chocolate

[starchained-blog]

whats  up  my  dudes  !!!   i  am  bee,  i’m  19  &  i  never  fuckin  learned  how  to  stop  using  this  exact  vine  reference  in  all  my  intro  posts  !!  i  will  be  playing  my  Babe  andromeda  black.  but  first  a  lil  bit  about  me  b4  i  start  2  ramble  about  andromeda:  i’m  always  a  slut  for  the  Aesthetic,  i’m  a  math  Nerd  aaaand  im  probably ??  way  too  in  love  w  fitzwilliam  darcy.  also  i  will  Always  want  to  plot  so  if  u  do  too  please  hmu  !!  nyways  u  can  find  out  more  abt  my  daughter  andromeda  under  the  cut  !!

- ̗̀✰ • 【  XU  JIAQI,  CISFEMALE,  SHE/HER  】 ❝  did  you  see  ANDROMEDA  BLACK  on  the  train  back  to  hogwarts  ?  they’re  a  PUREBLOOD  in  their  THIRD  year  as  a  TWENTY-year-old  SLYTHERIN.  apparently  they’re  the  RECUSANT  around  the  grounds;  most  likely  because  they  give  off  an  aura  of  rain  on  dark  windows,  the  heavy  sweetness  of  red  wine,  ink-stained  fingers,  a  tempest  barely  contained  within  a  girl.  of  all  the  social  media  platforms,  they’re  definitely  most  obsessed  with  their  INSTAGRAM;  probably  because  they’re  SELF-RELIANT,  but  also  INTROSPECTIVE.  however,  on  the  new  manifest  app  in  mr.  carlos’  english  class,  they’ve  already  managed  to  anonymously  steal  the  username:  NIMUE.  ❞ ┊ 「  bee,  19,  est,  she/her.  」

PINTEREST  !!

rec·u·sant  (  noun.  )   a  person  who  refuses  to  submit  to  an  authority  or  to  comply  with  a  regulation.

aka  just  a  fancy  way  of  saying  rebel  !

(  rain  on  dark  windowpanes,  the  heavy  sweetness  of  red  wine,  ink-stained  fingers,  greyish  purple  of  dawn,  cold  bones,  fastening  the  clasp  of  a  silver  necklace.  dark  curls  escaping  from  pins,  starched  white  shirts  under  wool  coats,  cold  coffee  dregs  and  burnt  out  matches  from  a  guilty  cigarette.  fog  over  the  scottish  moor,  the  soft  tick  of  a  grandfather  clock,  stars  peeking  through  an  overcast  sky,  the  stark  echo  of  a  single  violin.  the  pages  of  a  book  turning  in  a  library  past  midnight.  holy  places  long  since  abandoned,  the  simmering  wildness  of  a  bird  caged,  and  the  ancient  ache  for  freedom.  a  tempest  barely  contained  within  a  girl.  )

PRE-HOGWARTS  !!

andromeda  &  her  mother  have  what  u  can  call  a  strained  relationship.  from  her  moment  of  birth,  druella  saw  everything  andromeda  did  as  an  act  of  rebellion,  whether  it  was  a  childish  question  asked  in  the  wrong  place  at  the  wrong  time,  or  getting  so  absorbed  in  a  book  she  forgot  to  come  down  for  dinner,  or  a  bit  of  accidental  wandless  magic  born  out  of  a  moment  of  frustration.  every  day  was  a  trial  against  andromeda,  with  her  parents  acting  as  the  judge,  jury  and  executioner,  &  over  and  over  again  she  was  found  GUILTY.

andromeda  never  meant  to  defy  her  mother,  at  first,  but  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried  to  please  druella,  nothing  she  ever  did  was  quite  good  enough.  there  was  always  some  fault,  whether  it  was  a  lock  of  hair  tumbling  free  from  its  pin,  a  corset  come  unlaced,  posture  ruined  from  hunching  over  a  book.  her  wrists  were  too  bony,  her  lips  were  too  thin,  her  skin  too  easily  flushed. 

[  TW  ABUSE  ]   it  didn’t  escape  andromeda’s  notice  that  every  flaw  her  mother  criticized  was  one  druella  shared  as  well,  and  when  she  grew  older  she  realized  her  mother’s  dissatisfaction  with  andromeda  was  merely  a  product  of  her  own  dissatisfaction  with  herself.  but  that  didn’t  feed  her  the  nights  she  was  denied  dinner  for  her  ‘ misbehaviour ’.  it  didn’t  take  back  the  days  andromeda  went  unable  to  speak  thanks  to  a  punitive  silencio,  and  it  didn’t  grant  andromeda’s  wish  to  have  a  real  mother  who  loved  her.   [  END  TW  ]

did  druella  love  her  children  ? who  knows.  maybe  she  did,  in  her  own  twisted  way.  but   druella  was  first  and  foremost  a  business  woman,  and  her  main  trade  was  her  daughters.  andromeda  grew  up  listening  to  endless  warnings  that  her  mother  would  “ never  be  able  to  find  andromeda  a  husband  if  … ”  and  then  came  whichever  grievance  she’d  chosen  to  focus  on  that  day.

it  cannot  come  as  a  surprise  that  andromeda  learned  to  live  in  the  shadows,  away  from  her  mother’s  disapproving  glare;  that  she  learned  to  rely  on  herself  and  herself  only,  that  she  learned  to  watch  &  observe  &  test  the  waters,  to  think  before  acting.  (  of  course,  druella  did  not  approve  of  this  either,  and  informed  andromeda  that  no  man  would  want  a  girl  who  was  so  serious  all  the  time.  )

her  parents  often  dragged  her  and  her  sisters  to  various  pureblood  functions,  where  andromeda  stood  off  to  the  side  in  uncomfortably  starched  dresses,  disappearing  like  smoke  any  time  someone  looked  like  they  were  heading  over  to  strike  up  conversation.  she  would  explore  the  pureblood  manors,  all  silent  footsteps  &  watchful  eyes,  making  observations  on  how  the  wizarding  world’s  elite  lived  their  lives,  noting  separate  beds  in  the  master  bedrooms  &  half-empty  whiskey  bottles  in  the  washrooms.  it  seemed  like  everyone  was  only  looking  out  for  themselves  in  this  world,  trying  to  further  their  own  social  status  and  wealth.

at  home,  she  would  escape  to  the  roof  with  a  book,  whether  it  was  a  history  of  warlocks  or  the  kind  of  torrid  romance  novel  druella  pretended  she  didn’t  read,  dark  eyes  hardly  looking  up  as  the  sun  sank  lower  in  the  sky,  fingers  blackened  with  ink  by  the  time  she  closed  her  book  and  descended  into  the  house  to  face  her  mother’s  wrath  that  she  missed  her  piano  lessons.

is  it  strange  that  such  a  cynical  girl  could  have  such  a  yearning  for  beautiful  things  ?  or  would  that  merely  be  a  side  effect  of  cynicism,  to  long  for  something  to  thaw  a  hardened  heart  ?  andromeda  loved  beautiful  things,  perhaps  a  bit  too  much,  but  she  did  not  trust  them.  nothing  beautiful  was  made  to  last,  and  if  it  was,  it  wasn’t  truly  beautiful.  sunsets  faded  to  darkness,  books  ended,  lovers  grew  apart.  the  inherent  transience  of  beauty  made  andromeda  crave  it  all  the  more.  

HOGWARTS  !!

hogwarts  was  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  andromeda,  the  chance  to  experience  life  outside  her  parents’  regime.  to  her  inquisitive,  probing  nature,  an  ancient,  magical  castle  full  of  history  &  secrets  was  paradise,  let  alone  all  the  classes  it  housed.  and  the  people  —  andromeda  had  never  seen  so  many  people  in  her  lifetime.  hundreds  &  hundreds  of  students  filled  the  castle,  all  with  their  own  thoughts  and  lives  and  desires.  an  introvert  by  nature,  she  didn’t  interact,  merely  observed.  she  made  best  friends  with  the  library  &  the  constellations,  sneaking  out  of  the  dorm  to  sit  with  her  legs  dangling  over  the  fifty-foot  drop  of  the  astronomy  tower,  eyes  finding  her  constellation,  andromeda,  and  wondering  if  her  fate  was  written  in  the  stars  too;  drunk  on  the  beauty  of  an  untamed  scottish  night.

the  unidentifiable  yearning  she’d  always  kept  tucked  inside  a  corner  of  her  heart  ballooned  until  she  could  hardly  stand  it.  it  was  a  yearning  to  be  something  more  than  the  perfect  pureblood  wife  her mother  was  trying  to  groom  her  to  be,  a  thirst  to  prove  herself  in  some  way  she  didn’t  even  understand  yet,  and  it  was  this  ambition  &  drive  that  got  her  sorted  into  slytherin.

if  druella  &  cygnus  had  thought  andromeda  was  unmanageable  before  hogwarts ,  when  she  wasn’t  even  trying  to  be,  she  was  downright  wild  when  she  returned  for  winter  break  in  first  year.  now  that  she  knew  life  could  be  better  than  what  she  was  currently  living  at  home,  she  buzzed  with  a  restless  energy  that  alarmed  her  parents.  andromeda  may  have  been  troublesome  before,  but  this  was  bordering  on  dangerous.  druella  made  the  decision  that  andromeda  would  not  be  returning  to  hogwarts.  [  ABUSE  TW  ]  this  sparked  one  of  the  worst  fights  they’d  ever  had,  and  culminated  in  a  rare  but  unforgiving  physical  beating.  [  END  TW  ]  

eventually  druella  conceded,  and  andromeda  was  allowed  to  return,  but  she  was  much  more  cautious  now.  she  only  made  friends  who  her  parents  would  approve  of,  she  kept  her  nose  clean,  and  at  home,  she  played  the  part  of  the  dutiful  daughter.  there  were  still  small  rebellions,  though  —  long  curls  cut  short  with  a  silver  flash  of  the  kitchen  scissors;  a  nicked  pack  of  her  father’s  cigarettes  smoked  cross-legged  on  the  roof,  coughing  into  her  fist  so  nobody  would  hear.  as  she  got  older,  she  paired  the  cigarettes  &  book  with  red  wine ,  the  finest  she  dared  steal  without  risk  of  being  caught.  this  was  her  escape,  her  small  patch  of  beauty  in  an  ugly  world.

andromeda  keeps  to  herself  at  hogwarts  as  much  as  she  can.  the  only  people  she  spent  time  with  were  those  her  parents  approved  of,  and  she  didn’t  like  most  of  them.  she  threw  herself  into  her  schoolwork  instead,  easily  landing  herself  a  spot  among  the  top  students.  

but  she  loves  hogwarts,  loves  it  with  all  her  heart,  as  so  many  abused  children  do  –  it’s  a  safe  haven,  a  place  where  she  can  at  least  pretend  she’s  free.  she  loves  learning  everything  that  she  can  (  in  fact,  she  was  very  nearly  sorted  into  ravenclaw  ).  her  favourite  place  to  be  is  the  astronomy  tower,  and  she  still  escapes  there  whenever  she’s  feeling  a  bit  too  claustrophobic.

she  was  chosen  to  be  a  slytherin  prefect  for  her  year  and  although  she  thought  she  wouldn’t  like  it,  she’s  grown  to  enjoy  the  position.  not  for  the  power  it  gives  her  over  her  fellow  students,  but  for  the  escape  it  brings.  she  can  associate  with  people  she  would  normally  never  talk  to,  and  roam  the  castle  freely  past  curfew.  and  andromeda  isn’t  a  naturally  nurturing  person,  but  she’s  found  that  she  enjoys  talking  to  and  helping  the  younger  years.  she  sees  their  wonder  at  hogwarts  in  their  eyes,  the  same  wonder  that  she  felt,  and  has  grown  quite  protective  over  quite  a  few  of  them.

she’s technically in slug club, due to her prowess in potions and her illustrious family name, although she hardly ever goes – she does not like slughorn at all, nor most of the people he’s selected to be in his little club. other than that, however, andromeda doesn’t make a habit of joining clubs or teams or anything that would involve her being forced to interact with people.

PERSONALITY  !!

those  who  don’t  know  andromeda  might  say  she’s  aloof,  proud,  detached,  all  flint  eyes  &  sharp  edges.  and  they  wouldn’t  be  wrong.  andromeda’s  habit  of  keeping  to  the  shadows  has  carried  on  into  her  hogwarts  years,  and  as  an  introvert,  her  solitary  nature  can  sometimes  come  off  as  downright  anti-social.  she’s  naturally  pensive,  and  her  pensive  face  just  so  happens  to  look  pissed  off.  

she  finds  it  hard  to  trust  people.  she’s  so  used  to  a  world  shaped  by  selfishness  that  she  rarely  meets  someone  she  doesn’t  suspect  of  having  ulterior  motives.  after  all ,  beautiful  people,  like  beautiful  things,  are  temporary.  everyone  turns  ugly  sooner  or  later;  everyone’s  claws  are  eventually  revealed. 

andromeda  carries  an  unmistakable  air  of  wealth  that,  although  entirely  unintentional,  can  rub  people  the  wrong  way.  she  has  a  taste  for  the  finer  things  in  life  —  an  aged  wine,  a  silken  scarf  —  and  sees  no  reason  why  she  shouldn’t  enjoy  them.  she’s  well  read  &  well  bred,  and  has  a  vocabulary  and  accent  that  can  seem  pretentious  to  some.

but  those  who  do  know  andromeda,  those  precious,  precious  few,  know  of  her  vivacity,  her  independent  streak,  her  love  of  learning,  her  dry  humour,  the  dimples  that  appear  with  every  mischievous  smile.  they  know  the  fire  she’s  kept  hidden  in  her  heart  for  so  long,  and  the  proud,  apathetic  mask  she  slips  on  so  easily  whenever  she’s  hurting.

MODERNISMS  !!

listen  as  much  as  i  love  the  idea  of  andromeda  in  a  modern  age,  it’s  mostly  just  bc  of  the  wealth  of  information  that’s  available  to  her  ?  like  staying  up  ages  watching  random  ass  videos  &  falling  into  a  black  hole  of  wikipedia  articles  &  having  12  languages  on  duolingo  and  a  streak  on  khan  academy.  fuckn  nerd  ass

but  social  media  ?  not  for  this  bitch  !!  i  really  have  Tried  to  get  her  to  use  social  media  so  i  can  do  fun  sc  threads  &  such  but  she  wont  listen  to  me  smh.  u  know  when  u  meet  someone  cute  &  you’re  trying  to  stalk  them  online  but  they  either  dont  have  any  social  media  or  it’s  just  like  an  empty  acct  with  no  posts  ?  shes  that  bitch.  she’ll  text  people  but  she  hates  the  like  ….  publicity  of  social  media.  doesnt  trust  fb  at  all  (  and  she  shouldnt  !!  zuck  shes  onto  u  )  and  probably  has  a  snapchat  someone  made  her  get  but  she  consistently  replies  like  3  days  late,  breaks  streaks,  has  a  snapscore  of  like  304.  what  a  mess.  shes  a  grandma.  understands  &  enjoys  memes  but  never  uses  them  or  references  them.  if  andromeda  black  references  a  meme  around  u  then  u  know  she  trusts  u  implicitly

she’s  wary  but  intrigued  by  this  new  english  class.  she  dreads  to  think  of  the  reaction  it’s  getting  from  pureblood  families  like  hers,  but  she  recognizes  this  for  what  it  is:  an  escape.  an  opportunity.  

she  chose  her  username  nimue  after  the  famed  lady  of  the  lake  from  the  stories  of  king  arthur  and  the  round  table.  she’d  loved  those  stories  as  a  child,  and  was  especially  drawn  to  the  mysterious  witch,  half-good  and  half-bad,  who  trapped  the  kingdom’s  most  powerful  wizard  inside  a  tree  to  gain  her  independence,  who  gifted  the  king  with  his  famed  sword,  who  was  there  when  the  great  golden  age  of  the  kingdom  rose  and  who  was  there  when  it  fell.

OTHER  !!

gender / sexuality:  cis  female / bisexual

birthday / zodiac:  jan  11 / capricorn

mbti:  intj

moral  alignment:  chaotic  neutral

temperament:  melancholic

patronus:  raven

amortentia:  dried  ink,  pine,  petrichor,  dark  chocolate

that  was  ???  ridic  long  so  bless  u  if  you  read  all  of  that  mess.  im  Too  Lazy  to  list  wanted  connections  rn,  maybe  i’ll  do  that  later  who  knows.  but  anyways  pls  plot  w  me  &  let  me  love  u  down

[wittygaypuns]

So with that missing prompt thing I thought I'd try to send another one! Hermann promise Newt he'll never abandon him.

Newton had been wallowing for several days. He had become snippy with Hermann more so than usual. None of their well-meaning banter, noneof their sharp-but-fond arguments about the nature of this thing orthat. No, Newton had been practically intolerable and disrespectfulat times. When you loved someone, though, there were many things youcould put up with.

So Hermann put up with the sour attitude for nearly a week, hoping it would pass, doing little things to help soothe the mood.

He got Newton's favorite donuts from his favorite bakery, only to find them untouched for days.

Hedrew a bath for him using the blue bath bombs that he favored, only for Newton to roll his eyes and drain the tub.

Askingwhat the problem with yielded no results but unnecessary irritation that quickly escalated into arguments. Trying to help did nothing. Hermann was at a loss; usually Newton's moods, chaos personified though they were, came and went quickly. Usually they were at least a bit predictable. Hermann knew when to avoid conversation and when to initiate bickering. He knew what little things would soothe him and what things should be set aside until the mood got better. This timenothing was working. Nothing was soothing, nothing was helping.

Hermann was at a loss.

Hermann, a man of science and logic, hated to be at a loss.

The behavior was jarring and made him worry that Newton had decided that he no longer wanted to be with Hermann, but the worry was shoved aside. After all they had been through? The decades of longing, of strife, of missed opportunities? After they had finally gotten together the way it should have been all along? They had been together for nearly five years, and Hermann would be damned if he let him go so easily.

So that night, a week into Newton's sudden and unshakable gloom, Hermann climbed into the bed behind him and pulled him into his arms. It wasn't something unusual, but they'd barely touched that week, and Hermann pulled him in with the conviction of a man determined tonever let go. Newton fidgeted for a moment and then stopped, folding his arms over his chest. It was a move that seemed a little pointless considering Hermann was spooning him and Newton was on his side.

“Can I help you with something?” Newton said, tone even.

“I just want to hold you.” Hermann said, kissing the back of his neck lightly.

“I'm not in the mood for this.” Newton said, shifting a bit at thetouch.

“I love you.” Hermann said, matter of fact.

“What? Why are you saying that now?” Newton looked over his shoulder at his husband, brows furrowed.

“Because I think that you need to hear it. I think you need a reminder that I love you without condition.” Hermann said. The fact that Newton had yet to pull away entirely was encouraging.

“Yeah, okay.” Newton muttered.

“It's true. Whatever is troubling you, I'm here. I'll be here always. I let you slip away from me once, Newton, and I won't let you bury yourself again.” Hermann promised softly. For a moment, Newton was silent. Then he pulled away and sat up.

“Bullshit.” Newton said. His voice had gone soft, revealing a pain that had been nurtured for longer than Hermann could imagine. He knew that Newton was a troubled man in many respects and that the Precursors had done a great deal of damage. Hermann loved him, though, as deeply as any person could love another. He did not love Newton despite his troubles; he loved Newton as a culmination of all the troubles and joys in his life.

“No, it isn't. I won't leave you, Newton.” Hermann said, shifting to sit at his side.

“Maybe not now. But you will. Everyone does.” Newton whispered.

It all clicked into place for Hermann.

Newton had been trying to push him away. He had been shunning Hermann in order to make what he assumed a future pain less. He wasn't wrongin one respect; most of the people in Newton's life had left. His mother, the main offender, set the precedent.  He was abrasive andhad a hard time keeping friends. The Precursor incident had lost the rest; those who knew Newton wasn't responsible for the horrors that had happened still quietly drifted away.  They had cast him aside when the crisis was averted, even after Newton had been acquitted ofthe crimes which he was compelled to commit by the masters of the Anteverse. His brilliant mind had been ravaged by the bastards, and even the ones most sympathetic to the damage done to him had drifted away when it was convenient.

But not Hermann.

When all was said and done, Hermann did not drift away.

He had proposed.

He had dropped everything to marry Newton and to make up for the time they had lost. An early retirement from the PPDC and a home in the English countryside away from the scrutiny of those on the coast had done wonders for them both. Sometimes, though, Newton slipped into melancholy. Though it had never struck him so harshly before, Hermann imagined it had been lingering for some time deep inside him.

“Well, it's a good thing I'm not everyone, isn't it?” Hermann huffed, shifting to pull Newton into his arms once again.

“You could be doing so much more with your life, Herms. You could be making advances in your field, you could be giving lectures, you could be...” Newton said.

“I'm doing precisely what I want to be doing. Someday I'll return to my research, but for now, all I want to do is to focus on loving you the way you need to be loved. I don't regret my decisions, so get that idea out of your head. I love you.” Hermann kissed his temple, one hand stroking his back slowly, giving Newton something physical to focus on.

“I – I don't deserve you. After the things I've done, I don't deserve anything. People are right to stay away... I --” Newton began to say. His emotions were starting to flood out, to release ina way that was sorely needed.

“People are bastards and we don't need them. We have one another, and that's all I need. I'm not going to abandon you, Newton. I love you in this life and the next. In this universe and all ones that run parallel. I will not leave you.” Hermann promised.

“Why?” Newton said, voice cracking. His head was one Hermann's shoulder, and Hermann could feel the tears soaking through the light shirt he wore.

“Because you're worthy of love.This is a cliché, but you complete me, Newton. There is no part of my life that would be better without you in it. You challenge me, you make me strive to greater heights, you love me regardless of my many faults, you've always believed in me, even when no one else would.You've always ignited passion in me, fascination. The way your mind works is ridiculous and wonderful. I'll continue to remind you asoften as I can that I love you without pause, Newton, because I needyou to believe it.” Hermann told him, gently rocking him from side to side.

“You deserve better.” Newton mumbled. His resolve was cracking with Hermann's words, though. He was breaking through the ice that had put his lover's heart in stasis.

“Darling, there's no such thing.You and I were made for one another.” Hermann told him.

“I love you, Hermann.” Newton sobbed softly, fingers now clinging to his shirt.

“I love you, Newton. Do you want to lay with me for a while?” Hermann suggested.

“Y-yeah... Please. Can you justhold me? Like you were trying before?” Newton asked.

Shifting slowly back into the bed without letting him go, Hermann nodded.

“Of course, love. For as long as you need.”

[luwucas04]

About 4000 (I am so sorry) Words Concerning Films that Helped Define My Existence

Ah, movies. So much in one package. Story, music, visuals, what’s not to love? Today I shall be elaborating on the most noteworthy films in the thrilling ever-changing saga that continues to be my life. Screenplay alongside a screenplay, if you will (please take this statement as modestly as you can).

The first ever thing in my entire life that I remember being an avid and enthusiastic fan about was the original Star Wars saga, written and directed by George Lucas, spanning May 1977 (A New Hope) – May 2005 (Revenge of the Sith).

As mentioned in the podcast and as you may be able to tell from said podcast, I can’t really pinpoint an exact point in my life where I was introduced to it as it was kinda integrated into my upbringing from the get-go—and due to this it’s a very near and dear franchise to me. And oh boy fun fact my first ever childhood crush was Luke Skywalker (I vividly recall my uncle asking why I had his page bookmarked haha). I remember it was something that I would always watch with my dad and or grandpa, and then when I couldn’t find the VCR set that we had for it, I officially commenced my illicit streaming career (not really though, I didn’t get very far. Only crappy 20-minute clips on YouTube). Star Wars for me was the first thing that I actively sought out stuff for or showed genuine interest in pursuing if that makes sense. Like, you’d watch whatever movies or shows were thrown at you and you never thought much of them. Ohoho not Star Wars, though, that one lasted years. My cousin and I would always bring our little action figures to play with whenever we visited—or we’d find long-ish sticks in the backyard and have lightsaber fights, I got the video games, posters, Lego sets of ships (X-wing and Y-wing to be exact), an entire encyclopedia that I still own to this day (I just checked and there’s a date written inside, April 9th 2010 (which is my 7th birthday)), and of course inspiration for my own art and such. I remember I made this magazine that was essentially just me redrawing pages from the guidebook I had. I still have it, too! Sitting at the bottom of a drawer right now. Also, later on for some reason I absolutely loved drawing Ashoka Tano. Over and over again man. I drew her taking up my cousin’s entire driveway in chalk once.

Not only are the Star Wars films a nostalgic and comforting series, but it held onto its marvel throughout the. Wow well over 10 whole years, I’m getting old. Additionally, because at the time we didn’t have as much access to the things we can achieve with modern technology, I was basically all on my own with it. I fueled my own fascination. And shockingly, not a lot of people in my elementary school (up until maybe grade 6-7) showed much interest in it either. So it was pretty much just me myself and I, and occasionally my cousin whenever he visited, and I think that made it all the more special to me. Also, at the time I think it was geared way more toward kids. There weren’t series like The Mandalorian or active internet communities that were obsessed with the series as far as I was aware, so there wasn’t the same quantity of content nor overall enthusiasm around it. Nonetheless, it was and still is a very personal series due to how engrained it is into basically every aspect of my childhood. I’ll try not to be too repetitive with what I said in the podcast, but ultimately the clear nature of the franchise (attractive character designs, colours, setting in general (it’s an action-packed space adventure what’s not to love)) is what really made me latch onto it, and it kickstarted my interest in the very essence of media and understanding the film medium and what it has to offer. I remember asking how they got Jar Jar to exist on screen and he told me they made him out of CGI, and I interpreted that as they somehow made a real-life computer model out of him and that they were actually interacting with like a physical, solid hologram. Anyway, revisiting the franchise and diving into more of its intricacies now (like the production diaries) is like an absolute goldmine. There are so many aspects of it that 100% contributed to and nurtured my goals, passions, and ultimately who I am as a person. Here is some of my very recent art for good measure:

Up next up we got Lord of the Rings (dir. Peter Jackson, December 2001 – December 2003) or I guess a better way to put it would be those plus The Hobbit (December 2012 – December 2014) trilogy. I think it was earlier than the Marvel phase (which follows this section) because like Star Wars I can’t really remember my first viewing of it, but I definitely watched it all. It might’ve been around grade 3 so 2011-ish? Quick anecdote, one time I had a sleepover I was really excited for, and as we all know when you’re excited for something as a kid and it’s later on in the day, time doesn’t actually pass at all, and so my genius ass decided to flip on The Fellowship of the Ring and boom it was 5 pm and time to leave. Also my grandparents from my mom’s side of the family (they’re German so we call them oma and opa) were visiting once and my opa (grandpa equivalent) wanted to watch something so I was like “omg Lord of the Rings is perfect there are so many characters he can feel empowered by (Gandalf and Saruman because they’re old)”. Phenomenal logic—now thinking back it was probably much too violent for his tastes but yknow.

I love Lord of the Rings so much because it’s the true embodiment of an ideal fantasy story; there’s such pure character dynamics and personalities and Tolkien created such an incredibly solid world in which these stories take place. Man knew his stuff, and in turn provided a charming and utterly wonderful scape for young minds to roam free within. I was going to talk about this if I did my other culminating idea regarding masculinity within the media, but I have the perfect opportunity to do so here: something so great about said world is how sincere and genuine a lot of the male characters are (yknow minus people like Denethor and Alfred). Namely the fellowship, they all openly care for and are affectionate towards one another, something we rarely see between men both in modern media and in real life. Aragorn is a perfect example of someone owning and being comfortable in his masculinity. He is kind to and uplifts others, and communicates openly with them. He isn’t afraid of being intimate and vulnerable towards them, either. We see this in Boromir’s death scene. Aragorn doesn’t patronize him for trying to take the Ring, he consoles Boromir in his last moments and they treat each other with the utmost tenderness and respect—not callously or stiffly. Right after decapitating an orc, Aragorn is still able to run to his side, hold him, and kiss him on the forehead following his passing. Aragorn also isn’t afraid to share fame or glory, in fact he never seeks it out in the first place despite his lineage. It was at the battle of Helm’s Deep that he embraced that destine to be king, not out of lust for power, but because these people needed guidance and leadership and he could provide it for them. He elevates others in an incredibly positive and empowering way, especially Frodo and Éowyn, and is content with the fact that the story is not about him. Even at his own coronation, he directs every single person’s attention to the literal earth-saving feat that the hobbits have achieved in light of his own massive accomplishment. He is such a great role model to have been able to look up and aspire to be like, and I wish there were more characters and people like him.

I was a fan of those original films at an earlier point in my life, but the thing that brought that interest back a little stronger was undoubtedly the release of the Hobbit prequels. Like the Star Wars prequels, everyone can say what they want but they are very gorgeous to me. I skipped out on seeing Frozen with my class to go see The Desolation of Smaug with my dad and that was SUCH a good decision. Although, I’m rewatching them all now and Battle of the Five Armies kinda sucks at the beginning. They kill Smaug in like the first five minutes and like it wasn’t bad but it was very anticlimactic. I also don’t like how they shoved Legolas in there, his personality is really jaded and he’s kind of a big prick in those films. But it’s fine I love Martin Freeman and Richard Armitage and the rest of the dwarves the most. They were obviously the most significant and I like them a lot, and there are three movies as opposed to the one book so there’s even more content!

WHEW sorry about that anyway The Hobbit really was the revival/rekindling of that past love for Tolkien’s world. I also had a good close friend who was also along for the ride as well—being able to be into these things alongside someone is always fun and I’m grateful she was there and shared my same energy. She had the Lego game for that one, very similar free-roam concept as my Marvel one (coming up next), so we had lots of fun with that too. To reiterate, I am rewatching these movies again now as an older person with like an actual conscience, and my takeaway from them is vastly different on more of like… a philosophical level, I suppose. I appreciate the process of things more and the backstory behind Tolkien’s lore and the timeless characters and deeper meanings that he’s conceived. But that wouldn’t be very chronological of me to go into it here so moving on.

Proceeding next, around grade four at the most (so just after it came out), I watched The Avengers (dir. Joss Whedon, 2012). Not only did this single-handedly make my art convictions explode (in a good way), it also instigated my love for soundtracks (and also the entire Marvel universe but we’ll obviously be covering that very soon).

The Avengers was like an epiphany for me. Literally ground-breaking and earth-shattering. Changed my entire 10-year-old life. It was all that I ever wanted and more, and since it was around 2012-13 that I became aware of its existence, the internet community was blossoming with possibilities and content. That same friend liked it as well! My Avengers/Marvel phase definitely rivals my Star Wars phase; I think I watched The Avengers first, and then my dad was like “yeah ok you need to watch everything else now” and so henceforth Captain America and Iron Man and Thor. Those were very good times, and I actually remember experiencing all of them for the first time ever. The Christmas of 2013 was absolutely wild. I only got Marvel related gifts which was incredible at the time. My first ever ‘art of’ book was for the Avengers film, too! I also got an arc reactor shirt that actually lit up and I thought that was the absolute coolest thing ever, and then I remember I cut my tongue on this candy I was eating and my mouth bled profusely for a while. However the most iconic gift of all was my copy of Lego Marvel Superheroes for the PS3. I finished it in about 2 days, and it’s the only Lego game that I’ve gotten 100% completed progress on. I love that game dearly and still play it sometimes. The thing that I love specifically about it was the ability to free-roam the entirety of New York City as any character you wanted, me and that friend would do that exclusively for hours on end and make up our own stories with all the characters. Here is Galactus perusing the streets

Speaking of characters, this was the first thing that really got me making up and drawing a shit ton (apologies for lack of a better phrase) of original characters. I’d make superhero characters for me and my friend (ok I guess I should give her a name huh), Mackenzie, and even for random people in my class cause we needed to fill in some blanks in the stories we’d make. I’d create comics, write little stories, make variation after variation of these people we came up with, and of course like normal children me and Mackenzie would go to the park near my old house and pretend we were said characters. Man it was so fun. Then we’d do all those personality quizzes to find out which member you were most like. Mackenzie and I would do these quizzes on none other than our state-of-the-art BlackBerry playbooks. For me it was usually either Iron Man or Thor, and Mackenzie had this weird curse where she’d only ever get Loki as a result for anything at all which was very hilarious to me. Circling back to soundtracks, The Avengers OST was one of my first full album purchases. The main theme was my favourite track out of all of them for obvious reasons, but I still paid respects to all of them and listened to it often. Since I bought it with my dad’s Apple ID, it’d show up on the communal iPad that we used for music in the kitchen and I have full recollection of my grandpa playing it on blast in the morning to wake us up one time. I was aggravated at first but then when I realized what it was I was like ah yes of course. After the Avengers soundtrack, I got the Wolverine (2013) OST and that was fun but I didn’t like all the tracks in the same way, but THEN I got the Days of Future Past soundtrack. THAT is a good soundtrack AND a phenomenal film.

Anyway, after that I was a Marvel connoisseur for a little while. Like Star Wars I got an entire character encyclopedia, a bunch of comics, posters, you name it. My parents and sister also enjoyed dabbling in stuff too; we’d watch the animated series together on Netflix and eventually ended up seeing all the new movies together when they came out in theatres (except not my mom though cause she gets motion sickness from action films). Marvel was a staple in the adolescence stage of my life before I was introduced to anime (then it was all downhill from there (I am kidding anime was a part of my life that I look back at with great fondness)). It was reason for so much of what I explored with my art and my own imagination, and was one of my first experiences in what it was like to be a part of a fandom-esque community. There were also memes ripe for the picking when it came to Marvel; as one can assume I had no access to memes in kindergarten to grade 1 in the late 2000s. It was such a lovely and warm point in my life, something that established what kind of passion I really poured into something when I really liked it. And akin to Star Wars, there’s just so much to like about it. There’s so much to offer, an array of colourful characters and storylines—and of course, creative liberty when it came to superpowers and that whole narrative. The sky was literally the limit. Here is some of my ancient 2014 portraiture that I dug up for the sake of this assignment

Ok heads up we are now veering AWAY from childhood content and touching on a film that played a more personal part, namely during a very pivotal point, in my life. I picked up The Perks of Being a Wallflower (Stephen Chbosky, 1999) at a bookstore and read it at the speed of light; I was crying in my room on my bed by the time I finished it. I love how we see Charlie’s character change over the course of the novel, not only through what he describes or how he perceives things but his style of writing in general. Anyway, I wanted to read the novel first before I watched the movie (dir. Stephen Chbosky 2012), and I was pleasantly surprised by how accurate the movie is to the book (well duh the author directed it). I read/watched this right before I started high school, so I was kind of (but not really considering the built-up childhood trauma he has yikes) in the same position as the protagonist, Charlie, as he was starting out (minus a lot of the major aspects of his character and what he went/goes through (like drugs)). A lot of the things that he learns were really important takeaways for me before heading into that new chapter of life like he did.

Contrary to the title of the (I know it started out as a novel but I’m just gonna say film) film, you need to put yourself out there and advocate for yourself in life. It’s great to be a trustworthy individual whom everyone is vaguely aware of and likes, but you need to approach things with reason and make yourself known somehow. At the time, both before and during grade 9, and even still sometimes in the present (though I do it more deliberately now), I found myself just standing on the sidelines as life happened before me and I let it sweep me away without having any feet planted on the ground. It was like I wasn’t in control of it, and in turn I might’ve struggled in some areas more than I should have. I didn’t own anything, like I wasn’t totally present. Similar to Charlie, I was a person who’d always be there for others, someone people could talk to and confide in, and ultimately someone people truly enjoyed having around—which is pretty great. But I didn’t fully know my position or what I ultimately wanted in any of those situations. Don’t get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful for my entire freshman experience and I absolutely wouldn’t have wanted it any other way considering all personal circumstances, but with that foreknowledge of the importance of making a name for yourself, especially in high school, I think I was able to branch out with ease a bit more than I would have without it. I at least was aware of what was going on in that sense. That movie is really special to me because it ended up being a pseudo-mirror of my own experiences. Charlie’s English teacher, Bill, embraced his writing abilities and urged him to participate more, share his own thoughts, and express more of his personality by giving him books for extra reading. My first ever semester of Laurier did the exact same for me as Bill did for Charlie. It fostered my interests and intellectual abilities, and you guys constantly urged me and everyone else to go above and beyond what we were used to because you knew we could do it (even though I feel like I could’ve done a lot better on some things as my marks in grade 9 are a bit lower than I’d like them to be, but hey it was a time of adjustment and I did my best and that’s what matters). As a direct result of Laurier, I’m really lucky to have been surrounded by an amazing group of passionate students, a handful of which became my closest friends throughout high school, and that my very first teachers of the day were people who uplifted me and genuinely cared not only about furthering my academic work, but about my growth as a person.

Whew let’s wade out of the sap and get into some more energetic stuff!!! To tie off this recollection of my life through film the most recent and notable movie that impacted my life was, the one and only, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (dir. Peter Ramsey, Bob Persichetti, Rodney Rothman, 2018). Similar to The Desolation of Smaug and Frozen, I went with my dad to the cinema but parted ways with him to watch this movie by my lonesome (he went to the Aquaman theatre instead smh). Again, phenomenal choice. I talked about this in my grade 11 blog, but Spider-Verse is an absolute masterpiece in every way shape and form.

At the point I watched it, I knew what I wanted to generally do with my life (be part of the art industry) and the visuals of this movie alone were enough to make me want to elope with it and never see or talk to anyone ever again. It is such a gorgeous film. The way they strayed from the yucky 3D conventions norm—and there is literally no way they could’ve done the majority of what they did in that movie effectively if they did it live action. Or, they could definitely try and make an attempt, but it’d look like garbage. For example, a lot of the action scenes in general and also when they become abstracted like with the particle collider. 40-60 fps would not do that sense of movement justice at all. Too smooth. Not enough grit and personality.

Anyway, they also pioneered new animation techniques in mixing 2D and 3D, and explored a newer superhero trope where the main character’s own mundane life struggles are equally as important as him trying to sort things out with these new powers. It’s more of a battle between what Miles wants with his own personal life—new school, the friends he won’t be able to see because of said new school, owning his own abilities and adjusting to change. Then on top of that he’s met with all these alternate-dimension people that he has to work and be on par with. Aside from the art, I thought the overall message was every special: Miles learns through trial and tribulations, unsureness—and most importantly, failure. Confidence and optimism, in regard to what he thinks he can and can’t do, is vital. Amidst everything he is faced with, he starts out as just another kid who wants to be just another kid. But we all have something special inside us that we must choose to embrace if we want to truly flourish. We see him come to terms with the fact that he really is capable of greatness if he sets his mind to it—and that’s the main message: anyone can wear the mask. And can we talk about that soundtrack??? Not only the instrumentals, but the actual songs were great too! “Sunflower” and “What’s Up Danger”? Lovely and fitting. And back to the OST, the Prowler’s theme??? Shivers.

There is such a unique and beautiful vibe to this movie, and it’s inspired me in more ways than one. Aside from that nice motivational stuff, it also has recently played a tremendous part in developing my own art. All of the artists who worked on the film are people I immediately tried to find on social media so I could see more of their work. I purchased the art book, and even bought a 2D sequence illustration course provided by one of the art directors, Patrick O’Keefe. That course also came with the (digital) brushes he uses, and I’ve used them in pretty much every single one of my pieces since downloading them. This movie really showed me the possibilities of what could be achieved in the art industry, and it made me want to be a part of it so much more than I was before. I want to be involved in revolutionary visual achievements, and I want to develop characters and stories and worlds that are as interesting and loveable as the ones in Spider-Verse. (my stuff featured below)

So there you have it folks, 5 (five) of the most significant movies in my life relayed in a whopping just over 4000 words. I hope this has been enlightening for all you readers out there, perhaps you now have a better understanding of how I came to be personality/interest-wise, and I hope you can catch a glimpse of that same importance these pieces of media have in regard to me and my values.

[bklyntherapist]

Reflections on God, Death, Meaning and Spirituality

“Do you pray?” I once asked a patient.

“No, I’ve never been able to for some reason” she paused. “Do you?”

“No,” I said. “Because I don’t know if anyone is listening.”

It has always struck me as inconceivable that someone is listening to prayer. How can people be sure of some divine force in their lives? Even such Christian luminaries such as Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa experienced their doubts about God. I am no different. God does not speak to me in tongues or voices. All I hear are silent ellipses where I sense holiness in the mundane, the awe-inspiring in the ordinary. God has always seemed like an inelegant, hollow solution to the problem of meaning and death.

Take today as I sit alone on Third Beach in Stanley Park. I write what I observe in this notebook: the cascade of waves smoothing the sand like a rolling pin; the hundreds of Mergansers, white-bellied and plump, drifting in the ocean; the dance of seagulls, their v-shaped footprints dotting the sand. The ordinariness of it all is easy to overlook. I am tempted to look at my phone, answer a couple of texts, google “birds in Stanley Park,” or just scroll through Twitter for the latest political headline. But instead, I observe and write because I want this moment to have importance.

I am without a doubt a sentimentalist. I want to believe those big important words like meaning and spirit and connection. I want to tell you that the waves and the Mergansers and the seagulls are just expressions of a God that I can catch a glimpse of now. I want to tell you that human nature is divine, and we, like Adam, have just fallen from grace, our innocence stolen by a world that is designed to break us. But I don’t know. In fact, I’ve come to suspect the opposite: the meaningless of those big important words like meaning and spirit and connection, the meaninglessness of our pain and suffering, the meaninglessness of not only life but our deaths.

I’ve contemplated spirituality throughout my life. As a boy, I often felt flummoxed by religion. My parents, immigrants from Nepal and Tibet, raised my brother and me as Hindu and Buddhist, and we dutifully performed the many rituals of faith in our homes without knowing the importance of them. But as we grew older, the ceremonies grew intimate and familiar. We might not have known what a Nepali tika signified, but we knew that it represented family and love. And what is intimate and familiar will inevitably feel safe and nurturing.

Buddhism and Hinduism would have given me enough to consider for the rest of my life, but I also studied Catholicism for the entirety of my adolescence, as I was educated at a Catholic School. To see a man nailed to a crucifix, blood dribbling from his hands and crown, unnerved my 10-year-old psyche. But I bought into what my religion teachers were selling. I was a sinner. I needed to repent. Only then could I go to heaven. The binaries of good versus evil, sin versus redemption were oddly soothing. I was born evil. But I could be good.

I long for that type of simplicity now. My world radiates greyness, the simple twosome of good and evil long gone in the complexity and tumult of daily experience. Whereas once I saw my life as a narrative that would assuredly culminate in a climax, I now see the folly in such ways of seeing the world. Narratives are digestible nuggets to make sense of what doesn’t really make sense: the chaos and absurdity of life. So maybe because of this chaos and the anxiety surrounding it, we create our stories and our Gods. Perhaps our narratives are our comfort in a painful terrifying world.

As I get older my personal narrative feels less imbued with my ego and need for power. The dark cast of human existence frightens me less. Death once bathed each moment of my existence, an omnipresent shadow lurking in the background. And death’s antecedent — anxiety — guided my life with its unseen hands. I was and have always been afraid. Afraid of the unknown. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of nonexistence. Afraid of loneliness. Afraid of it all. And I am still afraid.

But fear no longer reigns in my day-to-day. I am not sure how that happened, but I can let go a little easier and self-aware enough to see fear arising and face them with a bit more bravery. Death still frightens me. If we are honest, I think it frightens most of us. But an acceptance of death is closer at hand than it has ever been in my life. Perhaps it is because I am over 40 now, fully in middle age. Perhaps it is because many people I’ve known have passed on. In the past three months alone, my uncle and aunt have passed away. Perhaps it is the daily meditations that have calmed my mind. Or perhaps it is because death is so commonplace in today’s world where over a million people have passed away this year from one of the oldest absurdities of human existence — pestilence.

And while fear still rests in my unconscious, another emotion becomes more salient: gratefulness. As Camus and others have proclaimed, life is absurd. Trying to find meaning where there is none is its own form of madness. It is a constant struggle between what actually is and what we want it desperately to be. But this absurdity has transformed into its own miracle.

In the past, I have walked around New York City and felt alienated from everyone. The milling crowds of people, rushing to the jobs they probably don’t like to buy things that don’t make them happy seemed beyond absurd. But here we were doing it anyway. I have had the urge to shake passerby violently, saying “It is insane that we are here right now, isn’t it?” But no one else seemed to feel this so I put it out of my mind long ago. That others didn’t see this surprised me. But on another level, it was not shocking at all. We accept the reality we’re given. That much is apparent.

But what if we could live with this perspective daily? I try to. I remind myself each morning that it is unthinkable that I am here, that I am the endpoint of billions of years of evolution from the Big Bang to stars to cells to dinosaurs to mammals to me. That life is filled with suffering does not take away from this; in fact, it enhances it. Even the suffering becomes holy because I am alive for it. It is a miracle to feel heartbreak, just as it is a miracle to feel love.

This perspective may just be another sentimentality, creating emotion and meaning where there is only chaos and death. But it is the only one that makes sense to me. And I cannot help what I am: a sentient, feeling animal who is self-aware, who is grateful just to be. I can feel it now here on Third Beach on this effulgent Fall day. I can sense it now in the hundreds of Mergansers, drifting in the ocean in deep meditation like Buddhas aware of nothing but this moment.

[egoiistas]

at the center of the world (2)

previous  || ao3 || ffn || tag

Amestris becomes a harrowingly silent place on the afternoon of the Promised Day and only the survivors at the center are left to tread over it. Within a few hours, they won’t be the only ones wandering. 

Rated: M. it’s a horror/zombie au fic. - or it tries to be Warnings: Mentions of death/corpses, Cursing

Chapter 2/11

Riza

Given the hour and spring in full swing, the coal stations had been burning with less intensity than they would in the winter and naturally, the lights went out. The hospital’s sublevel was dark with only small rectangular windows allowing passage for the natural light and a terrible humidity exacerbated by her lagging exhaustion. The sulfuric smell of diesel dissipated when she stowed away the fuel can away from the generator. Her fingers gripped the rip cord, foot inclined as a counterweight, and she yanked hard. Perhaps too much.

The generator sputtered and her vision blurred alongside a numbing vertigo causing her to stumble forward in the dark. Riza grimaced, catching her fall against the edges of the machine with an open palm. She rubbed her eyes on a clean, cotton sleeve and took a few deep breaths before she was clutching the starter once more.

May had inspected Riza’s wound as the others went off to secure adequate bedding and supplies for Alphonse. As instructed, Riza lied down on the floor marked with a star array she wasn’t familiar with. A worried Colonel sat next to her; a slight frown on his grimy face, biting the inside of his mouth, and hands curled into bloodied fists. He made no attempt  to mask it as he stared off into the middle ground with his clouded eyes. A flash of red had brought her attention back to the Xingese girl, and May gave her the all-clear in regards to the wound, but it was beyond her ability to restore the blood she had lost. It wasn’t an issue; she’d experienced worse. The Colonel had looked unconvinced, yet he didn’t speak on the matter nor did he voice any opinion when she volunteered to search for the hospital’s generator. Not that she expected it for her sake, but Roy Mustang had an opinion for everything. His silence made her uneasy.

She tugged with controlled and measured force until the generator stirred, eventually humming to life after a black start. The lights flickered on overhead as a sigh of relief escaped her.

The moment to wind down escaped her. In between the worry for his wellbeing, her acute anemia, the Elrics, and the general state of things, she was quietly eager at the prospect of sitting down, resting, or even the evasive luxury of sleeping. A pause to the insanity that had transpired. Maybe a short cat nap.

She was no stranger to the morbid sights of a battlefield.The fallen soldiers at Headquarters lulled her into a false sense of security gained through years of emotional compartmentalization. The number of Amestrian Blues and the white of Fort Briggs decreased with each passing step and the reality of the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire had tightened her injured throat.

She was unnerved by the passivity of the scene. Unlike the battlefield, there was no visible bloodshed or anguish. They were just there as if in mid-slumber, capable of stirring at any moment. The stillness layered another blanket of chilling eeriness. No one said a word. There were no chirping birds despite the warm and vibrant weather, no feline rascallion rummaging for scraps in the alleyways, or any other indication that life existed beyond their party of ten. It was as if everyone agreed wordlessly to play along with this grisly game; the rules being “do not wake dead as they sleep.” She certainly seemed to think so, until the curiosity of one of the chimeras got the better of them.

“Is no one going to check?” He had said. The break in  quietude was harsh and she involuntarily flinched at the disjunction from her thoughts. The Colonel had furrowed his brows. It was too early, too fresh a wound that heads would rather turn groundward than answer his question. Of course she wanted to check. Undoubtedly they all did, but doing so would give a finality to it all; the sealing nail to the Amestris’s coffin. The tall chimera Darius carried an unconscious Scar in his arms and spoke again, clearly aching for an answer, “Anybody?”

She had tried summon the strength stemming from her own curiosity, outstretching her foot towards the nearest civilian, but her stamina had been drained, mind swimming as a result. Instead of moving forward, she was close to toppling over, caught only by a quick foot to the concrete and the Colonel’s grip on her shoulder while he murmured to be careful.

Izumi approached a body near Riza. A male, middle-aged businessman wearing a suit and holding a matching briefcase. Riza watched as Izumi flipped the corpse carefully and searched for a pulse. The woman’s sigh was soft, but she gently lowered the hand back onto the ground. “No pulse,” she had announced to no one’s surprise..

Though it was a culmination of their worst fears, the hospital’s lobby had raised the bar, taking on a different atmosphere. A macabre sort that had dug through the thick of her skin and settled in the darkest crooks. The people in the receiving area, for one reason or another, weren’t distracted at the time of the eclipse. They weren’t given the mercy of not feeling their souls slip and it showed.  Some clutched their necks as they tried to breathe, others slumped over their waiting chair, children clung to their mother’s skirts with a horrified look in their open eyes and tear-guttered cheeks, and couples holding one another. Death had fallen upon them indiscriminately.

Even as she ventured down to the scarcely lit basement, Riza had to maneuver carefully around maintenance workers that had tried to make sense of their last moments. A part of her wanted to pause and have a moment to breathe, to really breathe and unleash that clawing feeling in her chest akin to the invisible scars when they were fresh from Ishval. While she tried to rationalize that an anemic sniper had little power to make a difference against creatures such as the Homunculi, she still felt that inkling of guilt; the survivor guilt that had plagued her for many years after the war. Why her and not her fallen comrades. Why her and not the Ishvalan child.

She always shelved the thoughts, and it would remain there, collecting the proverbial dust along with other losses she was ready to deal with yet.

Riza stood still in the doorway of the boiler room. She was unprepared to deal with her gains either, if she could call them that. Her fingers curled into the wooden threshold, mouth thinning to a straight line with the fluttering of her heartbeat.

She had kissed him.

Unbidden, she cupped the face of her superior officer, gratuitously brought him closer to her face and, in no uncertain terms, saluted him with her lips instead of her hand in an unchecked wave of emotion.

She bit her lip, ruminating before the stairwell. While the military was effectively destroyed, the hope that something would blossom out of this graveyard felt downright insulting. Riza didn’t spend years of dedicating herself to the future of Amestris to throw it away in anticipation for something as capricious as love. Inarguably there was a mutual affection, but there was also respect: for the ones they lost, for him, and most importantly for herself. If the seedlings decided to sprout, she’d nurture them under more pertinent conditions, not during this crisis where she’d compromise her focus.

Distracted, the bottom of her military boot landed heavily on the wood flooring that lead into the hallway. It rung in the hollows of the area around her. The air shifted where she stood, one foot on the top step and the other on its predecessor. She felt like she was being held under an oppressive gaze, imperceptible save for the bloodthirst that saturated the air. Only a souvenir from her days under the watchful eyes of Pride and Wrath, she reasoned. However, her skin prickled, hairs standing at attention like cadets fresh out of the academy, and it sent a cold shiver down her spine, chilling each vertebrae in succession. Looming behind her, a ceiling bulb flickered. She saw her own shadow, still and statuesque, fade and return.

She blinked when another shadow emerged from underneath and blinked again to see it vanished. Swallowing thickly, she turned slowly on her heel. The staircase was empty. The staircase was empty.

Her eyes widened slightly, and Riza composed herself, urgently, denying her emotions any more liberties. She couldn’t catalogue details as well as Falman’s  encyclopedic memory, nor did she form conclusions as quickly as Breda. Despite that, she knew the count of the corpses she’d come across, on the stairs and in the halls, was frightfully and significantly less.

Something clattered and the noise bounced off the walls, shaking her bones. Riza crouched and flattened herself as much as the railing would let her. It sounded thin and long, like a broomstick. She glanced around the corner where the rattling came from. The shadows didn’t move and the sounds swayed to silence.  Riza straightened herself, stifling her nerve.  

Rounding the corner, her feet moved one in front of the other, her hip perpendicular to the cream-colored wall. Instantaneous regret burned like bile at the back of her throat when she reached for firearm in a holster that wasn’t there. She’d left behind the one she pilfered off an officer under the assumption she wouldn’t need one.

“Hello?”

Her flesh jumped and muscles stiffened. Her even breath morphed into a long exhale. She faced the other end of the corridor, releasing the tension in her shoulders and stepping out normally.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye?” the teenager’s voice carried around the corner, and Edward followed soon after, donning a different set of clothes. “There you are! The Colonel has been nagging me to go find... Are you all right?”

Her throat knotted, she nodded.  

”You’re as white as that blouse you’re wearing.” He stepped in a little closer. “And you’re sweating bullets.”

She blinked. Her fingers touched her scrunched brow and brought them into sight,  thumbing the moisture refracting from the light.  “Yes, I’m fine.”

He subtly raised an eyebrow suggesting he didn’t believe her.

“Trust me, Edward. I thought I saw or-or heard something. A symptom of fatigue, I’m sure.”

The alchemist frowned and his boyish features hardened. “It’s been a long day. May told me you lost a lot of blood, and it hasn’t been more than a few hours since then.”

“I won’t deny it, I overestimated my overall constitution.” Riza managed a reassuring smile. “Perhaps I should have had more sustenance.”

Edward continued to stare. His stubborn concern was endearing, but the scrutiny was unwelcome, and the diminishing adrenaline left her light-headed and weakened muscles sore.

Eager to abandon the subject, Riza added, “You mentioned the Colonel..?”

“Right,” Ed trailed off his sentence with his lingering skepticism. He eventually relented when her expression became stern and gestured behind him, inviting her to follow him. “We’ve settled in a wing on the other side of this hospital.” They walked in tandem and his face flashed with the light from the passing windows. “I didn’t know this place was so big.”

“Central is-was the largest city in Amestris and housed the bulk of the country’s soldiers.” They fell silent and she knew why, but at current, she didn’t want to remain in silence. “Were the chimeras able to procure canned goods or other foods?”

“Yeah, they found the hospital kitchen and brought food to the wing we’re staying in.”

“How are the others faring?”

The boy sucked in breath, “Everyone is better than we thought-” his golden eyebrows raised “- surprisingly. A few cuts here and there. Even Scar is up and walking around. May told him he was just exhausted. I mean, even I thought he looked like hell. Mustang’s palms were fucked up, but May patched him up and -- well, you know, there’s not much we can do with the Colonel’s sight short of a philosopher's stone. Jerso sustained a direct hit from Pride.“

She snorted softly at the resemblance Ed didn’t see between himself and their superior officer, and how he expertly avoided the actual question. “How is Alphonse?”

His mouth curved into a sad smile. “He’s fine. He just needs to get some meat on those bones. Through these doors Lieutenant,” He instructed and latterly pointed.  “Teacher hooked him up to an IV.

“There was never a day I didn’t think about this - when and how he would return to flesh. We always considered different possibilities and at one point, I thought I was prepared to see him like this and-and be ready to do what would be necessary for him -” he paused, holding the door open for her, showing newfound interest in the slits between the boards of rich brown wood under his feet. He shook his head slowly, “But not like this.”

Edward’s eyes darted up to her, surprised when her hand landed on his shoulder. “He’ll get through this. You’ll get through this. It’ll just take time.”

She didn’t stay to watch him nod silently to empty words, noting the bodies laid to rest outside of the thick doors. Watching for movement.

Riza walked by a glinting sign that read “Intensive Care Unit”; the wing was sizable and clean compared to the stuffy basement below. It faced the front of the building with windows lining the corridor that overlooked Central’s one of many residential areas. Several rooms wrapped a corner around an open space that housed the nurse’s station. She’d been through this hall a couple of times with its light maple half-panelling and windows that brightened the entire ward.

They turned into the corner room where Alphonse lied in a bed flashing a beleaguered smile at their return. A tube was attached to his arm leading to clear bag of saline stand next to his bed. May sat diligently by his side. The Colonel sat opposite them on the waiting benches that belonged outside that room, Izumi sitting next to him. All three chimeras took places next to the windows, casting unnervingly long shadows into the room, and a bandaged Scar was seated rigidly in a lone corner.

It was a meeting of sorts; she wouldn’t put past a man of rank to take charge. She took her place at his right. “I’m back, sir.”

His knitted brows loosened a little at her voice. “I have full confidence you’ve made the place that much brighter, Lieutenant.”

He didn’t have the slightest clue how quickly her face fell.

“Is that all of us?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered quickly, out of custom if not out of jitteriness.

“In spite of appearances, I’m aware of the situation we’re in… We’ve suffered a cataclysmic defeat today. Undoubtedly, everyone in this room has lost someone dear to them as sacrifice for the national transmutation circle. I imagine it will be difficult, but I have to urge you to move on.”

Riza glanced over to him, but it was Edward that voiced her quieted thoughts. “Are you that heartless? The bodies are still warm.”

“Just because we managed to survive the homunculus doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods, Fullmetal.”

“What are you saying,” asked the tallest of the trio. Zampano unraveled his arms, “You think that thing is coming back?”

“I don’t think we’ll stand a chance this time. You saw those parade grounds. The Xingese brat -- Greedling, was it? -- tried to fight it and he was sizzled worse than bacon on a pan,” Darius looked to a bandaged Jerso to his left. “No offense.”

“I’m a boar, not a pig.”

Scar grunted, “Will you shut up and let him finish?”

“It’s not a secret that Amestris was constantly involved in skirmishes and wars. Always in battle and now we know why. We have enemies as a result, enemies that are constantly watching the fronts and I can assure you they will notice the downed soldiers including the radio silence. The Aerugonians and especially the Cretians will not hesitate to advance forward as a result if they have not already.

“It will take three days for the either force to reach Central barring any detours.”

“Why? Why would that mean anything for us?” Alphonse raised the question curiously.

“One of two things can happen “ - Mustang shrugged- “or both will-”

He held the room through his pause and she was unsure if it was for theatrics or not.

“After these armies cross through leagues and leagues of corpses and arrive in Central where an inner struggle is all but evident, you tell me if you wouldn’t find any survivors within in the least bit culpable.”

They were held in silence as it sunk in and the room was suddenly filled with protest. The Colonel raised a hand to stop them. Edward didn’t care.

“You can’t be serious. Just because they were enemies of the Amestrian military doesn’t mean they’ll hunt down a random group of people.”

“Perhaps not the Aerugonians. They are more diplomatic outside of wars. It would be an multinational matter with foreign laws that none of us are privy to.

“Back then, there were talks that the Aerugonians tried to assist the Ishvalan War of Extermination. The higher ups assumed it was to tire the Amestrian Army in their war, despite the multiple, successful fronts. Others believed that they were trying to interject in the inhumane nature of the war. In retrospect, this seems more likely given the direction their recent monarchs have taken.”

Riza’s fist tightened behind her.

“Then we’ll hide,” May looked around the room for reassurance in her suggestion. “They can’t search all the buildings.”

Mustang leant back into his seat, crossing his arms. “The second scenario involves both armies becoming aware of each other’s presence. The Cretians are an aggressive sort, second only to the Drachmans -- luckily, they’ll be busy taking down Fort Briggs for months. They’ve been known to be ruthless in the Western Front and too reckless a military to have a stable relationship with any of its allies.  

“Battalions will become regiments, and regiments will become divisions when armies send scouts and inevitably realize their positions. The goal will be to reach Central first for the militaristic advantage. Untouched resources observed along the way mean that Central’s massive supply of military supplies, weapons, and anything else the Research and Development department was working on will be up for the taking. For both of them, that’s worth the bloodshed and they’ll be bringing more force with them ever seen on Amestrian soil. ”

The tension surfaced in their faces, the wringing of their hands, and from their stillness as they all digested what was left unsaid.

Central would become a battleground again.

note: Thanks for reading. feedback is always appreciated <3 

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

At least they shouldn't be. 

We're all supposed to be individuals in this life. We're not born alone and we may not die alone, but it's up to us to solely carry the burden of everything in between. It's the prophecy of Newton's third law: the vitality of our peregrination is dependent on our varying movements working to interact with whatever and whomever we deem to be worthy to endure the path with us. The universe might place people on the trail, but it's up to us to act if we want them beside us and we have to make a good decision instantaneously because the intertwinement will inevitably mutate the rest of your life, luring you into surrendering total control and permitting foreign access to the bloodiest of your lacerated wounds that are throbbing to be mended by the careful and tender hand of another. You're under the guise of so many promises, some of which you've told wholeheartedly to ensure precious diligence... 

Diligence that's never guaranteed. 

Whether developed by nurture or influenced by nature, most people are reckless. They've come to possess an appetite for destruction that proves insatiable, intentions be damned. They can promise whatever the hell they want, regardless if they intend on fulfilling it, and the fucked up thing is it becomes genuine the moment you believe it. Even I was fooled by it this morning. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I didn't know any better because I didn't know them, but there's something about their chaotic decade long pattern of promises of change and inevitable subsequent failure that strike as familiar to me as the back of the hand holding the rapidly disintegrating flame my eyes fixate on. It's all I heard for fifteen fucking years. It's amazing how many times the same shit can be recycled into something new. Perhaps if people put as much work into doing something useful instead of bullshitting the people they love, some actual, physical, change could happen. Shit, maybe global warming could be stopped, maybe it already could've stopped. I sure know that, if not for the product of my polluted environment, I wouldn't have taken up this filthy little habit. I don't know what's more unfathomable: the amount of money I could've saved by not being a disgusting smoker who gets side-eyed by every conscious passerby or the number of cigarette butts I've trashed Oakland and San Francisco's streets with in the last three years for them to trample over... just like my dad trampled all of his promises of sobriety and extinguished the bright light of the progress he had; the six years that kept validity in my mom's unshakeable faith that this time was it. The thorn that had been wedged in our lives was removed and the cut it'd sliced within me could start to heal so that it no longer hurt to see the way that they'd absolutely bloom around each other, so that I too could open myself up to the fresh air of their prosperous spring where the threats of crack and Corcoran were history, my dad was here to stay and we were all going be a family again...

But I've always been fooled. 

Because, at the time, it wasn't bullshit. It was pure, unbridled, optimism crafted from a wait that only love could endure, the culmination of understanding why she stayed after so many years of watching her painstakingly build from the wreckage he'd left us in when she could've listened to me and left it so we could've started anew on our own. Despite all material odds that I thought proved me right, their persistence finally broke through my stubborn teenage skull to show that all I've wanted was to be proven wrong...and I was. I've always been, in countless contradictory ways. I was right to think he'd tarnish it, yet I was wrong to count on it. I was right to think she should've separated from him, but I was dead wrong for wishing it...

I was wrong to leave that night and right to come back. 

No matter what our egos are deluded by, we're all sinners and saints simultaneously. Our consciousness of change is the grey wedged between the permanent black and white of immortality and virtue. People aren't starkly either and rarely can they be. We're all victims of circumstance and criminals for continuing it, yet that can only be realized in retrospect. The present is a lawless arena where proven patterns and common sense are off the table to gamble the chance that this time will be different because this time is different. Last night being heaven doesn't void tonight being hell and vice versa. As shitty as Lyd's method of communication came off, texting provided them with a luxury and a curse. They had time to think. Unfortunately, S is now thinking backward, trying to return to the safety of last night where the truth was bright and everything seemed so right and he knows he can't be back there. I've seen this desire to be put out of nostalgic misery taint the vibrance of so many eyes; green, grey, and now S' too. It's one that'll always break my heart to look at because I understand it. 

When I look in a mirror long enough, I catch it swimming in my own blues.

So despite his plea, the only benignant remedy I can give him is, “Yes. Quit second-guessing yourself. You know what you need to do and the sooner you do it, the sooner the pain can at least start to cease. Everything has come to an end eventually, no matter how wonderful or terrible it might’ve been, and it’s clear that this relationship is begging for it’s merciful out. All you have to do is let it happen.” 

The words coming out of my mouth feel almost as good as the cigarette that I manage another drag from. It's been a long time since I've been able to verbally combat the nastiness of nostalgia and rally for a situation that can be changed positively. It's been a long time since I've felt this satisfied. I didn't count on cracking a smile now but it's been a weird fucking day. The things that normally don't line up did, the things that should've lined up didn't and, as frustrating as the pendulum swing has been, I've come to respect the equilibrium. His embrace of my suggestion of drastic change isn't happening as immediately as I'd hoped, but his stillness is okay. The longer my words sit, the more I realize that "letting it happen" isn't as easy as it was to say it, but at least it's being taken into consideration. 

While he continues to ponder, my focus eventually drifts away from the momentary standstill of his dilemma and...back to the buzzings of my own. The worries that I'd blown off earlier rage back to the docket, like checking the time so I can check the MUNI route or the Owl Cars if by the scary chance it's after midnight, and trying to figure out if there's time for me to swing by a 7/11...

And check if Ray texted me back...

But I can't. I can't leave him here without knowing what the fuck he's going to do which, the longer my antsy ass waits, the more I realize is not going to be as concrete as I thought. The definite "You're right J, thank you so much for making me realize something that's been right in front of my face for ten years!" is not what I'm going to hear. Maybe eventually, but not when there's ten fucking years to give up, not when there's a friendship that could still be there. He's spent so long building up this idea of her, surely it can't be knocked down like that...even though that selfish prick part of me wishes he would. I don't want to sit here all fucking night, man. I can't. I have to get home, I have to get to school tomorrow, I have to see if she texted me back...

I have to know if I've lost her. 

The optimistic rational part of my head tries to relieve me; I wasn't that explicit. It's not like she can read minds--- Except for she. fucking. can. Or rather, she'd adept at reading me and all of my stupid fucking mistakes. Again, she's that smart and I'm that dumb... 

So what the hell does she even want to do with me anyway? 

On most of every level, we're total opposites and if she took two seconds to catch our reflection, she'd know how fucking weird we look next to each other. I swear, she's so polished it's almost stereotypical. There's never a stray blonde strand on her black shirts, even though she's always letting her gorgeous hair cascade down her shoulders and back. Seriously, her hair defies the vortex that can be San Francisco's wind and always falls into the right place, but even when she doesn't deem it suit it's gone with a graceful flick of her fingers, whereas I have to obnoxiously throw a hand through mine and then waste a vain amount of time staring at myself trying to fix it until I give up and walk around looking worse than I did before. I'd love to know the science behind the way every article of clothing she wears looks so meticulously thought out. Each piece mixes together so cohesively regardless of differing patterns, colors, or fabrics and they all look tailored to fit her specifically. I'm just talking about casual clothes too, she's also the only student I've seen so far who looks more put together and professional than some of the teachers with her ironed collared blouses and a gold watch delicately adorning her wrist. Meanwhile, I come in looking like a total curmudgeon in whatever shirt is clean, the same jeans I wore yesterday, and any weathered jacket that was in reach. The things we do have in common are school and not eating at school, but even then I'm nowhere near par. Her manners are impeccable. It's her thinking swiftly enough to open the door for me, because, chivalrous tradition be damned, gentlemen are always first. She waits for me to get my food before she touches hers and even coaxes me into having the first taste of her "chips" while I wait, as well as after I've already scarfed down my lunch since she doesn't act like a starving child and takes her time to eat properly. Her most exemplary moment comes during the times where I'm so spent that all I can do is slouch against the booth and zone out while looking out the window and when I finally snap out of it I never see her checking her phone. Whether it be rain or shine her eyes follow mine, watching the cars breezing through Bayshore until she realizes that my lazy gaze has broken. She never tries to snap me out of it, she only gives me a warm smile that somehow tells me that she understands and, no matter how far gone I am, I always find myself returning one to her. It's never forced either, it just falls into place... 

She's given me everything wonderful, yet I can offer her nothing but trouble.

While I'm sure she's roamed here during the daytime, she'd never set foot in this dark and desolate park at this hour. She'd never be caught dead smoking this cigarette, not without spitting out her Doublemint or ridding herself of the stench by spritzing a healthy dose of perfume that's probably so expensive I'd have to sell an eight ball or two to be able to afford it. I'm surprised she hasn't prodded me to quit yet and I almost wish she would. It's such a disgusting and selfish habit to carry around in the world. There's nothing beneficial about walking around and penetrating the fresh air with this stick of toxicity. Who the fuck am I to think I'm worthy? I'm certainly not. So begs the question again...what the fuck does she want with me? What is it in me that saw so fit to acquaint herself with on that February morning and keeps her coming around after two months? She says we're friends, but why doesn't it feel like it? Friendship is supposed to be seamless and, don't get me wrong, I enjoy being around her and I enjoy that she considers us that but...it doesn't make sense. 

Maybe she wants something more... 

Ha. As if. Jesus fuck...where do I get this silly shit? Is the sleep deprivation finally breaking me? It is. The fact that she's already fallen victim to my mind's twisting of our delightful connection into this desire for something more is beyond fucked up as it is but to consider that she could reciprocate is straight-up delusional. S' theory on Shakespeare not writing any of his works made more sense, at least he had a substance to blame for his insanity. A world where Ray has feelings for me doesn't exist. If us being mere friends into our twenties is laughable, a shooting star would definitely steer clear of that wish. 

But it's not that easy. I mean I know it's certain but I can't speak for her either. I evidently don't possess her telepathy and can't confirm every thought running through her head. Who the hell am I to say we won't be friends in our twenties? I wasn't planning on us being friends for two days, much less two months, and two years isn't that unfathomable of a concept. I should be comforted by that, but I'm not. 

Because S didn't plan on being here tonight either. He didn't plan on coming to this park tonight and breaking the news that he did to me because he didn't plan on receiving it, he didn't plan on having to continue the pattern because he never planned for there to be a pattern to begin with... 

 He never planned on her breaking his heart.

I can't blame him. Carrying the load alone gets tiring and lonely, another hand offering to tend to you is like the gates of heaven opening up. Why deny it? We all need someone to love, right? It's so fucking pure and innocuous. Ray's so pure and innocuous, just like how Lyd was when S first met her because they were teenagers and didn't know any fucking better until it was too late. Shit, he even admitted that meeting so young stunted his abilities and I absolutely fucking believe him since he's still harboring over his eighth-grade crush at twenty-four. If by a miracle I can even make it to twenty, there's absolutely nothing about how I am or how my life is right now that I want to be lingering around like that rotten stench. Even though it might be a briefly pretty one like a dandelion, anything to sprout in my dour spring is a weed that needs to be ripped out by the root so that it doesn't spread into that uncontrollable mutation of a littered garden blooming with dangerous thorns. It'd only be a matter of time before I contaminate and sicken her... 

And I'm not going to let it happen. 

With my left hand reaching up to my lips, I take what's left of the Parliament and tuck it into my palm as tightly as I can, crushing and sizzling out the tiny but ferocious flame of those thoughts...those beautiful, terrifying, wistful, delusional, and bittersweet wishes, hopes, and dreams before they can burn me any further. The wince it provokes is only a physical twitch because this doesn't even hurt, it's nothing like what I'm sparing myself from. I could do it again and again and again if I wanted to and I'd be okay because I'm playing with a fire I can burn out whenever I want and, right now, the power's all mine. The small circle searing into my skin activates that familiar rush through the rest of my hand and throws me into my fucking senses. Ray doesn't feel that way about me, but if by some fucked up chance that she does, then it's too bad because the best fucking thing I'll ever be able to do for her is to deny her and spare her from this shit. She doesn't want it, I don't want it, and we're better off without it. We always will be. 

After a second, the initial sting relaxes into more of that nice steady and soothing throb and I allow myself a moment to revel in the sensation. It's so intense that a shiver drives down my spine as I inhale the cold, clean, air of the element I should've never left. Tucking my arm underneath the rail, a crooked smile slithers when my fingers unravel and that useless nub of ash rolls away from me and onto the wet grass below.

The burden of love can't destroy me if I destroy it first. 

The same can't be said for the man in front of me, the vision of whom shakes me into a sudden embarrassing awareness of my surroundings. Fuck, I hope S didn't see me do that... I don't think he did. He's still tip-toeing the around the obvious and, at this point, I have to shake my head. 

C'mon man...you've got it easier than some. Her intentions are clear and she's not dead in the fucking desert. You've been through this before and you know that this is for the best, you know that the future's brighter beyond this, you know I'm right...

Maybe I should reiterate that to him again, but I already feel like a broken record. He gets it, he's just trying to avoid it, and there's nothing I can do to cure that. The only thing I can do at this point is to light another cigarette and hope that eventually he'll do something while the ball's still in his court. A buzzer-beater slam dunk might be out of the question, but a simple point would suffice for now. It's after the flame meets the fresh end of the Parliament stuck in my lip where he breaks his cycle and starts coming closer to the bench, my eye narrowing as I notice what I think are tears and...shit... I know I didn't bring him to tears, it's the situation and it's a tough pill to swallow, but it still tugs on my guilt for not giving him the answer he wanted. He's ashamed of it, he doesn't let me see his face for long as he buries it in his hands, and I don't let my stare linger any longer. The action is enough to spell out that there's nothing else he wants me to do, there's nothing else I can do now but leave him to process this in private. He's been stripped of enough tonight, the least I can do is respect the dignity he has left.

“I’m really gonna be alone for the rest of my life, J....” He admits and, while I know that for him it's merely an exaggeration driven from his sorrow, it resonates with me enough to whisper...

“I am too.”

[duo-log]

The Page is Still Blank

‘I want to write and be published before I am 35. How difficult can it be?’ I asked dear H earlier this year. He very charmingly replied, ‘Sure, you can try?!’ Turns out, it is quite a task. I decided I’ll take a classroom course for creative writing to get a few tips on story writing from a seasoned writer and lend myself a routine. It has been quite stressful juggling university and a full-time job. I am just halfway through the course, and already so many of my bubbles burst that I thought it might be amusing to share them with you.

It takes years to write a book My professor says it takes him on an average four years to get through a book. There are many who work on multiple stories in parallel and churn them out one per year even, but for most, it is a much longer process. I realized he is quite right as I worked on the first assignment of the class which was to write the first chapter of a novel. Every student has to share the assignment with the class and sit through a session of review, feedback and dissection of every angle, line and character in the plot. The questions and the readers’ view revealed the flaws in the logic and the possible dead ends I would hit on if I pursued the said line of thought etc., Basically the exercise taught me that once the pen is on the paper it is not the end, but the beginning of writing, tearing and rewriting many drafts before that final manuscript is ready which a publisher might consider printing.

The story is a living breathing animal Did you have those moments when you chalked out a plan in your mind, and everything seemed to work like rainbows and unicorns but fell flat the moment the first step was drafted on paper? I did and use the sentence ‘It sounded better in my mind’ much too often to my taste. It so happens that the characters a writer creates, mounds and introduces in the story very quickly evolve into living breathing people with minds, emotions and character traits that will not allow them to behave or react the way the writer imagined. A good writer allows the characters to evolve and grow and follows their cues to a glorious culmination. I do not know what meditation tricks I have to practice to maintain such control on self to resist an intervention.

Writer needs to maintain detachment from the story As the characters build and the story evolves the logical dead ends start to appear. The flaws in the storyline soon become obvious, and sometimes the flaws seem to appear in that golden nugget that every storyteller seems to have and wants to use. In my first attempt at a short story, I wanted to show two girls whose friendship stood resolute to the predicaments of life. A decade hence, I see the flaw and understand why the story seemed forced. I did not give the characters the time to evolve, think and react. I had to use my nugget, and so I forced the characters to be pliable in the face of the challenge I presented them with. The characters become puppets and lose the spark, and so does the story. It is thus essential to be detached to the story enough that the characters can breathe and the writer has to firm up to throw away some of those choicest meats if it doesn’t sit well with the characters. It is like you love and nurture a baby and then you are asked to throw the baby away because some Tom, Dick or Harry cannot co-exist with the baby for reasons that are beyond comprehension and hence unforeseen. Apparently, even seasoned writers falter at this one.

The characters need personality Writing a story feels like building a universe as a whole. A city has to be built with roads, avenues, buildings, places for the characters to visit, meet at and explore. Trees have to be planted; flowers need to bloom; Nature has to exist and agree with the time and place. The characters need supporting characters, people they meet and interact with, those that lend the plot the twists it requires to progress. These characters have to be interesting and consistent and unlike the protagonist, unwavering in their behaviour. Each of these characters needs a background, wants and desires that explains their reactions. The writer needs to introduce charming quirks to the personality of these characters for them to come out of the pages of the book and remain etched in the readers’ mind and here I thought that all I need are the protagonists and their immediate connections. I mean, I have a new-found respect for every writer I ever read.

You probably already knew all these, or maybe you do not care. I wanted to share anyway. Perhaps I’ll write a part two to this as I allow more of my bubbles to burst in this journey I embarked upon. I’ll go get on with that meditation now.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

A Window into the Mind

There isn’t much to add to the writing tool-belt after the information onslaught from last week. If one fancies authoring a long-form prose – a riveting fiction with entertaining characters or an autobiography of a commoner or whatever delicacy the grey matter cooks up –, then one simply needs to read through the last week’s post.

[alltheworldsrpg-blog]

NASIRA RHIANNON |THE VECTOR | CENTAURIAN | 29

You preach peace in honeyed words, laying your public agenda on thick. To the outside world, you’re seen as almost saintly—someone who’s dedicated their life to creating understanding and peace between species. But you’re not the person the world thinks you are, and a lie—no matter how well told—is still a lie. Your activities in the shadows are not nearly as saintly, but no one has to know what your real stance is. Not until the time is right, at least.

BIOGRAPHY

Nasira can’t even remember what Proxima looks like, anymore. Photos of her old house attempt to spark feelings of nostalgia, but it hardly feels like she ever lived there. Still, she misses it dearly.

Only nine years old at the time, her father had dragged her, practically kicking and screaming, onto the ship that’d flown them to the giant blue and green mass the humans called home. He was a member of the Guard; wherever the Chosen went, he had to follow. The negotiations were a success, but she didn’t feel much like celebrating. The humans had ripped her away from the world she held so dear, and she soon learned that life on Earth wasn’t much better.

Her family was given a place at the Chosen’s side, ensuring they were well taken care of - as well as people of their kind could be treated, at least. If there was one thing she liked about her new home, it was the history. There was so much to know; learning about how the very planet, and other extraterrestrials, came to be fascinated her. Her father’s tough and stoic nature may have instilled strength in her, but it was her mother who nurtured her curious and capable mind and body into the savant she was, today.

Her mother was a Starweaver, and when Nasira was a young girl, she believed she knew everything about anything. Not that she was far from the truth. The moment the humans had made contact with the Centaurians, her mother had jumped at the chance to learn as much as she could before they left. Education was still held in high importance on Earth, and with Centaurian schooling and her mother’s stories and lessons, Nasira grew to be one of the brightest stars among her peers.

But with all the history to be learned came tragedy. It didn’t take long for her to decide Earth was a dark place, with an even darker past. Even in the modern day, humans were mistreating each other. Women were seen as subordinates, countries were at war, children were homeless on the streets, people were being needlessly slaughtered. Their environment was slowly dying, their politics were a joke. The democracy one Proxima wasn’t perfect, but at least its citizens were happy, at least they were all a family. It was every man for themselves on Earth, and Nasira couldn’t stand by and let it happen.

Once she came of age, she devoted herself the practices of the Secondae. Her own wants and desires seemed trivial when the world was in such disarray. She had to know as much as possible if she stood even a chance at helping her people. Along with her meditations, she studied philosophy in college, and worked closely with the Chosen’s cabinet, her family working hard to give her the opportunity to keep fueling the fire inside her.

She invested a large portion of her time in charity work and philanthropy, and within years had a large mass of both Centuarian, human, and other extraterrestrial followers. Young adults admired her fresh perspective and passion, and were more than willing to throw their support behind someone who was so young but so wise. Her public speeches and escapades and mission trips across the nation and beyond had her face plastered on TV screens, and her books and editorials had her name dotting best sellers lists of the highest rank.

Her opposition was few and far between, those who were brave enough to challenge such a household name mysteriously disappearing days after they showed their face. She learned from her father that politics weren’t always clean. Most of the time, she merely stayed in the shadows, pulling strings, but if she’s feeling particularly spiteful, she silences her foes herself. The fight and brute strength from her father and wisdom and drive instilled by her mother had finally culminated into something much more powerful, and dangerous, than they ever imagined.

She started off with optimism. Once upon a time, she truly did believe in peace. But with every passing minute, she realized even further that the humans did not deserve such a potentially beautiful world. They had spoiled it with their petty wars and harsh divisions. No matter the cost, she would help the planet reach it’s true potential - potential only achievable by the Centaurian species.

CONNECTIONS 

THE FRACTAL: Their position isn’t an easy one, stuck midway between two species that don’t always get along. You’ve taken them under your wing, given them a shield of protection from the rather harsh world they live in. You considered them a pawn at first, but as time passed, you started to take an honest liking to them.

THE PULSAR: The problem with the truly kindhearted is their complete blindness. They honestly believe in what you falsely preach, and you’ve got them fooled that the two of you are on the same side. Maybe when the time comes and you inevitably betray them, they’ll finally learn not to trust so easily.

THE LAMINAR: They’re your partner in crime, so to speak. You’re useful to them, being their mole in their political opposition and all, and this gives you leverage. You’ve got your plans, and they have theirs, and as long as your goals align, your partnership with them is safe. If things go south though? You’d drop them in a second flat.

THE VECTOR IS PORTRAYED BY PRIYANKA CHOPRA AND IS CLOSED

[happywitch416]

Again and Again

Today is the day to post this. The culmination of five years of pain, tears, medication after medication, long nights and longer doctor's visits, one surgery already. For two and half years now I have been officially, medically infertile. How long have I known, deep down in my heart? Much longer. But today it’s over; the uncertainty, the pain, the hopes and dreams. For a while I will mourn, I have mourned. We have mourned. But it will okay in the end.

 This is set to post as I am going into surgery, the first completely laparoscopic hysterectomy in my area. Maybe wish me some luck, think of my hubs and kiddo today and my crazy cat. But maybe be a little kinder to yourself too for my sake.

The first time I was given a book

Loss turned into a garden

Tilled deep into the earth

Sang the flowers into bloom

Wept at the destructive nature of a storm. 

Knees bent and heart shattered

Pity, defeat, bitterness with no hint of sweet. 

It's not for me I said. 

I am the storm, 

raging and fierce

Gentle and nurturing. 

I will rise again. 

 Joy once. 

Let's try again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Always wings then. 

Always gone then. 

Storm Breaking against the bitter 

I will not fall to my knees. 

 Defeat. 

Acceptance. 

Rage so deep it tastes like blood on my tongue

As they sink the needle under my skin. 

Acceptance was a lie. 

Broken dreams. 

Why me?

 Faceless Dream child 

dances amongst my thoughts

How perfect for a story

How perfect. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Grief's ache lessens with every word. 

Every word. 

Life isn't the way to immortality. 

 Grief isn't just a garden. 

Grief isn't just a memory. 

Loss isn't just a black hole to consume you.

You can break.

Shatter.

Stars are born when nebulas die.

Loss is little hands you only hold in your heart

Until they rise again. 

Stars in ink

Stars in flowers

Every time.