#it. i suppose today reminded me of some of my other passions

[noxtivagus]

today was fun :>

[scaredpigeons]

Aqua Regia I: cutting through the darkness, bouncing off the walls.

Next chapter

Neuvillette x fem!reader

Word count: 2.2k

You become the assistant to the new ruler of Fontaine. (Set after the Fontaine archon quests, so spoilers if you haven’t already done it.)

Authors note: its finally here! I’ve separated it into chapters out for ease of reading. It should all be up within the next week or so. This is mostly sfw, a little suggestive at times, but the final chapter will contain nsfw content. Series name and chapter titles are from my literal favourite song ever, aqua regia by sleep token. It’s a very fitting song for this story. Enjoy!

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The sun had not even reached its peak in the sky, dew still glistening on the cypress trees in the gardens outside, and already Neuvillette was pinching his brow, eyes feeling heavy as he slaved over the seemingly endless pile of paperwork that was stacked upon his desk. 

Sedene entered his office without knocking, a common occurrence, and one that never bothered him before— only worrying him now because he didn’t want her to see the way his shoulders slumped slightly— an incredibly unprofessional posture. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette, your 10 o’clock appointment has arrived.” She said, eyeing him from her spot in the doorway. 

He nearly jumped, but kept his calm facade as he shuffled around the papers on his desk, looking for his schedule for the day, but it seemed it was lost to the void of unfinished work he was drowning in. 

“My apologies, Sedene, I seem to have misplaced the itinerary I had written out for the day, would you remind me who it is I am meeting with?”

Sedene smiled, her eyes soft. “It’s Miss Charlotte, from The Steambird. You agreed to an interview with her last week, Your Honor.” 

“Sedene, please,” Neuvillette sighed, though his tone remained light and pleasant. “The formal honorifics outside of the courtroom are far from necessary.”

“Alright, sir.” The melusine smiled. “Shall I send her in?” 

Neuvillette tried to right himself, stacking his finished documents and unfinished work in separate piles to seem organized, though he would probably regret it later. 

“Yes, please.” He said. “And if you have the time, perhaps some tea? I’m sure she’ll be here for a good while.” 

Sedene nodded, turning to leave, before the Iudex called out to her again. “Sedene?” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I believe…” he let the tension fall from his shoulders finally, giving up on trying to hide his weariness from her. “I believe I’m in need of some aid, if I am to continue this way.” 

Sedene just hid a chuckle behind her soft hand. “Perhaps you should ask Miss Charlotte to put an ad in the newspaper?”

With his final acceptance of his situation, he nodded. “Perhaps.” 

—————

“—And then I told him that there was no need, I had the perfect candidate in mind, and if he did not like you, then I would put the ad in the paper— although I told him there was absolutely no way he wouldn’t completely adore you altogether.” 

You listened to your friend talk animatedly, finally hearing her take a breath without continuing her thought. You certainly loved Charlotte, but conversations about things like work and her other passions tended to be relatively one-sided. 

“I’m sorry, just to reiterate, you personally recommended me to the chief justice for a position as his personal assistant?” 

“Of course! You were a PA at the steambird for so long, and you did so well there, everyone loved you!” She grinned, taking another sip of her tea. 

The café was rather packed today, and your macarons sat perfectly stacked in a cute pile on your plate. Your favourite desert by far, and café Lutece’s were second only to the treats made by Miss Navia herself. 

“Yes, but that was the Steambird.” You said, tracing a finger over the delicate shell of the top macaron on the pile. “We’re talking about the chief justice here— the new ruler of Fontaine— how are we even supposed to address him now?” 

You started to panic a little, not used to interacting with nobility, let alone the person of the highest social status in all of Fontaine— overlooking the love the citizens still held for lady Furina, of course. 

“I’m not sure, but you’ll get to ask him tomorrow!” Charlotte exclaimed, making you gawk at her. “I knew you were free so I arranged a meeting for you tomorrow at noon! Isn’t it exciting?” 

Your heart dropped into your stomach, then did a couple loops around there before it lurched into your throat. 

“Charlotte! I really appreciate you doing this for me, but I am woefully underprepared for this? What am I supposed to do? What will I even wear? Do I need to bring a resume? List of references? What—“

“Woah, woah,” Charlotte reached across the table, running a soothing hand down your forearm. “It’s not that serious, he’d just like to meet you over some tea at the Palais. He’s not all that intimidating after you meet him, hun. I promise you I wouldn’t have put you up to this if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident in you.” 

Your breathing settled a bit as she comforted you, though your mind was still racing. 

“You’ve got this in the bag.” Charlotte smiled, and you hoped she was right. 

——————

You smoothed your hands over your skirt nervously as you made your way to the steps outside the Palais Mermonia.

You wore the nicest outfit you owned that didn’t stray into formal wear territory, not that you had many dresses of that caliber. 

A dress, cut just above the knee, a beautiful deep blue color. A matching ribbon tied around the collar of the white puff sleeved undershirt, and a navy waistcoat cinched tightly in the back with a bow. Paired with your nicest stockings and a lovely pair of boots that Miss Navia had gotten you last year for your birthday, you looked every bit the part of an upper class citizen of Fontaine. 

Your insecurities ate at you, but you fixed a stray hair and smiled at the cute little dog dressed in a guard uniform that was trotting outside the lift. You were on high alert, but seeing everyone standing around, acting normally, enjoying the sunshine— well that made it seem a little better. 

You greeted Liath as she skipped around the entrance, feeling even better as she smiled brightly at you. You made it a point to personally get to know all the melusine around the city, finding them to be extremely fascinating beings, and upon doing so, learning that they were among the sweetest, kindest people you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

“I heard you’re going to be working here!” Liath said, throwing her arms out in excitement. “That will be so lovely! I will get to see you every day!” 

You giggled a bit, not wanting to burst her bubble. “It’s just an interview, Liath. Nothing is set in stone just yet.” 

“Well I just know you’re going to get the job, you’re so very lovely.” 

You pressed a hand over your heart, feeling your face heat up. 

“You always say the kindest things when we speak, I'm very flattered. I hope I get the job too.” 

She wished you good luck and sent you off, and you entered the building with your heart once again in your throat. 

You walked through towards the head office, nodding at the gestionnaire ladies who were working diligently at their tables before you heard your name ring out from the end of the hall. 

Sedene scurried out from behind her station, coming to greet you. 

“Sedene!” You exclaimed. “It’s been a while, you look so beautiful! are you doing something new with your hair?” 

She smiled sheepishly, pawing at her hair under her hat. “Miss Seigewinne got me some new hair oils, imported from Liyue! They’re very lovely, and smell just heavenly!” She leaned towards you, tilting her head in offering. “Here, smell!” 

You giggled again, a little taken aback, but leaned in to smell her anyway. True to her word, Sedenes hair smelled just lovely, sweet and floral, yet unlike anything you’d ever smelled here in Fontaine. 

“Oh, wow, that's beautiful!” You said. “The next time I go to see the Duke, I’ll have to ask Seigewinne where exactly she got it from.” 

Sedene agreed, and pointed towards the door to your right. “He should be ready for you, I brought the tea in just a moment ago.”

Dread tried to creep its way back into your throat, but Sedene reached up to take your hands into her soft paws. 

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” Was all she said before she smiled and skipped back to her station. 

You walked swiftly to the doors, and before you lost your nerve creaked them open and peaked inside. 

The chief justice was at his desk, eyes flitting over a document held loosely in his hand. He looked so regal and intimidating, his clothes finely pressed and tailored to fit him exceptionally well. Upon your entry, his gaze snapped up, and you swore you could see the faintest hints of embarrassment cross his face. 

Your name fluttered past his lips as he stood, and you shivered a bit at the way his voice uttered the word. 

“My apologies, I did not hear you enter. My attention seems to be scattered as of late.” 

“No, no, please.” You said, stepping further into the room as the door closed audibly behind you. “It’s my fault, I should have knocked first.” 

“Your arrival was anticipated, and Sedene must have sent you through, therefore there was no need for you to knock, I assure you.” 

Neuvillette walked closer to you, holding out his hand for you to shake. You took it,  trying to remember everything you were ever taught about shaking someone’s hand during interviews, but taken aback at how large his hands seemed compared to yours. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Neuvillette said, his hand grasping yours just a beat longer than normal before he pulled away, gesturing to the chair he had set up in front of his desk. “I’ve heard so much about you, please, have a seat.” 

He pulled the chair out, the perfect gentleman, pushing it back under you as you folded your hands under your skirt to tuck it under your bottom, sitting down. 

He rounded the desk and said down, pouring you a cup of tea before sliding the tray of additives closer to you. 

“All good things, I hope?” You said, adding your preferred mixture of extras to your tea. 

“Pardon?” Neuvillette seemed a bit distracted, his eyes jumping back to you from where he seemed to be zoning out. 

“You said that you’ve heard a lot about me,” you said, smiling over the rim of your teacup. Your confidence grew with each passing moment in his office, he just seemed so… normal. A bit scattered—as much as he seemed to try to hide it, which made your chest feel light and airy—but so normal. “I was just hoping they’re all good things.” 

He blinked at you, gears finally clicking into place, before a bit of a sheepish look crept onto his face. 

“Ah, well— yes.” He said, picking up his teaspoon and stirring his tea despite not putting anything in it. “You came highly recommended by Miss Charlotte, and upon hearing of this meeting, a multitude of melusines came to sing your praises, which shocked me a little, but I have heard them speak of you in passing, so I suppose my surprise was short lived.” 

“They speak of me?” You asked, feeling a bit flustered. 

“I’ve heard your name more than once.” He said, taking a sip of his tea. “The girls tend to talk about those who are kindest to them quite a lot, they are all rather fond of you.” 

“Are you close to them?” You asked, already knowing half the answer. “They all speak quite fondly of you.” 

He smiled a bit brighter. “I like to think I am. They are the pride of Fontaine, and therefore I take much pride in them as well.” 

You found yourself staring at his smile. 

You’d only ever seen Neuvillette in the occasional trial you attended. He was always stone faced, serious, and oh so untouchable. High, high up in his seat, looking down on all others. Seeing him here, you couldn’t help but think he looked so very human. 

“To the matter at hand,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. “I will not lie to you, since Lady Furina stepped down I have had an influx of responsibilities to take on, and while I am fully prepared to do so—I find myself in need of…” 

He seemed a bit lost, maybe a bit embarrassed. 

“Some help?” You said softly. 

He sighed. “Yes. Even with all of her frivolity and splendor, Lady Furina did take on her fair share of duties when it came to making sure Fontaine stayed well functioning and stable.” 

Neuvillette seemed a bit wistful then, slightly sad, staring off into the space just beside your head. 

“Monsieur?” 

“Ah, forgive me.” He seemed to shake himself out of it. “I am deeply honored to be entrusted with the care of his nation, but it seems like some assistance would be extremely beneficial to this transitionary period in time, and likely beyond as well.” 

“If I may say so, sir, I think you’re doing a wonderful job already.” You thought about how well the crisis of the flood was handled, the aftermath, the reparations. “I would be honored if you chose me to be the one to aid you in this.” 

He smiled again, softly, and you hoped you’d be able to see it more in the future. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I would be so very grateful.” 

[rippersz]

𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙙.

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, gore, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader)

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“Is that all you want to be? Liked? Wouldn’t you rather be passionately and voraciously desired?” ~ Margaret Atwood

«——..✞..——»

There’s something wrong with you.

There’s something definitely completely entirely seriously wrong with you.

She looks so pretty today.

Utterly irresistible.

You kind of want to kiss her. But she had lunch earlier. And you are in the middle of a staff meeting. And though she often brushes her teeth and uses breath mints, you don’t really want to taste the lingerings of human tissue. Even if the sounds of her pleasure would make it more bearable.

They probably wouldn’t though, of course. Because kissing a cannibal is not bearable in any way. And you’d probably throw up right after. And you’d probably gag and tell her to get away from you. And you’d probably have to wrench yourself away after realizing that although her mouth feels so good, and her hands feel so soft, she has painted entire walls red with her strength. And she has licked them clean with the same tongue she’d no doubt drag along your teeth.

…So no. Maybe kissing her wasn’t a very good idea.

And she was your boss. There was that too.

“Alright everyone, I think that’s it for today. Swift reminder that the Academy will undergo a planned power outage on Friday. Considering most of you will be chaperoning the students at the carnival that evening, I’ll be staying behind to look after the maintenance crew. If all goes well, it should be restored by the next morning. Please enjoy the rest of your days - if you need me, you know where I am.” Swift and to the point she was. Always so quick to hand out little encouraging smiles. Always eager to provide some words of wisdom or kindness. A very well-built facade.

And of course, because they have no other reason to doubt, they eat it all up with vigor. Little kittens to their saucer of fattening milk. Never ever stopping to question how Principal Weems is the way she is. And why she is the way she is. And what she does during her free time.

“Y/n, will you accompany me to my office please?”

You pause in the doorway, feeling the heel of your shoe touch the floor with a small muted clack, experiencing the drop of your heart as your fate is sealed without a single word.

But she doesn’t really need a response anyway. She knows you’re going to say yes. She knows you can never deny her - not unless she asks you to indulge in another one of her very well-cooked meals.

Compliments to the chef, you supposed.

“Of course, Larissa.”

Of course, Larissa.

What a fuckin’ pansy. You twisted bitch.

“Thank you,” is her soft responding whisper before she’s slipping past you and strutting out into the hall - leaving you to close the door behind you both and trail after her like a hungry mutt.

A strange beast of utter tranquility seems to exist within Larissa at all times whenever she’s with you. Never before have you seen her angry, though you know from stories that- on occasion- her irritation can lead to fury. It’s not a pretty sight apparently. But you know that’s most likely not true. You know it’s probably a very pretty sight - but no one wants to admit it. And no one wants to talk about it. Some women are simply off limits even in mention whenever they become angry. Rage, after all, is a powerful thing. It travels through ears- time- and space.

You know you’ve never seen her that way because she doesn’t want to scare you.

You know it’s because she doesn’t want you to be scared of her. Only her.

But you can’t help but wonder - is it too late for that?

Are you already scared of her?

Or is there still time to put you at ease? Make you comfortable? Help you settle?

No.

No no no.

You will not settle. You will not let her rest. For as much as she hides it, you know Larissa lives on the edge of nervousness. She knows she can only control you but only to a certain extent. And she knows you set the pace; even though one would be led to believe that she has all the power. She doesn’t. It may be her turn to serve, but the ball is, perpetually, within your court.

“Please close the door behind you, thanks.” And with that, you find yourself led into the lion’s den; willingly putting yourself to the slaughter as she goes about setting her things down and straightening her dress to sit.

The door closes.

The silence falls.

You feel a bit nauseous.

You feel a bit excited.

You feel a bit crazy.

Daring.

She may be a murderer, a human-eater, a manipulative mad-woman with an incredible sense of fashion, but she also makes you feel alive. And that’s the scariest part.

Any woman knows that once something interrupts the din of daily living, once something begins to worm and thrive and corrupt, there is rarely any chance to go back. You are infected. The virus spreads. The lightning strikes the bones. The heart starts to pump faster than sound travels. You’re alive. For the very first time, you’re alive. Your mother’s womb was not a home. And the world was not a result of love. You’re alive only due to that thing.

Only due to her.

You want to run out of the room.

You want to face her.

Your heart speaks before your mind does.

She’s looking at you. Contemplating you, which she always seems to do. Running her eyes up and down your back, and across your arms, and over your chest and shoulders and down to your midsection and legs. She isn’t thinking about eating you or cooking you - at least you don’t think so. No. No, she’s just admiring. Allowing herself to be before she has to jump back into her role as ‘The Principal’. Or ‘The Murderer’. Either way, you don’t always like the staring - so you break her trance when you turn and walk over to the chairs opposite her desk.

“What is it now?” Your words come out in a huff when you sit, placing your bag on the floor by your side. “I have things to do.” No, you don’t. You wouldn’t have followed if you did. But that’s also not true. You followed only because you wanted to - because curiosity has always been your greatest enemy. And she smiles brightly because she knows that.

“I was just curious about something,” is her easy response. Her hands move to clasp themselves together.

“Hm. What?” Crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back into your chair is the only way you can maintain an air of control. It probably doesn’t work, but that’s beside the point.

“I’ve been growing bored lately. Summer is so far away and the days are dragging on longer than they ever have before,” Larissa laments, letting out a sigh (most definitely forced) to go along with it.

You raise an eyebrow. Where is she going with this?

“I think they’re coming along just fine. And winter is ending soon so it’s not that far.”

But she’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so instead of taking the hint and changing tactics, Larissa only smiles and gives you a small incline of her head. It’s the only recognition you’ll ever receive in regards to ‘being right’.

“Mmm but think of the events we’re all planning for. They’re fun, sure, but time consuming. Though the carnival, in particular, will provide some excitement for everyone...”

Everyone but me, of course is what she means to say.

You resist the urge to frown.

It’s just another thing about Larissa Weems. The guilt. The sympathy. She is not harmful, you try to tell yourself. But she is. She is just a woman, you insist. That doesn’t make it better. She… she needs help. But then you look at her and you know that she doesn’t want help. And want and need are two different things. And whatever Larissa is about to ask of you next, you’re pretty sure it’s something she wants and something you need.

“Okay… and this has to do with me h-”

“I’d like to have fun as well. Just for one evening. Would you be interested in joining me?”

You blink.

This time around, there’s nothing giving her away. In fact, she’s very still in her seat - practically on the edge - wondering if the invisible line the two of you always seem to move around has finally been crossed. Your points of contact consist of meals taken in her study and the occasional quick stroll through the hall. There is nothing outside of that. So what is this? And why now? And what did she mean?

Well. You’ll never know unless you say-

“...Sure.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

You could die.

Meh. What’s a little death?

“Wonderful,” is the slow toothy-smiled response you receive. Though her reaction is all sunshine, with the way her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches and her head tilts a little bit, some part of you knows she’s surprised. It’s found in the way her eyebrows tick up just the tiniest bit. She was expecting a fight. Or more questions. Or any type of refusal at all. But perhaps you’ve grown soft… perhaps you don’t care.

You do, though. You do care.

But, you reason, in the face of The Devil, would a lone Angel not know that it’s better to play along and wait than to find themselves in trouble, stuck for eternity? Because that is what you’re doing, is it not? You’re waiting, no? Observing? While she may be the predator in the underbrush, staring through the bush, you’re the prey with more speed, faster reflexes, and keener eyes. You peer and you watch, knowing that the moment will come in which you’ll need to race off to the edge of the world - and never look back. Just like the Angel finding their time to leave.

But you are no Angel. Don’t you dare compare yourself to that.

Hm. Maybe not. But nonetheless.

“I was thinking of taking part in a game this Friday evening. One of our own, while we have Nevermore to ourselves…” Larissa says gently, drumming her fingertips on the surface of the desk. “Does that sound amenable to you, darling?”

Darling….

You clench your hands into fists, fighting down a violent shiver. Darling. Oh she was wicked when she spoke to you like that. All low tones and velvet tongue and blue eyes peering up through dark lashes… so knowing in her effects. Using them to her advantage. Like she figures that if she could be sultry for a long enough time, you’d somehow remarkably forget about her tendency to eat people. To devour them. To watch the life leave their eyes and think, yes, this one will be in my breakfast. Perhaps in an omelet. Or maybe a side dish of meat with a main course of cinnamon toast and honey.

“What kind of game?” There’s an edge to your voice. It gives you away.

What makes you think she won’t eat you next?

There’s a flash of pink tongue running over white teeth. A quirk of a smile. A hum rumbling from the throat.

“A fun one. Hide and seek, most likely.”

You’d probably taste good. She’s thought about it before. There’s no way she hasn’t.

“And the terms?”

Ah. Hook, line, and sinker. She knows she’s got you.

“I think we should save that for the night of, don’t you agree?”

No. You don’t.

“Why?”

But it doesn’t really matter what you think.

“Well I believe we all need a little bit of surprise in our lives every once in a while. Who knows?” Larissa shrugs, shuffling in her seat to cross her legs at the ankles, “You too may find that you prefer to know all of the details when the time comes.” She licks her lips. You try not to stare. “And I’ve always been a woman of my word. So there’s no need to worry. Is there?”

Yes. Yes there’s always need to worry. Yes you worry very much. All the time. About many things. But mainly her. Primarily her. Nearly her all of the time. It’s reflexive, honestly. Instinctive. You track her movements with a thumping heart and hungry eyes - not because you want to eat her, but because you want to kiss her. Hug her. Fuck her. Until she forgets that she’s stronger than you. Until her hunger for human flesh dies down into nothing. Until you can cure her. Be safe with her. Be finally finally free with her.

Wishful thinking, of course. She can’t change.

So instead of doing what you do want to do and reach over to kiss her- or stab her with a nearby paperweight- you shoot her a heavy glare. “Why can’t you just be normal?” rests on the tip of your tongue, but you shove it back into the recesses of your throat. There’s no point in upsetting her. And the sight of her sadness makes you wanna throw up. And anything you say could be the cause of your death. So, to a certain extent, eggshells are where your feet rest. And dance. And twirl. And lord knows when you’ll be able to stand on solid ground again. Maybe when she’s behind bars, or in a mental ward, or six feet beneath the Earth… rotting, no matter what, but rotting far away from you.

The sound of her throat clearing has you tearing your eyes away from their spaced out spot on the window - and bringing them right back to her. The very epicenter of your worry. And your horror. And your lust. And everything. Everything everything everything.

“I-…” You want to tell her that you’re scared and unsure, but you don’t know if she’ll care. You don’t know if she’ll use that against you one day either. So without choices left, you sigh. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I’ll wait. Fine.”

And you hate the way her smile makes your heart skip a beat.

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Surprised Cannibal Larissa got so much love! I know it’s different, but I quite like writing the uncomfortable things. Lemme know if you’d like to see more of her? Thank you all. - Rip x

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[sorryseraphim]

SMUT IN COMING.

Nothing can calm his mind from the thoughts of her, not even as he scribbled plans, a goblet in one hand, half full of wine, scribbling away figures and narratives. Suddenly, the door opened loudly, the familiar sound of Helene’s footsteps filling the room as Enver looked up, watching her walk towards him. After a few long strides, she was in front of him, standing tall and proud.

“I just came to drop some letters down. I have received word from our people who closely monitor the activity in Moonrise.”

His eyes scanned the letters, but they shifted back to her once again. They remained there for a few moments longer than they should have. It was hard to resist the urge to run over to her and sweep her up in passionate engagement just as they did many weeks ago, but instead, he chose to speak plainly.

“Is that all?”

“Should there be something more?” Helene asked, her lips pursed as she met his gaze.

It felt like an insult. His body ached to have her close, to feel her skin under his touch once again. And yet, he once again chose to be rational, sighing as he spoke. “No, I suppose not.”

At that remark, Helene smiled. Turning her heel as she spoke once again. “The clerics did a wonderful job in your arm, by the way.”

The remainder of their last encounter made his heart pound, the burning desire in his gut only growing stronger, prompting him to get up from his chair and move quickly, wrapping a hand on her wrist, turning her around towards him, their faces only inches apart.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you admit that you like the way I touch you.”

Helene hissed, baring her teeth at him as she felt him push her toward a nearby wall, locking her between his arms, his hands tightly wrapped against her wrists. Her eyes lingered on his lips, for she, too, was reminded of the night she let all of her walls down, allowing him to take her. “Why would I do that? Do you need me to drive my dagger again to your arms?” 

His grip did not falter, wanting to be in control. To make her tremble at his words, but it proved futile with how she resisted. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to stab me again. I might have to retaliate this time.”

“Do it.”

Helene could feel his breath, hot against her cheek, as Enver leaned forward, not taking his eyes off her. She tried kicking his knee, but he was anticipating it already, dodging it easily, titling his head at her attempt.

“If you really don’t want me, your body would not be trembling like this. Your breath would not be caught in your throat. Your head would not be inclined as if inviting me to kiss you.”

“I don’t want you...” she replied breathlessly, tempted to break and let the overwhelming feeling of desire succumb to her entirety.

“Stop lying about how you're feeling. You want me as much as I want you.”

As this remark, he let his lips sink onto her neck, his chin resting on her shoulder as he felt the warmth of her skin against his tongue. Helene closed her eyes, trembling as she fought the urge to respond, her heart pounding in her throat as his mouth began moving, slowly kissing along her jawline. She felt his fingers tangle her hair, pulling her closer.

“Let go of me… Enver, I swear to the Gods…”

“Swear to whatever you want to swear to. Just let me do this without killing me too quickly.” 

He looked up at her, breathing heavily. His eyes looked for any signs of affection, even an answer to his desires from Helene. For a moment, they stared at each other eagerly, her eyes wide at what he did. She tried to speak; her mouth partly opened as word failed her. When she can’t find the right phrases, she pushes him away, angry at herself and her weakness.

Once again, her steps echo the room, leaving Enver sighing, defeated once again.

He spent the entire day thinking of their conversation. The thoughts of her silence, weeks after they had engaged in a passionate night for the first time, ruined his thoughts of planning. Today, her cold demeanor infuriated him to the point that as he wrote aggressively, ink sipped deeper on parchment, almost tearing the paper with his quill. 

Now back in his chambers, he started to ease himself, leaning back on his chair as he put down his pen, rubbing his temples as the thoughts inside his head fought one another, making his head spin. Suddenly, he heard a loud thud from his balcony. Quickly turning around, he found Helene standing by the door. Even in the dimness of the room, he could still see the dagger on her side, clearly dripping with liquid he knew well as blood. 

“Why? Why must you send your people after me?” Helene roared, moving a step closer to him, the bloodied blade on her hand shaking as her hand fidgeted. 

“Isn’t it evident? I enjoy our little contests. I find fighting for my life to be a thrilling venture, especially when it’s you who is trying to kill me.”

Helene watched as he stepped closer to her, mirroring his actions as she took another for herself. Breathing heavily, she tilted her head and started to raise her dagger up, spitting her next words. “Do you wish to spend another night bleeding out? Is that what you want?” 

“If this is what it takes to be near you, then yes.” He replied in a heartbeat, his gaze not leaving her as he took another step forward. “A hundred times over.” 

His chest tightened a little when she started approaching him. Her steps were deliberate and purposeful that his breath caught in his throat as he watched her move closer and closer to him until, eventually, they were almost standing face to face. Just as he anticipated the blade, once again sinking in his arms, she did the unexpected.

Throwing her dagger to the side, she pulled his face towards her, crashing her lips aggressively at his. She could feel his body limp as the warmth of her body pressed against him. He was surely caught off guard, but the softness of her lips, her eagerness, set him on fire, returning the same force of passion as his hands grasped tightly around her neck, the other one trailing from the small of her back, sliding down her rear.

Using his strong arms, his hands travel under her thighs, lifting her gently. He could feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to bed, their lips not leaving one another, drowning in each other’s heat. She herself fell onto the mattress as soon as he let go of her, staring at him with desire as he took off his shirt, revealing his torso. 

Helene kicked her boots off and discarded her gloves, matching his impatience to free themselves from the confines of their clothing. Seeing as he was now free of his trousers, his cock erect and throbbing, she held her breath for a moment as he moved towards her, tugging her pants, baring her body in front of him. She watched as he gaped at her, mouth partly opened, licking his lips afterward.

Slowly dipping his mouth towards her, their lips met once again, and it felt like both of them would explode. Her passion met with his own, their breaths mingling with one another. Small gasps escaped her lips as his hands roamed around her body, palming her breasts, squeezing them to make her moan. Breaking from their kiss, Enver let his tongue travel down her neck, trailing lower to her bosom as one hand continued to cup one of her breasts in his hands.

When he bit her hardened nipple softly, Helene let out a loud moan, making Enver grin. Briefly lifting his head, he looked at Helene’s reaction as he continued to fondle her breast in one hand, taking in her groans and the way her voice hitched at the sensation he was giving her.

Trailing down further her breasts, he planted kisses down her abdomen until he reached where her womb was, dangerously close to her cunt. 

In a daze, she looked down at him, confused as to where his head rested. Helene lifted her body a little as she asked him. “What… what are you doing?” 

“What you must have been letting me do all this time, worshipping you.”

She gasped loudly as she felt his mouth go down her tenderness, her hands immediately finding his hair as she clutched it hard. She could feel his tongue traveling up and down the length of her cunt, ultimately finding her clit and sucking it. Her chest started to heave as she tried to catch her breath. The pleasure that his mouth was giving her drove her to heights unknown, moaning loudly as the sensation drowned her.

When he lifted his head between her legs, a grin spread wide across his face. The thought of having her in his bed again made him tremble. Spreading her legs wide, he lined his cock between her folds, groaning at the sensation of her wetness against the tip of his length. Slowly, he sank himself inside her, both of them moaning as their bodies became one, Enver propping an arm beside her as his hips moved, digging inside her cunt. 

Helene let out a soft groan, mouth partly open as she felt him drive his manhood deeper after each thrust. She was far gone, her body responding perfectly as his pace increased. She held tight onto his arms, her legs intertwined with his as she chased the feeling of his cock hitting her in a particular spot that made her dizzy and wanting for more.

He felt the shiver that ran through her body as she moaned again, smiling triumphantly. His mouth found her lips once again and pushed his tongue in. Her breath was coming in short, quick pants and made his body shiver with anticipation.

“You don’t know how much you occupy my mind,” Enver said as he lifted her leg, his grip tightening around her thighs as he chased the feeling of her walls around his cock. He relished the pleasure her body was giving him; the thought of her giving in for tonight filled his head until he could not think of anything else but her anymore. 

“Enver…” She called out softly, her head lulling to the side, quickly caught by him in one hand, holding her by the jaw as he steadied her head to look at him. Helene was long gone, lust and desire taking over her entire body as he continued to fuck her with rigor. Her body shook at the intensity of his thrust, her climax building up as he moaned her name in return.

“I want more of you. More of this. Gods, Helene, I can’t get enough of you."

“Then take more of me,” Helene replied in a whisper as she sat up, pushing Enver down to the bed and positioning herself on top of his cock. He was taken by surprise, but as soon as he felt her cunt wrapped around his cock again, straddling him as she propped her arms onto his chest, he couldn’t help but sigh in satisfaction.

She was perfection in the flesh. Her body glistening with sweat is a vision he would want to embed inside his head for a long time, in case this night won’t happen again. The way she threw her head back as Helene rode him, her body bouncing up and down his length, made his heart pound. Shifting a little from where he lay, he planted his feet and met her hips with his thrust, making Helene moan loudly at the sensation.

“Fuck, I’m close. Enver, I’m close…” 

“Be a mess for me, Helene. Let go.” He growled at her, feeling his own release nearing. He sat up to meet her lips, devouring them as his hand grabbed her ass, the other guiding her body up and down his cock viciously, both of them panting hard, desperate for their release. Helene leaned her head forward to his, their foreheads touching, sweat drenching their entire body. He once again caught her mouth, tugging on her lips as he felt her walls clenched, about to release.

“Enver…I’m about to…”

“Let go, let me know how I fucked you so good.” 

She let out a short cry, gasping for air as she spilled around his cock, making Enver groan in delight. He buried his mouth down her neck as he felt his climax neared, still thrusting up her cunt, slippery from her cum. When he felt himself closing in, Enver lifted her body from him and laid her down, still panting and out of breath.

Jerking himself from the side, he let his seed spill over the sheets, grunting from the sensation of cum leaving his cock, pumping every bit of it out of his length. Once he was finished, he crawled back on top of her, kissing her flushed cheeks and caressing her side as she tried to recover from being out of breath. 

“You are divine, Helene. Perfect, perfect girl.” He murmured between the kisses, basking from her afterglow as he felt his breath return to normal. He rolled next to her in bed, pulling her hand towards his chest, letting it rest there. He was more than satisfied, a smile creeping up as he felt her body lay next to him, but it was immediately taken when she finally spoke.

“I need to leave.”

“Why? Why not stay the night with me?” He asked her, his voice with a hint of pleading. He didn’t know why he was desperate, but the thought of her leaving so soon stung deep in his chest.

“Because we simply can’t. I can’t stay here.” Helene replied with genuine sincerity. She was weirded out by the lingering feeling inside her chest; the way she succumbs and let herself feel the passion of the moment felt freeing. It was as if all her life and being deprived of the pleasures of the flesh caught up with her and finally be consumed by desire and lust for the first time. 

She sat up from the bed, her hand still clutched by him above his chest. She looked at him for a while, admiring his body, the contours of his chest, the rugged features that somehow made her gut stirred. 

“Tell me. Would you like to see me more often?” Enver asked her, sitting beside her as he brushed her hair away from her face, breathing her in as he waited for her reply.

“You always see me in the council meetings.”

He gave her a knowing smirk, resting his chin above her shoulder. He didn’t want to only see her during duties; he wanted to see her when he had her alone in his chambers, with no one to interrupt or interfere. 

Helene raised an eyebrow and sighed. This is the price of letting him inside her life, baring herself to him. Somehow, it doesn’t feel entirely wrong, and yet she knows these types of distractions would hinder her plans. 

Enver noticed how she fell deep in thought. Leaning his face towards her further, he asked her softly as his hand dipped down her abdomen, fondling her skin, teasing with his fingers. “Do you want this to be a one-time thing?”

She made a sharp inhale as she felt his fingers dug between her folds, his breath hot on her neck as he waited for her reply. 

Enver smirked as he watched her reaction, his fingers working effortlessly against her cunt. “I take that as a no. The way you sighed, you’re enjoying this as much as I do.”

She felt his fingers move away from her folds, a tugging sensation of disappointment weirdly sipping in. She sighed and looked at him. “I will see you when I want to see you,” Helene emphasized. 

Enver titled his head, puzzled at her declaration. He let out a hum before asking again. “How long do you think you’ll decide then?”

“You’ll just see me here again when I want to.”

“You’re terrible.” He said, clearly enjoying this little game they have now initiated. She was a tease, so stubborn but at the same time irresistible and seductive. 

“I’ll see you again when I want to see you again.” She said as she stood up, stretching. One by one, she picked up her clothes and started dressing herself. 

“I’ll hold you to that.” He sighed at first, disappointed that she wouldn’t give him a more concrete answer. But then he smiled widely as she gave her final words; she was a challenge, no doubt.

“Don’t send anyone to find me or my temple again. Or I’ll send their head along next time.”

No blood was spilled that night. Only passion and desire flooded both of them as Helene gave in and let him take her body, her carnal needs met by someone she considered her sworn enemy. Although she knows it is wrong, but she has never felt so alive and pleasured.

She would come back. If not to kill him, to meet him in his chamber and engage once again in a night of passion.

[thelargefrye]

(colorblind was rlly good !!)

For the title game, how about “broken hearts, some cavities” ?

BROKEN HEARTS, SOME CAVITIES

pairing : idol!woosansang x f!reader genre : hurt / comfort, established relationship warnings : language, not confident in your relationship, crying, san is grossly in love with yn

when san came back to the dorm after his practice, he was surprised to see you there. you were cuddled up on the couch between wooyoung and yeosang, you and the wooyoung were fast asleep, leaning on each other and a blanket thrown over the two of you.

yeosang on the other hand was awake, eating popcorn and watching gravity falls for probably the hundredth time in the past six months. san knew how much you loved the show and so yeosang was always willing to watch it with you whenever you came over.

as he walked further into the living room, yeosang looked over and greeted san with a smile.

“how long have they been asleep?” san asks his bandmate as he crouches in front of you. now he fully takes in your and wooyoung’s positions, you resting your head on wooyoung’s shoulder and wooyoung resting his head on top of yours.

“maybe an hour. y/n came over earlier because apparently you guys were suppose to hangout today,” oh shit, he was suppose to hangout with you today. that’s why you were texting him earlier asking when he would be done with practicing and he completely forgot and blew you off.

he feels guilty for having gotten annoyed with you, and for ignoring your texts. you were just wanting to hangout like he promised and he was just blowing you off.

“i know it’s not my place but… how you treated her today really hurt her. she told woo and i how she’s worried about being a good girlfriend to you and that’s she thinks you’re growing tired of her. i think us being on tour really messed with her confidence or something,” yeosang said, his voice hushed as to not wake you or wooyoung, but san could clearly hear the worry in his voice.

“i know i was a major jerk to her. i should have come home hours ago, fuck, i’m such a bad boyfriend.”

“you’re not a bad boyfriend, sannie, you made one jerk mistake and i know you’ll make it up to her.”

“i am a bad boyfriend!” san could feel the tears beginning to form in his eyes, “how long has she been feeling like this? feeling like i’m growing tired of her when i love her so much it hurts.”

yeosang doesn’t say anything, instead he places the bowl aside and tugs the dancer into his arms. yeosang knows how much san loves you, he knows he could never grow tired of you. when they were at their hotels or sightseeing, you were all he talked about. anything that reminded him of you, he bought it.

at this point san couldn’t stop the sob that escapes him and the sound is what catches your sleep-filled brain. somehow registering that san was close and so you opened your eyes, head being weighed down slightly by wooyoung’s.

“sannie…” your voice is still sleep-filled as you turn to look at san still being held in yeosang’s arms. “san, what’s wrong?”

you gently take his face into your hands, tears running down his flushed face and the sight alone is enough to make your heart hurt.

“i love you so much, y/n, please don’t think i could ever get tired of you,” he says catching you off guard. you look to yeosang who refuses to meet your eyes.

your a little hurt by the fact that yeosang would tell san something you told him and wooyoung in secrecy. him betraying your trust when you were vulnerable and crying. but you’ll deal with him later.

“i’m so sorry for being a jerk to you today. i can’t excuse my actions, i forgot our promise and was a jerk to you. please forgive me, i’ll make it up to you.”

“san, of course i forgive you, i love you too,” you say as you rest your forehead against his own. a moment passes before san is pressing his lips to yours in a slow and passionate kiss.

“hey take it to your room, san, before one of the others come out and see you two,” yeosang says nudge you both with his hand.

you pull away and san immediately picks you up from the couch and takes you to his room. yeosang watches the two of you, not being able to ignore the just pure love you have for each other. he feels his own heart clench slightly at the sight before his eyes filter over to wooyoung who only just now waking up.

“where’s y/n?”

“with san.”

“oh… oh. so i guess they’re going to make up?”

“yeah.”

“good, good, hey yeo?”

“what?”

“do you… love them too?”

yeosang pauses for a moment to let the question sink in, “yeah. i do.”

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”

[alphaakaza]

fight so dirty

Kimetsu Academy history teacher Rengoku Kyojuro never disappointed. His classes were beloved by all, and his methods were unorthodox - he believed learning solely from books alone was tiresome and promised disinterest, especially from the young folk of today. Lessons were as hands-on and physical as the school would allow - having the rowdy and excitable teenagers reenact scenes of war, protest, and other historical events (as safely as possible), so the children could experience firsthand what it could be to live through such times. 

And in that spring, with the weather so pleasant, Rengoku often took them out on field trips - like the one they were on at the moment.

A flock of over 20 teenagers trailed behind the sunset-haired teacher like baby ducks, followed by a chaperone - teacher Kanroji. They were making their way to Keizo's dojo, a martial arts school that taught an old, near-dying style of jiu-jitsu. 

They were welcomed in by a small, pale young woman who introduced herself as Koyuki, the dojo owner's daughter; she first took them to the lockers, where they all changed into keikogi, including the two teachers. Koyuki led them inside and showed them to the mats on the floor where they could all sit in front of the teacher.

The brunet man sitting in seiza in front of them was far younger than the one Rengoku made all the plans and arrangements with, and he quickly realized he must be the son-in-law master Keizo had mentioned.

"Welcome to Keizo's dojo, we're honored to host you all," the young man spoke, bowing stiffly (Rengoku made notice of Koyuki giggling softly at this). "I'm Hakuji, master Keizo's apprentice and a teacher here. I will be in charge of today's lesson in Master Keizo's stead, since he is bedridden with a minor cold."

At this, Rengoku shouted: "WE SHALL BE IN YOUR CARE!"

His students echoed the sentence, though far less ear-piercingly. 

The history of Soryū, the jiu-jitsu style Keizo taught, went back over 400 years in the past, and though Hakuji had began explaining it a little bit choppily and awkwardly, he quickly gained steam and went over the details he knew with a lot of passion - seemingly, this was a subject he was extremely interested in. 

The oral introduction to the style wasn't supposed to be long - master Keizo understood Rengoku's methods and agreed for the lesson to be more physical - but the young brunet was so enthralled by the subject that he accidentally spent way too much time going over the style theory vocally. Rengoku felt terrible interrupting, though - and to him, it WAS quite interesting -, so the one to stop him was Koyuki.

"Dear... don't forget the lesson plan!" the young woman reminded him in her soft tone, smiling sympathetically.

"Ah...!" Hakuji flushed and flailed a little. "My apologies! I hope I didn't bore you all..."

One of the students was smacked awake by another. Rengoku tried to distract the teacher from the disheartening sight. "Not at all! It was all so interesting! However, it would certainly be nice to move onward with the actual lessons!"

And, just as he finished saying that, the sound of doors opening and closing was heard from outside, as well as some muffled shouts of, "Keizo!? You there!?" Koyuki mumbled, "Oh, that must be him!", quickly walked to the door and left.

Hakuji grumbled and sighed. "That is... Master Keizo's special guest. Master decided it would be a good idea to have him demonstrate Soryū with me," by the slightly annoyed look on his face, it was obvious the brunet was not happy with this. "Hope that is fine with you, professor Rengoku!"

Rengoku wanted to say yes, but he was interrupted when the sliding door was nearly slammed open and-

A near-identical copy of teacher Hakuji clamorously stormed in.

All the students, Kanroji and Rengoku gasped, oh-ed and WAH?!-ed. Some of his rowdier students even screamed - specifically, Agatsuma and Hashibira. The boy with the boar hat jumped to his feet and pointed excitedly at the stranger.

"IT'S FUCKING AKAZA! MMA LEGEND AKAZA!"

Rengoku had no time to restrain him because the same brown haired boy that had smacked his classmate awake now bonked Hashibira on the head and forced him back on the floor. 

The attention was quickly back on the stranger and Hakuji - all eyes  boggling back and forth from the two, astonished by the uncanny similarity. Their faces and builds were identical - both pale and very fit, with powerful arms and legs, yet gentle, beautiful faces, highlighted by very long and light-colored eyelashes - and the only things that differentiated them physically were the stranger's ear piercings and hair, which was dyed a soft pink. 

Teacher Hakuji, already on his feet the second his pink-haired doppelgänger walked in, was standing next to him with an expression mix of annoyed and apologetic. With a sigh, he spoke:

"...this is Akaza, Keizo's special guest. He and I joined this dojo at the same time, and we have a similar level in Soryū, which-"

"You're just gonna skim over what's boggling their minds, huh?" this Akaza interrupted rudely and turned to the class with a toothy grin. "Hi, I'm his identical twin~ I'll be in your care~ sorry my little brother is such a stick in the mud~"

Hakuji gasped. "I'm not a-! You-! I'm only 5 minutes younger! How-" the brunet grumbled and shook his head, exhaling to try and calm himself down. "Anyway- Akaza and I are going to demonstrate Soryū, and once you all understand it, we can do some rounds with the students like we promised, professor Rengoku." 

When Rengoku exclaimed a resounding, "YES!", he noticed Akaza's eyes were trained on him. The pink haired man grinned and made a small gesture of "hello", which the teacher responded to with a small nod. 

Akaza left for a minute to change into keikogi to match his brother, and when he came back a few of the students (and Mitsuri, again) OOOOH-ed lowly - now that Akaza was wearing slightly shorter sleeves, the tattoos on both of his arms were visible. 

They were dark blue, armband type tattoos, and Rengoku could swear he remembered them from somewhere. The man sporting them smirked at the spectators' reactions, showing them off not-so-subtly by crossing his arms over his meaty chest. 

Hakuji tsk-ed and made to kick his twin on the back of his shin, which Akaza quickly avoided, and deflected with his own foot.

Without any introduction or preparations, the men began sparring - though, to Rengoku, it seemed more like a genuine fight. 

Both men's movements were fluid and fast, and whether it was because they knew each other well enough, or the genuine talent in their fighting style, they were always one step ahead of each other - almost always predicting their opponent's attacks to shield themselves from a blow. 

Hakuji, Rengoku noticed, put more emphasis on his leg and foot attacks, often managing to land kicks to Akaza's back and shins, which the pink-haired man often left unguarded. But despite this, Akaza was still landing more debilitating hits - punching Hakuji on his weaker points with his powerful fists, which seemed like they could punch through concrete.

The session ended when Hakuji fell to the mat floor, pinned by the chest by Akaza's arm after a kick to his legs. The brunet all but growled in frustration at having to tap out and admit defeat, yet he had to show an honorable loss to the students. 

Sitting back down in his previous seiza position (albeit a lot more disheveled and out of breath), Hakuji addressed the students and teachers before him. 

"That was our demonstration of Soryū,” he panted out, and brushed some sweaty hair out of his face. “Now, with professor Rengoku's help, please partner up in pairs, and I shall teach you some basic moves."

Rengoku shot up to his feet in excitement. "That was amazing! You two are amazing! Thank you for the demonstration!"

Saying this, he urged all his students to pick a friend to spar against, unaware of a certain pair of hazel - near golden - eyes following his moves intently, curiously.

The boar hat boy - Hashibira - was disgruntled. "I don't wanna partner up with these weaklings!" He almost roared. Then, he pointed at Akaza yet again, this time challengingly. "Fight me, Akaza! I only fight against the strongest!"

Mitsuri flailed, trying to apologize to the man while also reeling the student in. "Ino-! My sincerest apologies, Mr. Akaza- You can't just challenge professional fighters like that, Inosuke-!"

Akaza was very visibly having fun, rocking back and forth on his heels slightly and grinning. "I love your spirit, kid!" He praised. "Unfortunately, you're a little bit too small to be challenging me~ I only pick on people my size!" 

After hearing this, Hashibira went red in the face - whether out of humiliation or ire, nobody was sure - and his challenging stance turned into more of a little tantrum. Rengoku trotted up to him and Mitsuri to try and reason with him. 

"Don't falter, Young Hashibira! Mr. Akaza did say you're almost there in terms of muscle mass and height! You can challenge him again in a couple years!"

As the boar boy slowly - reluctantly - calmed down, the pink haired man hummed in thought, resting his chin on his fist - eyes still watching the history teacher, almost as if scanning him.

"Would the teacher perhaps- Rengoku, was it?- want to go up against me, instead?" Akaza said with a wolfish grin, causing a silence to fall over the dojo. He locked eyes with the man and chuckled. "I would go easy on you, of course."

Rengoku felt a shiver of unknown origin go down his spine. 

Hashibira immediately started urging the blond man on, saying, "defend my honor!" and "you're weaker than me, of course, but you've got the build!" A lot of the students were pumped about it, too - seeing their favorite teacher in a "fight" would probably be a topic of conversation for weeks. It would be legendary.

One student though, Tsuyuri, seemed worried, and, though her voice was very quiet, her best friend Kamado wasn't, and his echoing of her concerns reached everyone's ears.

"Professor Rengoku might get hurt? Wait, don't you know, Kanao...?"

Rengoku interrupted everyone when he laughed and proclaimed, "I accept your challenge, Mr. Akaza!" 

He looked over at Tsuyuri and smiled; he was extremely lucky to have such sweet and concerned students who worried for his safety. He gave her a small thumbs up to reassure her and turned back around to face Akaza, as passionate as ever.

"And, you don't have to go easy on me! I come from a long line of kendo instructors, and I have taken quite a few judo lessons since I was a child - I'm a second dan black belt!" 

This received a chorus of OOOH-s and WAAAH-s from his students. More importantly, though, it got a smirk out of Akaza - one that promised nothing but trouble. 

(Despite himself, Rengoku couldn't deny that made him a trouble-seeker). 

After grumbling at his brother, berating him for being rude towards guests, Hakuji went to direct the pairs of students towards the center of the room to begin teaching them - and Rengoku approached his challenger.

"I'm Rengoku Kyojuro, it's a pleasure meeting you!" Rengoku exclaimed, bowing quickly. "I'm more of a sumo kind of guy, but I've seen you on TV and in the news once or twice, so meeting you is an honor, Mr. Akaza!"

The pink haired man hummed, also bowing... and scanning the man, yet again. As a fighter, seeing men of Rengoku's physique instinctually made him size them up - and as an opponent, he was definitely worth his attention.

"Kyojuro," he tried the name out on his tongue - it felt a lot more natural than Rengoku. He smiled. "Not much of an MMA guy, huh."

Rengoku was shocked at hearing his first name from a stranger. He probably showed it on his face, judging by the warmth that rushed to his cheeks, but he made no comment about it. Strangely, it didn't feel wrong. 

"Now that I know you were trained in Soryū, I will definitely be following your exploits more closely, Mr. Akaza!" 

"You can drop the honorifics," the shorter man chimed in, or rather, interrupted. He didn't care for formality - much less with somebody he was interested in- power-wise, that is, of course, he tried to reassure himself. 

"...Akaza," the teacher corrected himself sheepishly, flustered slightly at the casualness. "Shall we begin our sparring, Akaza?"

The pink haired man grinned from ear to ear, excited, and got into a lower stance, fists forward in a defense position. He urged the teacher to do the same, to make the first move with a taunting cock of the head, eager to figure out what kind of fighter this man was - and if his instincts were right.

Rengoku didn't go for an attack right away, instead the two men slowly stepped in a circle, calculating; Akaza, the blond’s first move, and the teacher how to get through that air tight defense he witnessed in the brothers’ sparring. The pink haired man’s stance was low and guarded; like a fortress, and Rengoku was looking for an in to break it down.

When the first move finally came, the fight was on and fast like two animals in the wild - instinct, raw strength and experience meshing into one. The teacher first feinted and immediately went for Akaza’s leg, knocking him off balance and gripping him by his robe, attempting a throw to the ground. The professional fighter quickly defended himself, getting the hands off in a swift movement and kicking Rengoku away, directly in the chest. 

As the blond caught his breath, Akaza lunged with an assault of punches which Rengoku blocked with his arms, wincing and grunting at every hit. 

When Akaza stopped for just a second to redirect the blows to his sides, the teacher immediately seized his opportunity to trap the other man in a headlock; despite his precarious place underneath a heavier man, he nonetheless managed to quickly turn around until he was straddling his back, and still choking him out. 

He thought to himself that he had been right to assume the pro seemed to leave his neck and back unguarded most of the time, and a rush of excitement washed over him. Not every day did he get to overpower an MMA champion.

Almost subconsciously, he realized the students had stopped what they were doing to look, in awe at their seemingly goofy teacher managing to put down someone like Akaza. If he looked back, he would've also noticed Hakuji, slack jawed at the sight.

But he was taken out of those thoughts as he flew head first to the matted floor, knocking his face against it roughly and screaming in pain. Akaza had made a quick movement upwards with his entire lower body that he had too distracted to predict. Dazed from the pain and surprise, he couldn't even defend when the other man grabbed his arm and held it against his back. With his other powerful, calloused palm, he was now retaliating and choking him instead. 

His initial adrenaline filled pride washed away by an intense feeling of humiliation. 

After a couple futile attempts at breaking out of the lock, he growled low in the back of his throat, and slapped the mat with his free hand. 

“I give!”

His arm was let go, but the hand around his neck only released the hold after a couple seconds, and he could’ve sworn he heard the pink-haired man chuckle, or maybe even coo, when he finally did. 

(That definitely also fed into his humiliation, but, for some reason, for a second, he felt butterflies in the pit of his stomach at it.)

The rest of the class transpired quickly and without any bumps in the road; though he did receive a lot of flack from the Hashibira boy about losing. His other students, though, clamored and congratulated him in putting up such a good fight. Even Hakuji gave him a subtle thumbs up when nobody was watching. 

Through it all, he fervently avoided looking Akaza in the eye. He had bowed to him after getting up from the fight, and admitted to his strength. Rengoku was a mature adult, but something about this man, and this fight, had left his entire head and body in disarray. 

But, on a subconscious level, he felt as though meeting that golden gaze would make him spontaneously combust. 

But even so, when the scheduled time of the classes ran its course, the teachers and students bid Hakuji and Akaza goodbye, and followed Koyuki back to the dressers to change back. 

Just as they were opening the doors to leave, they heard loud footsteps making their hurried way towards the entrance/exit area, and a huffing Akaza smacked the door open. 

“Just one second! I’ve got… something for the boar hat boy,” the MMA fighter grinned awkwardly at the teacher, then looked back at the kids and Mitsuri behind him. “Y’all can go ahead, I’ll just take a minute.” 

Rengoku raised an eyebrow but nonetheless turned to him, looking over at Mitsuri and nodding. When they were gone, he finally looked directly into those golden eyes. 

He swallowed down the various feelings that had been smothering him for the past hour. “An autograph, I assume? You could’ve given it to him earlier…!” 

“Huh? Oh,” Akaza fumbled in his sweatpant pockets for a piece of paper. “Yeah, of course. Give me a minute.” 

The professional fighter thoughtlessly handed him the little piece of paper with his signature while still looking for a pen, grabbing a backpack from the floor. He found a small photograph of himself holding a champion’s belt and began scribbling. 

“This one’s for you, though, Kyojuro,” he said, grinning, and gave it to him. 

Rengoku dumbly looked down at the two things in his hands. The piece of paper looked like an old receipt. The photo, though, seemed high quality. Recent. When he turned it around, there was a phone number, and a winky face.

“You’re a damn good fighter, Kyojuro. You should think about becoming a pro… Though, if I can’t fight you in the ring,” he purred, leaning down so he could meet the teacher’s downward gaze, and smirked toothily, “I’d gladly do it somewhere else.” 

With that, the pink haired man twirled around and left, hands in his pockets.

Rengoku wasn't combusting, but he definitely was somewhere close to it. 

He shakily pocketed the picture and made his way outside, ignoring Mitsuri’s questioning gaze when she noticed his burning red cheeks. 

ao3 link | divider credit @benkeibear

[neonpixel-pixie]

🖤 Love letter for Vito Scaletta 🖤

NOTE: hello angels, i know my tumblr is not as active as i would like it to be, but i have lack of ideas and also nearly none time since school & socializing. (if anyone is waiting for moodboard or aesthetic, i will try my best to find my time this months). at least my creative writing class gave me some idea for some kind of postable material. we were supposed to write a love letters & from some reasons i decided to write one for vito scaletta. i know it is not the best one, but it was much fun to do it and i really gave a lot of feelings into it. i hope you will enjoy it and if you like it let me know in comments (maybe i will make more posts like that if you will be interested). ~ neonpixel-pixie 🧚🏻‍♀️✨

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My dearest Vito, About three hours ago, I have returned to Empire Bay after months away to spend the Christmas holidays with you, and guess what?! From your "great" friends, I found out that you ended up in prison because of your "amazing" job. Didn't I tell you to be careful before I left to Stanford? And didn't I also tell you that my parents can financially support us until you find a decently paid job? But no! Mr. Scaletta had to be as stubborn as always and not listen to me, right?! Oh, Vito, I love you so much, but why are you such an idiot? Why are you doing this to me... and on Christmas of all times?! Do you know how scared I was when you suddenly stopped writing letters to me and answering calls? I've spent nights crying because I thought you might have found someone else since we last saw each other! I know you're not like that. After all, you kept your promises like a decent man everytime. So I reassured myself thinking you must just be very busy. But despite that, I imagined the worst scenarios every day, either contemplating pulling out the hair of anyone who even looks at you or whinned like a fool for hours - not that I'm not doing that while I'm writing this letter too... and the fact that I'm writing it in your apartment doesn't really help my mood, especially when I imagine how we could spend time together today after endless waiting. You wouldn't believe how excited I was to finally see your face in person and not only on a few photographs I secretly grabbed from you before the start of the winter semester. And when I imagine that we could spend the holidays baking and decorating gingerbreads while listening to Christmas songs by Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, it breaks my heart. The only thing currently keeping me somewhat sane is the scent of your cologne, whiskey, and cigarettes, which still lingers in the rooms and reminds me so much of your sweet embrace and passionate kisses. At least it warms my soul a bit and gives me hope that you'll get out soon from that hell on earth, and I'll feel the warmth of your embrace again. I promise that while I'm in town, I'll stop by to see you whenever possible. I love you and please take care of yourself. I'm afraid for you. Yours beloved, M. ♥

[dreamoonverse]

(I love the mob! Bucky POVs where he protects his bunny, but what if a turn of events he watches you take matters into your own hands….)

Mentions: slight angst, a bit of violence (choking), implied smut, fluff about it I think 😂

Mob! Bucky x Reader

(Not my best POV 😅 sounded a lot better in my head very short)

You were never really one to interrupt his business meetings. You kept yourself occupied as much as you could till he got out and you were all his for the rest of the day. Very few times you would find your way in there unless you desperately needed to tell him something that couldn’t wait. Of course he would stop the whole world for you. Nothing else mattered more than you.

When he first met you, you were very quiet. He as time went on found that you were quiet the talker engaged in conversation about things you were passionate about you just didn’t do it with everyone. You were more of an observer, pick and chose your battles. He did everything to make sure you were happy. Whatever you wanted you got, he always took care of you and you made it your business to return the favor but today…he would see how much you took care of him and yourself.

“No fucking way walker…” Bucky leaned back in the chair. He tolerated many mafia bosses made business arrangements but for some reason this boss decided to send a dumbass instead of face to face. He was not particularly found of him either . “This is the proposal and my boss won’t except anything less,” walker shifts in his chair scratching under his chin. Bucky rolls his eyes “Well tell your boss he can take my fucking boot and shove it right up his a-“ the door opens stopping his sentence. You walk in closing the door behind you. He is puzzled flashing you a look ‘what’s wrong’ he can tell by your facial expression your not exactly in a great mood.

You shrug just needing to be in his presence not feeling up to anything but having him hold you. “Carry on,” he tells the men refusing anyone to even glance in your direction. You walk over to the bar to pour a drink for him and yourself carrying both when you feel a pull on your clothes making you gasp looking back “Thanks,” Walker takes the drink out of your hand sipping it. “Your a peach…” he smacks your ass making you jolt slightly forward spilling some of the other drink in your hand. Bucky practically leaps out of the chair about to black out but Steve stops him mid way gesturing to you.

You moved so quickly to have your hand around walker’s neck long nails digging into his skin he face turns a shade “Next time you do that your fucking head will be smacking the ground…but if you like it rough let me know…I can make you experience all sorts of pain you never thought you could…got it…” you hissed before releasing he coughs holding onto his throat. “Get him out of here…all of you except her…leave,” Bucky orders everyone clears the room Steve showing walker the door with a shove.

You look down fixing your outfit avoiding his gaze. “Bunny…look at me,” he runs his fingers underneath your chin tilting it up to face him. “You were supposed to let me handle that…” he says. “I can handle myself…” your hands find a way to his chest playing with the buttons on his collar shirt.

“Mm but did you forget who is in charge around here…” he hands travel to your lower back down your ass squeezing biting his lip. “Remind me then…” you raise your eyebrow challenging his statement.

“I fucking will…let me take that roughness you have though…” he smirks biting your neck you tug on his hair “Whatever you say Barnes…” you half smile getting your anger out on something else.

[march-harrigan]

OMG you did a White Rabbit reader with Jervis? Could you do a Chesire Cat type reader with Jervis? One whos like, Just as mad but is super self aware n shit?

So, I had to redo the second half of this one, but it's done! I enjoyed getting to do another Wonderland dynamic! Although I'm not sure I managed to make the madness shine through as much as I would have liked. More carefree/risky behavior than anything.

Maybe Cheshire Cat!Reader will make another appearance someday, so I can flesh them out more.

People would have thought you mad if they saw you in this part of town. And to be quite honest, they were probably right. It wasn't exactly the safest, and yet here you found yourself, almost daily if your schedule would allow it.

Which is where the madness came in. Even by Gotham's standards, this place was a hotspot for crime. Not just normal, every day crime either. When you came here, you were at risk of a run-in with some of Gotham's worst. But your passion for urban exploration outweighed your sense of self-preservation, and so you'd explored to your heart's content. Yes, your priorities were skewed. You'd be the first to admit that. However, you personally saw no problem with it. After all, everyone was a little off in their own way, right? Why should you be the exception?

Besides, if you hadn't taken the risk, you'd never have met Jervis Tetch. And it was Jervis who kept you coming back after that first trip into no man's land.

He called you his Cheshire Cat. Even when you'd first met, your smile had reminded him of Wonderland's perplexing, grinning feline. If that hadn't been enough for him to make the connection, your propensity for not giving straight answers did it. You'd appeared in his hideout as if from nowhere, and it took him nearly an hour to work out your reason for being there. You'd talked him in circles that whole time. "Why is anyone anywhere?" you had asked. So imagine his surprise when he realized how simple it was. All you'd wanted was to get out of the rain.

From that point on, he was intrigued by you. As intrigued as you were amused by him. The mutual interest led to further visits and before long, those feelings had developed into something else entirely. You'd never officially spoken the words, but it was a forgone conclusion that the two of you were an item now.

It was during today's visit that you nearly gave Jervis a heart attack. It was one of those rare, sunny days in Gotham and you'd planned on surprising him with a picnic. Unfortunately, when you arrived at his hideout this time, he wasn't home. This happened from time to time, but he usually wasn't gone for long unless he'd planned something big. And so you took it upon yourself to wait for him. Naturally, to you, this meant climbing up to the roof and watching for him. What else were you supposed to do?

It was a little under two hours later when he finally arrived. By this point, you were lying across the roof. Your arm with the picnic basket dangling lazily off the edge while you held your head propped up with the other. You whistled for his attention and the small man squeaked in surprise, halting in his steps. "Oh, good heavens dear, you gave me a fright! I thought you might me one of those Batspawn." His voice lowered into a growl at the mere thought of the vigilante pests.

"No need to get your cute little bowtie tangled, Hatter, sweetie," you chuckled, lazily giving him your signature grin. You swung your legs around in one swift movement and sat up. The action seemed to draw a gasp from him. Likely worried about your proximity to the edge. "It's just me."

"Y… Yes, I can see that," he replied, voice shaky. He noted the basket in your hand. "I, um… See my little Cheshire Cat was planning a… Picnic?"

"Mm, something like that~"

"Well, I… I'm afraid to say," the Hatter stuttered out, casting a brief glance up toward the sky. Sadly, the beautiful weather had come and gone before he got here, the sky now overcast with the all too familiar dark clouds. Typical Gotham. "The sky's quite gray. A picnic, yes! But… Not today. And on the roof, I dare survey, not safe, I say. Why not come down here and play?"

The rhymes came out rushed and haphazard, easily giving away his apprehension at your chosen spot. With a chuckle, you decided you wouldn't distress him any further and carefully climbed down. Once you were safely on the ground in front of him, you greeted Jervis with a small, chaste kiss. It served to calm his nerves, and as you pulled away, you held the basket up in front of him. "Who says we can't have a picnic, hm? Just because the sun declined our generous invitation?"

"I… Yes, I suppose. But it looks like it must rain."

"And?"

"Well… The food might get soggy, dear."

"Hm. I suppose you're right. Well," you sighed letting your arms drop so you were holding the basket in front of your legs. "Who enforces the rules for picnics anyway? The picnic police? Batman in a gingham checked cowl? I say we take this inside."

"Yes, yes! You're quite right, pussycat!" Jervis giggled, unable to shake the humorous image of Picnic Batman. He eagerly linked an arm in yours and escorted you inside. "An indoor picnic is just what we need!"

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #78

I woke up today, determined to go to the grocery store to prepare a recipe that someone from the internet sent to me.

…Today seems to have had other plans, though. Hahaha…

At least for today things feel somewhat settled, so I went and caught up with the messages from other people that I didn't have the bandwidth for in previous days. Tomorrow, I am hoping to go to my friend R's house; he is probably one of the best bakers on my planet, and he is going to make us some gluten-free peanut-butter-banana bars, and we will do some catching up. I also made it a point to message another friend of mine. I made him a tree AGES ago, but he's been caught up in the complexities of his life, and we haven't spoken in months. Thank goodness we're both neurodivergent and therefore don't have "friendship decay mechanics"! Hahaha!

Then I began making preparations for weaving trees outside, since the weather will be warmer soon. I spent a lot of today trying to put together the perfect playlist for it - one to inspire determination, and to remind me of how much I've grown and how much I've been helped along the way. It tells a story. Perhaps I'll reproduce this playlist on YouTube so you can hear it sometime, if you want to. It's made entirely of songs that are special to me for reasons I won't define here. But I don't have the energy right now to build it in a place where others can see it. Maybe tomorrow.

Today is the birthday of J's departed brother. I told you a while ago that I might tell you the story of why J wants to get an airplane to begin with; suppose today is as good a day as any; my brain is still kinda soup, and I don't have much else to write about.

J is the youngest of four siblings - two brothers, B and Daniel, and a sister, S.

Daniel was passionate about the outdoors, about photography, about motorcycles, and about a wide variety of other stuff. But most importantly, he was thoughtful, kind, intelligent, introspective, and very gentle. He also had a bit of a wanderlust about him. He spent a lot of his time walking, hiking, doing mechanical work, teaching about motorcycle safety, riding his motorcycle (always in full gear, and never doing anything reckless) and taking beautiful photographs whenever he could. You can find many of the pictures he took here. Please look at them:

I only knew him briefly. But even in that short span of time, and even with so few interactions, it was clear to me, with the way he behaved, how he spoke to others, the kinds of things he loved, and the integrity with which he carried himself, that he was one of the finest examples of a human being that my planet had to offer.

Daniel had dreams of moving to Oregon to become a professional photographer - of nature, of motorcycle races, of whatever suited his fancy. He had an amazing eye for it. So he packed up all his stuff, mailed some of it ahead, and then rode his motorcycle - in his full body gear and helmet, and with all his defensive driving skills, and all the seriousness with which he took motorcycle safety - from where we live in New York State, all the way to Portland, Oregon. He made it! And he took an amazing variety of stunning photographs along the way.

In July of 2020, while Daniel was still getting his living space situated, he decided to go out on a routine drive on his motorcycle, most likely to familiarize himself with the area. Naturally, he was dressed in full gear. But he didn't make it home; he was collided into by an elderly gentleman who was returning home from a hike. The elderly gentleman made an illegal left turn without warning at a speed so high that it wouldn't have helped Daniel even if he was in a car. He died instantly due to the physics involved with inertia of soft things being encased in hard bone; not even a helmet helps with those kinds of physics.

…And just like that, 33 years of growth, of change, of learning, of loving, of becoming, of creating… all of it was undone in an instant. A single moment of negligence caused by a person who claimed he "didn't see him". And now he's gone. I'll never see another one of his photographs. I'll never get to feed him another bowl of venison curry. I'll never get to see him smile or hear him laugh. He'll never see any of his photographs published in any magazine. J has a hole in his soul now in the shape of his brother that can never be filled; the best that J can do is become strong enough to carry the immense weight of that emptiness.

…Funny, you know. Emptiness isn't supposed to weigh anything. And yet… writing this to you, my eyes are already overflowing with photographs of his that I'll never get to see. My lips tremble with words I'll never be able to say to him. My diaphragm quakes with the pain of the laughter that I won't be able to experience with him. At least… not until my turn to exit my own meat-mech comes around. J was extremely close to him and looked up to him as a hero. I can't even begin to imagine the weight of the emptiness he must carry, or the strength it took for him to rise up again after I saw how the weight of that emptiness drove him to his knees.

Because of the safety gear that Daniel was extremely conscientious about wearing, there wasn't a scratch or even so much as a bruise on his body; at the wake, he looked like he was asleep. Due to the nuances of Oregon law, the gentleman who killed Daniel faced no consequences whatsoever. All the same, I hope that the knowledge that his negligence stole a life prompts him to never again be irresponsible with his vehicle.

In honor of Daniel's memory, J wanted to make the same trip across the country, but in his own way. Daniel was passionate about motorcycles. J was always interested in airplanes, but for a variety of reasons (mostly having to do with the conditioning he received as a child about what sorts of things are "practical" and "realistic"), he didn't pursue that interest until recently.

J worked hard to overcome a lot of his previous conditioning in order to obtain a pilot's license. Like Daniel, J is very conscientious about safety, so he has done his utmost to become someone who can pilot a small airplane safely and confidently. He has memorized all of the standard procedures regarding visual flight rules. He is still working towards obtaining his instrument flight rating. He is doing the work needed to make sure the plane he bought recently is safe to operate. He has deconstructed a lot of the conditioning he received that tells him he is "unworthy" and "incapable" in order to make this work, and I could not be more proud of him.

We're still a ways off from making the trip, but when we do, I will be with J, most likely taking pictures, making sure he eats, sleeps, and hydrates, and generally trying to be a source of support. By that point, given that M and Br do not like heights, they will be okay with holding the fort back at home.

…So that is the story about why I was able to take pictures for you from an airplane in one of my letters. Suppose I might as well end today's letter here.

Hey, Sephiroth? I already have enough loss. I have even more in my past. And I know I'm going to have more in my future (M and Br are older than me; this is the other side of being polyamorous, I'm afraid…). There are already missing pieces in my soul in the shape of other human souls. Turn yourself around and keep yourself safe so that you don't add to my collection, yeah? And… make sure you're very generous with the phrase "I love you". Because you don't know when you're going to run out of opportunities to say it out loud.

I love you. And I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine

[cherrymoonxx]

Hi! Would love to join your muse reading if possible!

I love listening to my music in the shower 🫶 thank you so much!!

🐳💓

Hey there! I can definitely relate lol

Alrighty, on to the reading!

Hmm, so I’m getting soft vibes from you. Pastels, “girl next door,” and just an overall cute vibe. I’m reminded of Edwina from Bridgerton. You may actually have a few secret admirers whether you think so or not 👀 Very soft energy. Maybe you are really kind and have a lot of patience with others. People like to be around you because your energy is sweet.

For the muse reading, I actually got your scenario right away lol. So, I’m seeing that your artist will be an art student. They have a passion for drawing, but unfortunately, they’ve been in a bit of a rut. There’s one particular class they take that usually has a different volunteer sit in and pose for the students to practice drawing. In this case, you’d be that person. So you walk in and you’re instructed to take a seat in the middle of the class and pick a pose that will be comfortable. Your artist, I’m seeing that they’ve got messy hair and glasses, is busy getting their stuff set up so they don’t really notice you at first. But then they hear something that makes them abruptly look up. It was such a lovely, sweet sound. A soft sound that quite literally brought butterflies to their stomach, and it was like time stopped for a moment. It was your voice, introducing yourself to the class. You were a bit nervous, so you said your name and let out a nervous chuckle afterwards. Maybe you felt just a bit self conscious because you’d be having so many eyes on you, but you certainly didn’t look it. From your artist’s perspective, you were radiant. Your laugh was so so endearing, your smile absolutely captivating. They really didn’t stand a chance. It was like love at first sight hit them like a ton of bricks and they just couldn’t focus.

Here’s some of their thought process:

“Oh no, are they gonna be our model today? How am I supposed to focus? Wait, did they just look at me??”

“Stunning,”

“Don’t make eye contact. Don’t be weird.”

And they would constantly steal glances at you. And yeah they had to look at you to draw you for the assignment, but they were too in their head. So they spent the entire class so distracted by you that in the end, they didn’t end up drawing anything. So the professor tells everyone to wrap up their drawings and thanks you for volunteering to come. You’re getting ready to leave when you see your artist nervously come up to you. They begin to explain that they weren’t able to finish their drawing and asked if you would be willing to pose for them one more time. You’re about to say “no” when you stop to look at them. You notice the bags under their eyes, their messy hair, and their desperation. You take pity on them and agree but only for 30 minutes. So you guys exchange numbers and pick a day to meet up again. And that’s how this little love story begins. Your artist will fall for you right off the bat but you would take more time to warm up to them. You’d be friendly with them because that’s just in your nature, but it takes multiple hangouts before you even see them romantically. Eventually, they’d ask you to help them out with another one of their projects, so you guys end up hanging out together more often. They tell you that you have such a soothing energy and they find you captivating. They tell you that you were made to be immortalized in a beautiful painting. It’s their way with words and the loving way in which they draw you that brings you to fall for them too. You feel like they actually see the real you and that’s something that you’ve never really encountered before.

Okie dokie, that’s all I’m seeing for you! I hope you liked this reading!

Thanks for participating, take care 💖

[ratstuckinamarble]

<3 <3 <3

right, third time's the charm- You are someone I am very glad to have 'met' in whatever way the internet lets us.

Not because you're the first person I've ever exchanged drawings with like they were notes passed along on a rainy day, making silly little stories out of woodpeckers and lego toadstoods and trick or treat wishes- Not because I have those drawings printed out, woodpecker and otter hanging on my wall, the halloween ones added to my old lebkuchen box of decorations to be tacked up next year with all the rest- Not because the memory of looking at your art had me picking up pen and paper with a lightness that hasn't been there since I was a kid-

I just love seeing you around on here.

Blocks of tags with rambles- little stories and asides to soak up like a sponge or a plant, reminding me of this or that thought I've had myself- your passion for things, the breath of relief I let out reading something you wrote that says something I can't trust myself with.

The rhythm of your thoughts makes mine very happy, is what I mean. And that you share them- tossing small paper planes of your life out into the world- honest silliness, maybe? It takes bravery and kindness to do it, I think. Even when something upsets you or makes you sad, I'm grateful to see it- these things you care about enough to be hurt by, and to talk about.

From you, I won't argue about how good of a person I am. I'm smiling at the thought that you would think that of me, and I'll makes myself send this little ask to try to tell you back-

thank you for being you.

If tumblr crashes tomorrow and I never hear about you again, I'll always be grateful it lasted this long. I'll remember the rat stuck in a marble, with a skull for it's emblem, hoping you got to do some pottery, snuggled your cat, and had a little hot chocolate, as a treat~

I- I'm at a loss for words...

And crying. Oh words collect yourself into a proper order-

People have said kind things about me before, and it's always brought me joy- but nothing like this. You've cut right into my soul, found things I didn't even know would get to me like this if I heard them.

I want to comment more but re-reading what you said is almost painful, because I was not prepared to take in such words today, or ever. It hurts in the same way as thinking about the beauty in life for too long. I don't know if you understand what I mean- but strong joy, getting overwhelmed with feelings that are good

It's like my little body can't handle it, experiencing things it was not made for. This feeling is bleeding out of me, and I can't even name it. It's not joy. It's... Something better. The knowledge that someone I care for deeply could be made happier thanks to me, my words, my ramblings, my silliness, my art, even the serious and vulnerable moments. Everything. It's like you saw my entire self and said yeah... there's nothing I'd leave out. Oh gosh I'm crying again.

I didn't know you did actually print those drawings out. I've been wondering. I'm so very glad. Bringing you some joy with them is all I wanted. And that someone could appreciate my art this much- especially you. It's like something out of a dream. I didn't know life had such luck in store for me. That I could make art come more easily to someone else again. And you know I love your art. Every time you post something I scramble to get that across, after all. Clunky and anything but concise.

Often I fear that I may be doing too much, coming on too strong, saying so much where others would keep it short. But I've had my years of silence born of paranoia, and I got sick of it. So sick. The reason I started blogging is exactly that, a form of self imposed exposure therapy, I suppose. Every time I'd be afraid to share something, I reminded myself- that's exactly why you should do it. Even if your heart is beating so fast it makes you lightheaded. Which happens rarely now, because this worked, somehow.

And I find myself thinking of a different string of time- where I didn't. Where I let the fear win. Where I never met you and some other lovely people, where all these exchanges we've had, the art and the words and photos of little rocks and tote bags and comics of them running away- never happened. These things that fuel me even when things seem dim. You light something up in me that was previously difficult to cling to- an occasional burst of this spark. Now it is like a little star that has snuggled its way deeply into my heart, refusing to leave.

The rhythm of your thoughts make mine very happy too. I never feel like I have to adjust my thinking with you, because I know you'll understand. Your mind is just as wonderfully strange. I know no one else who creates hand snails and runaway totebags and the most perfect crest imaginable. Making art for you is so fun, because I feel like whatever I choose to depict, you'll get it.

What I want most in life is to be a good person. To bring people joy. Knowing I succeeded is more than I could ever hope for. Am I making sense? Why are you so easy to let into my heart? Why does letting you influence my creations, my way of thinking, my way of loving the world feel so right?

You bring out the best in me.

And that you think sharing what I do takes bravery- well I suppose you're right. I never thought anyone would realise. Would understand. But that it takes kindness? I never thought of it that way. I didn't think anyone would look at what I say and think, "how kind of you, that you chose to share this". I never thought that would be possible. I've had people tell me how happy my tags made them, a few times. That's what fueled me. I thought, if some have said it, then more must have thought it. And I want to keep spreading that joy. What I'm trying to say is you've reassured me in things I didn't dare hope for.

And that even my occasional admission of pain could be seen as good. That you would see me as good.

You're the reason you know. The reason I talk so much on here. I didn't use to do that. I think about the moment that made me follow you, I remember it clearly. I think about all that led to knowing you at all.

Thank you for sharing. I will come back to this, whenever I need a reminder that, well. That I did something right.

I'm glad you won't argue what I said. You couldn't change my mind anyways, on you being a good person. I am so very grateful to have you in my life. I find it hard to tell what people think of me. Thank you for the reassurance, your own bravery, and your beautiful words. They're like poetry.

If Tumblr crashed tomorrow, and I never heard of you again, I would be heartbroken. Truly and fully. But I would be grateful, as I already am. For the time you were a part of my life.

But this shall not happen. We haven't reblogged those snails yet, as we promised, and even after that. I don't want to imagine.

I'll do pottery some day. I'm snuggling my cat as I type, and I'll make myself a hot chocolate, in my dancing skeleton mug. And every day, I'll keep being reminded of you, and how you're everywhere now. In every little thing I've shared, that you got excited about. You're a part of that clay hand now, my spooky dishware, my lego frog, my tote bags, my rocks, my memories. I take a moment to take in nature and I'm reminded of your description of the light falling through your window, the spot you left just to appreciate it. I see a sword, a snail, a drawing of a werewolf, and you're always there.

When you let people take up your time, you let them take permanent residence in your heart. And with you, I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for being here, for being you, and for bringing a peace to my soul I didn't know it needed.

Thank you.

[firsttarotreader]

The song P reposted today reminds me so much of the movie Lost in Translation, and he said it's one of his favorite movies. When I read the lyrics, they match P a lot too, so my question for Tarot is : does he identify with that song and the movie?

Hiya! What a cool question! For those who haven’t seen Lost in Translation, it’s a movie about a lonely actor who goes to Japan for work and meets a lonely young woman who is unhappy in her marriage and they spend a few days together and form this beautiful bond but then they just have to say goodbye and go back to their lives. It’s a very touching movie, they bring out the best of each other, and she’s sad and he’s grumpy and he opens up with her. It’s not really intended to be a romance movie, but rather just two lost and lonely souls meeting and spending amazing days together but that’s it, they’re not gonna stay. It actually reminds me a lot of Pedro and his commitment-phobe ways and the way he can form strong but fleeting bonds with the people he meets (not saying the people in the movie are commitment-phobes). Pedro seems to be one that lives things intensely, but they end, he eventually walks away, it’s not supposed to last forever (not just for romance, but in every way). And btw, the lyrics to that song also remind me a lot of him!

That said, I asked the cards if he could possibly identify with that movie and song and the Major Arcana were Temperance, Judgement and The Hanged Man.

So, Temperance is about balance, harmony, and it might be pointing to him feeling like the energies between him and this movie (and song) flow freely, they mix and combine harmoniously. Judgement means this movie could have brought him some kind of consciousness about himself, self-reflection and evaluation of himself, like it made him have a clearer understanding of something in his life. The Hanged Man shows our man being hesitant, unable to commit, unable to deep dive, feeling “suspended”.

The Minor Arcana were the Knight of Wands, 10 of Wands and 8 of Cups. Remember how we talk about Pedro being like this Knight, as in being really intense, but fleeting? He will be passionate and full of energy in one moment, and then go cold and uninterested in the other. So with Temperance, this card could be pointing to Pedro seeing the balance and the points where he connects and mixes himself with the movie (and the song) right at the intense experience the characters have, but that doesn’t last. 10 of Wands with Judgement points to him seeing all that clarity as a burden, as too much weight to carry, like the “truths” the movie shows him are too much, it hits too close to home. 8 of Cups with The Hanged Man is very interesting because this man sees it very clearly the way he hesitates and stays suspended and doesn’t deep dive, and then he walks away. He decides to leave because he can’t commit, because he doesn’t want to. He can live the experience to the fullest, but that doesn’t mean he will “commit”. The “deep diving” the Knight of Wands does is temporary, it’s not something meant to last. However, despite these experiences (of love, friendship, work, whatever) being fleeting, they are still intense, like the one in the movie.

So yeah, I’d say he most likely identifies with the movie and the song because they speak of things that are not forever, yet intense as if they were.

You can check the lyrics here:

[darklove9314-blog]

A forbidden love/angst prompt set in sort of medieval times where Nesta is a Princess engaged and soon to be married in an advantageous engagement to Lord Eris though she is in love with a simple foot soldier Cassian. He has to endure her fake affection for Eris and they’re secret meetings are always full of passion and despair 😊

Author’s Note: This is part one to this story. It’s probably going to be multiple parts because I love a good slow burn forbidden romance. I hop everyone enjoys it!!! 

Nesta Archeron had never been so miserable in her life as she walked side by side with her soon to be Prince, Lord Eris Vanserra, the heat radiating from the relentless sunlight as Nesta pulled out her fan, fanning herself as soldiers and a few healers they had on hand gave her passive looks. Obviously they had not been expecting their princess to show up today or at all as they turned to hide their looks of disgust off their face.

Nesta averted her gaze, moving forward as she asked Eris, 

“Remind me again why my father sent us here of all places?” She asked earning a smirk from her betrothed. 

“To uphold your end of requirements for being a princess.” Eris answered as Nesta lifted her eyebrows in question.

“Which are?” Nesta asked as Eris sent her a look.

“You’re the princess, shouldn’t you know these things?” Eris inquired as Nesta shrugged.

“Indulge me.”: Nesta replied fighting the urge to roll her eyes, despite the fact that she was first in line for her father’s throne, it was always her sister Elain who was better at being cordual. She had attempted, but she hadn’t been as lovely as Elain or as adaptable as Feyre, like she had been forged from an entirely different cloth. 

“Your father claims that your duty here is to sit with the injured solider and let them know that their princess is beside them in this war no matter what.” Eris informed her as her eyes met his. 

“And your purpose here?” She asked wondering why they had chosen Eris of all people to accompany her, 

“I’m supposed to report to the general of this legion and get a progress report for the king.” Eris confided in her making her bite down on her lip slightly. 

“I’d rather take your job, I am the princess after all.” She mused warranting a chuckle from him.

“Which is why you must see to the wounded soldiers. A compassionate queen is as just as a strategic one. Never forget that.”

Nesta bit her lip, trying not to argue that she could be both as they split up, Eris heading towards the generals tent as Nesta headed towards the healers one, two guards that had accompanied her in her travels never straying far from her as she made her way towards the small tent that hosted the worst of the injured. 

Nesta composed herself as her guard entered the tent flap, announcing her arrival as a few of the healers and the soldiers inside turned her way. Some looking grateful that their princess had come all this way to check in on them and some sending her stares of resentment and anger. 

She hadn’t been sure why, but she had glanced at one of those males giving her those looks, had it not been for that look of disdain Nesta would have thought he was one of the most beautiful men she had ever laid eyes on. 

The male in question looked worn down with exhaustion, his eyes holding the horrors of what he had seen on those battlefields as his light brown skin was peppered in scars that told her those stories. 

Those hazel brown eyes snagged on her, his jaw clenching slightly before he averted his gaze from her, his attention going back to the healer that was sewing his stitches beside him, giving her a small smile before wincing slightly at the pain.

“Your highness, to what do we owe this pleasure?” A healer asked, she appeared to be slightly older than the others and in charge.

Nesta turned giving the woman a tentative smile as she answered,

“I’ve been sent here by request of my father to check on our soldiers.” Nesta answered her as a snort befell the soldiers she had seen earlier lips. 

She turned to him, her gaze narrowed as a blush of embarrassment fell over the healer’s face, 

“Forgive him your grace, he is not well, and his injuries are making him forget his manners.” The healer explained, but Nesta did not want to hear excuses, it was quite refreshing to hear opinions from those who did not bow to kiss her feet. 

She turned back towards him, lifting one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows as she asked him,

“Is there a problem with me being here Cadet-“

“Cassian.” He answered as Nesta sighed, giving him her full attention. 

“Well, Cadet Cassian, can I inquire why you snorted when I told the healer about my reasons for being here?” 

His gaze narrowed slightly at her as he relaxed deeper into the cot that he was on, but he was entirely focused on her and her alone. As if they were the only two people in that tent. 

“I just find it a load of shit that your father is the one to send us into these wars only to send his daughter to thank us instead of himself. After all how is a spoiled, arrogant princess supposed to make my day better after I nearly bled out on those battlefields.” 

A good question indeed, Nesta considered as she swore she heard another solider muttering something about how this cadet must have had a death wish for speaking to his future queen like this. Nesta hadn’t taken offense, she had actually thought it was quite refreshing. 

“Forgive him your highness, he has obviously taken one to many blows to the head.” The healers said to her, earning her a glare from Cassian as Nesta answered, 

“It is no trouble at all, I do admire a bit of honesty in my day, even if it is from a person who does not know me.” She stated making her way to Cassian as the person who was tending to him scrambled from her seat handing Nesta the supplies as Cassian’s eyebrows lifted, 

“Have you ever done this before princess? It’s not like this is a minor cut that you can sew up like one of your coats, not that you probably do your own sewing to begin with.” 

Nesta sent a look to the healer, waving her off as she glanced around looking for something to disinfect his wound with. 

“Believe it or not my good sir, I have some experience tending to wounds. You’d be awed at how many of my sisters’ wounds I have tended to in my youth.” 

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up at that as if he hadn’t expected a different answer than the one she had provided, as Nesta lifted his bandage with a grimace, holding back her urge to vomit at the sight. She had seen wounds before, but none to this caliber. 

“Something wrong princess?” Cassian asked seeming to enjoy this as Nesta took a deep breath to steady herself. 

“Nothing at all. How did you get this wound, my fair soldier? Did you fall upon your sword?” 

A low chuckle escaped his lips, his eyes gazing at her more intensely than any other man’s hand. She wondered how the intensity of his gaze would transfer if it was lustful instead of pure hatred. She guessed she of all people would never know. Not with her betrothed only ten paces away where she should have been instead of in this tent. 

“No, My fair lady, I feel upon someone else’s.” 

She couldn’t help the laugh that had escaped through her lips at the answer, so fast that she did not have enough time to catch it and a sly and cocky smile escaped Cassian’s lips at the thought that she had actually found one of his jokes worthy of her laughter. 

“Best to watch for those pocky objects, you never know what may happen when you come in contact with one.” She replied, glancing at the wound. 

“Has this been washed?” She asked, looking at the bucket by her feet. 

“It looks like it’s your unlucky day today, princess. The healer was just getting started.” 

“Unlucky indeed, it seems as if I must give you the pleasure of my company for longer than you may want it.” 

He shrugged, impressing Nesta with his threshold for pain, 

“There are more unpleasant things in this world than gazing upon a beautiful face for a couple of minutes.” 

She bit down on her lip to suppress a smile as she grabbed a bucket, preparing to help with this soldier as she rung out the rag, gently cleaning Cassian’s wound as she inquired more about him. 

“So what made you chose to fight for these lands?” She inquired. 

“I’ve always wanted to fight for my country, I could think of no better purpose then to help others who need it most.” 

Nesta smiled at that answer, grateful for this man even if he did have a pompous nature. 

“A noble cause indeed.” She answered, washing the blood and dirt from his wound as she disinfected it, making sure to get everything she could as she heard a question from his lips. 

“What about you?” He asked, the question catching her off guard. 

“What about me?” She asked him, ringing out the rag. before her eyes turned to the supplies she would need to sew him back up. 

“Do you like being a princess?” He asked as Nesta glanced at that. No one had ever bothered to ask her that, they had always assumed that she had loved her life because she was nobility. 

“Sometimes i do.” She confessed, seeming to catch him off guard. 

“Would you rather be of our rank?” He inquired as she answered honestly, 

“I am not ungrateful for the life I have been gifted, but sometimes I wish that I was not as lonely.. that my moves weren’t always so-looked upon, watched like everyone is waiting to see me fail. To feel what a real friendship and love would feel like.” 

Cassian’s eyes softened at her words, as if he hadn’t really thought about what her life could be like aside from the glamour that her family had shown everyone else. Glass houses were always more fascinating from the outside. 

“Do you not love you betrothed?” He inquired, seeming flabbergasted by the mere thought of marrying someone for something besides love. 

Nesta worked on the first stich as she continued to answer his questions, 

“My betrothed is who my parents found well suited for me.” She answered, 

“But what do you think of him?” 

“Political marriages do not care what the other thinks, they are affiliations that gain people more power. My betrothed comes from a good family with a stellar reputation, and that is all a princess like me could truly ask for.” 

“No offense, my princess, but your way of life sounds like utter bullshit.” 

She glanced at him, pausing in her meticulous work to avoid messing with his stitches as she answered, 

“It is the way things like this work, my brave soldier.” 

“So you’re okay with giving someone you do not love children?” He asked as Nesta shrugged, 

“It is my duty to do what is expected of me.” She answered as Cassian scoffed, 

“That does not sound like love.” He stated, 

“What does love have to do about anything?” She shot back knowing that she would not win this argument against him. He wouldn’t get it, he was not like her in the slightest. 

“Love should be included in any marriage.” He told her grasping onto her hand as she felt the warmth of it in her own. Surprising her by how much she truly wanted it there. 

“Not when it comes to my family.” She told him, continuing with her work as sadness etched in her features, 

“What about friends?” He asked as her eyes wandered back up to him. 

“What about them?” She asked, trying hard to pull his flesh back together with the suture. 

“Surely a princess has a gaggle of friends at her disposal. People she can rely on.” 

Nesta smiled slightly at that as she answered, 

“I wish friendships were that simple in high society, unfortunately a lot of people make friends with people in power to further their own agenda.” 

Nesta swore she could see sympathy in Cassian’s gaze as she caught one of her hands, 

“The let me volunteer to be your first true friend.” Cassian offered as her eyebrows stitched together. 

“You would want to be friends with a princess? I didn’t think that was your style.” 

A smile curved up on his lips as he winced slightly at one of the stitches she had done. 

“It’s always nice to make new friends. Some of the ones here can be not as friendly.” 

“Who says I’m friendly?” She asked with a smile intriguing him slightly. 

He shrugged, watching her sew another stitch, so close to closing the injury that Nesta was surprised she actually did a good job on this particular wound. 

When she was finished, Cassian grasped Nesta’s hand, his feeling warm in her own, a perfect fit. Almost like. She shook her head slightly, she shouldn’t be having thoughts like that when she was promised to another. 

“Thank you.” He told her, laying back on the cot as Nesta washed the blood off her hands. 

“You’re most welcome. It’s the least I could do for someone who tires his best to keep my court safe.” 

“Perhaps you should visit more often, show the men and women here that you’re more than a one and done kind of royal.” 

“I’ll take your idea into consideration.” She told him though she felt that this would not be the last time she would see Cassian, not by a long shot. 

Nesta was talking with another solider, fetching more water for the healer at hand when she heard the flap of the tent open, and her betrothed step through, his nose crinkling at the sight of the injured soldiers before making his way over to her, his eyebrow raised at the state of her attire. 

She glanced down, seeing that her once cleanly dress had dirtied through the day, not that she had minded, but Eris’s face told another story. 

“Your dress-” He started, but she cut him off before he could say more. 

“Can be fixed and mended when we get back to court.” She glanced back, a look she couldn’t quite grasp on Cassian crossing his face as he averted his eyes from her and Eris. 

“Speaking of which, I promised your father that I would have you back at a reasonable time. Are you ready to go?” 

Nesta nodded, washing her hands thoroughly to make sure she had gotten everything off of them before she slipped her hand in Eris’s, glancing back once more and sending the others a wave before she made it back to her court with her betrothed, not knowing that this interaction would change the course of her life forever. 

[eat-the-richard]

GOTY OF THE YEAR 2,000,023

IT'S ABOUT THAT TIME AAGAIN FRIENDS! Another overly long written ramble about the very best in my personal gaming life and experience delivered DIRECTLY TO YOUR EYEBALLS!

And what a year it was!! For gaming! All of it! Just a comprehensive onslaught of video game products from all different genres and developers. From Triple As to Indies to whatever the fuck we're supposed to call the middle ground of those two. No matter who you (yes, YOU, not the general ""you"") are, something came out this year that tickled your little small little balls in one way or the other.

The best part of all, though? A year like this will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!! Certainly not next year, like my god look at that 2024 upcoming games list, man. It is *slight*.

You wanna know why? Because this amount of quality output, of course, does not come from studios or companies or brands or even the almighty dollar sign. It comes, of course, from people. People who are insanely talented and passionate about their craft. Likely those who dreamed for years to be a part of this seemingly amazing industry of creative professionals all striving towards the same creative goals. And for gaming developers, 2023 was not a year worth celebrating. Sure the products that they worked on released to the public to play and enjoy, but as soon as these projects wrapped up, the studio or company or brand or even the almighty dollar sign ditched their ass RIGHT TO THE CURB!

Because to all of those previously mentioned abstractions, talent is expendable. Demand for talent should be at an all time high, given that gaming continues to be the most money-making entertainment medium of the 21st century. So more games should be in development, therefore necessitating more job opportunities and areas where passionate individuals can spearhead their own creativity into a golden goose. But, of course, this is not how abstractions operate. The talent who creates these fine pieces of art are mere cogs to them, oiling and greasing a machine that will continue to move as long as the pieces are in place. And there will always be a new crop of cogs fresh in the industry who will be willing to take meager pay, miserable conditions, and limited flexibility in their line of work, as long as they get a chance to work with the abstractions.

This, of course, will not happen. The continuous horror of the modern gaming industry spreads far and wide. Notably to our youth, as chronically online as they are, who likely will not want to invest their time and life into a career that will never respect them. As for the talent who have been laid off every month this year? They won't stick around. Their services are applicable in many other fields that not only pay better, but have far more job security. So the talent pool dries up, there will be increasingly fewer individuals looking to refill, and the gaming bubble finally pops.

We're at the precipice of it, and it's hard to ignore the warning signs. It's hard to write a piece about the "great year in gaming" we as consumers had as it feels like the industry that created it might not look the same way in 10 years. Gaming won't die, obviously, there's too much demand for it. But the 300 million dollar blockbusters, the 3-4 year crunch periods, the constant race to produce technological best. That will die. And this year was the last hurrah.

So, in that spirit, let's celebrate the year that was for me. The 10 best games from this year and previous that remind me why I love it in the first place. Why I want to support it, and wish it nothing but the best. And most of all, highlighting the talent who ultimately made it possible, rather than the abstraction who will tear it down.

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

Anyway! Enough of that SHIT!! Video games are cool, and I like them. Today, we’re going to RANK the TOP 10-ish GAMES I PLAYED in Twenty Twenty Three. But before that, let’s dive into some dis/honorable mentions.

REMASTER I REALLY LIKED BUT DIDN’T WANT TO RANK BECAUSE ITS A REMASTER OF THE YEAR: Metroid Prime Remastered (NSW)

Take your pick of, like, six or seven different 25-30 year old Metroid fans and slam them elbow-first into a padded cell. Once they come to and they start talking about Metroid, as you do in confinement, about five or six of them will confess that their first love was Metroid Prime. I would count myself one of them inside of the cell, even if it took me until 2015 and the shudders Wii U Virtual Console for me to finally give it a try.

The six-or-seven imprisoned Metroid fans will inevitably start comparing the two most popular entries in the series: Super Metroid and Metroid Prime. To me, Super Metroid is all about its scenario. Finely tuned and expertly paced, “Super” is a game I play for that jolt of the Metroid formula that currently makes up ½ of every game that comes out nowadays. But Metroid Prime is about atmosphere. The reflections of Samus’ face in the visor dotted by raindrops from above. The movement of fauna, shade & various enemies flowing through every screen. Honestly while I’m writing this the Phendrana Drifts theme is playing in my head.

Metroid Prime isn’t as precise as Super Metroid, but its ambiance is striking. This presentation, already beautiful on the GameCube, is only enhanced on Switch. Despite very little of the original Prime team still being at Retro Studios, you can tell this one was crafted with an enormous amount of respect for the source material. It gets the rare yet coveted distinction for a remaster/make/release of looking just as you remembered it your first go around, yet looking obviously much better when compared side by side. It does well to continue the legacy of this momentous game, to hopefully expose its importance to more than just the five-or-six of us currently jailed. 

By the way, the one other guy who didn’t grow up with Prime? He was chatting our ear off about the “subversive excellence” of Metroid Fusion or something. How “forcing linearity in an otherwise exploration heavy series can make you feel weak and frightened” and “it has a much tighter difficulty curve than any other title in the series.” Something like that anyway, couldn’t really hear over the all-time noogie numbers I was putting up while he was stuck in a headlock.

GAME I'M MOST MAD AT MYSELF FOR NOT FINISHING: Outer Wilds (PC)

Is it a me thing? Am I not the type of guy who would truly appreciate a game like Outer Wilds? Spoilers ahead, obviously. Don’t read this part if any part of your bones and back wants to try this one out, dead serious.

Because what a HOOK this game gets you in. The first time the sun engulfed my puny little carcass, the previous session reverses itself right in front of me and the world just completely reset itself? Astonishment, blown away? Other thoughts like that. Conceptually, Outer Wilds is a knockout. The obvious point of comparison is Majora’s Mask, but the mystery at the heart of Outer Wilds is a lot less simple than Find The Four Giants. It’s a weaving thread binding all the game’s planets, but one you must piece together largely yourself.

Which made dropping it back in April and trying to come back to it hard. I probably just have to totally restart it and really really focus on what each little node of information is saying. Or just use a guide or something idk

LEAST FAVORITE GAMING EXPERIENCE OF THE YEAR: Sonic Frontiers: The Final Horizon (PC)

Ok this title might be hyperbole a bit since I didn’t completely hate it, I just wanted an excuse to write about SONIC AGAIN! I LOVE BLUE MEN!!

Speaking of hyperbole, how about the reception of Sonic Frontiers? Seems like everyone was busting their loads over this one last year. I get it, to a certain extent. As BlazeHedgehog said in his one-hour dissection of the game this year, food tastes better when you’re hungry, and us poor Sonic fans are starving. I don’t think Frontiers is perfect by anyone’s standards, but it at the very least leaves a decent yet slightly rocky foundation for future games to knock it out of the park with.

The Final Horizon is “future games”, I guess. And uh, yeah this one didn’t knock it out of the park. Kinda bunted? Maybe tripped over first base or something idk how to make better baseball analogies than this. 

My main disappointment comes from the three new playable hedgehog/hedgehog adjacent creatures. Maybe it's my fault actually, since I had this wonderful idea in my head of how sick it would be for Knuckles or even Amy to have fully decked-out combat trees. Instead, these new characters are actually terrible at combat and you shouldn’t even try. They’re pretty specifically geared towards platforming challenges, unfortunate since all of them feel pretty miserable to control. My original review of this update was “Knuckles controls like an asshole” but they kind of fixed the controls so my review has been updated to “Knuckles controlled like an asshole* *when it launched therefore when everyone played it Knuckles controlled like an asshole”. 

Despite my gripes with base game Frontiers, at the very least it felt like a game that was rigorously playtested. Not polished by any means (for crying out loud they never fixed the pop-in), but most platforming challenges had a certain sense of flow to them that made the open zone concept work. Final Horizon does not feel properly playtested. Levels are far less scripted, which would be a great thing in an engine that didn’t feel this busted. The difficulty spikes up seemingly at random, with the three titan boss rush on hard being probably the most unfair challenge in a Sonic game that I can remember. Even the final boss (which features one cool scene where blue eyed Super Sonic gets shot out of a gun) requires a target switching mechanic the game never expects you to know or use by that point, unless I’m an idiot. Which is always the fear.

Ah well, at least it was free. And I don’t want this to be a sign for Sonic team to ditch the open zone for the next game. I do think it can work, but the main gameplay engine needs an overhaul. Not even a Sonic Utopia masturbatory “iT sHoUlD jUsT cOnTroL lIkE tHe ClAsSicS” style control necessarily, just one that feels inherently fun to run around an empty field in. Which is easy to say, I guess. “Make the Sonic feel more funner to control,” the critic says. “Allso give me a cheeseburger “

Congratulations on winning your oddly specific category awards, previously stated video game products! Time for the top ten which was going to be a top sixteen but I’m already incredibly late on this so I’d rather not write about six extra games sorry.

10. Spyro 2: Ripto’s Rage (PS1/PC)

The intro to Spyro 2 was fun all three times I played it this year. Once on original hardware at a friend’s house, another time on my own through a PS1 emulator, and a final time through the Reignited trilogy remake. Reignited was where I played through Spyro 1 for the first time some years ago, and although the Spyro 3 remake is allegedly trash (according to my one friend who learned how to read by playing Spyro 3 at age 3), the remake of Ripto’s Rage is pretty OK by my less demanding standards. Plus it ran well on Steam Deck for whatever that’s worth.

Thankfully, playing the intro to Spyro 2 three times was actually a worthwhile thing to do! Unlike Spyro 1 which basically just lets you 100% complete every level the first time you go through it, Spyro 2 requires abilities and unlocks from later levels in the game to get every orb & collectable. Every time I replayed the various levels in Summer Forest, I learned which levels (even areas of levels) I should avoid until I learned how to climb up ladders or whatever. It is much more enjoyable on a replay to keep these types of things fresh in your mind rather than coming back to it years later as a grayed & tired old hag.

While I’m not as story-pilled as a lot of my gaming peers, even in simple games I appreciate when it feels like your actions have weight to them. Completing every level in Spyro 2 isn’t just about collecting the shiny objects and touching the top of the flagpole. Each area has its own particular race of organism coming to you with an issue caused by Ripto. And while it isn’t super complex, your actions through the level are helping that particular group of living beings. When going through the entire game, and thereby helping all of these groups with their minor or major little quibbles, it’s pretty satisfying to look back on once the game comes to a close. That element is, I think, what makes a crusty little game like Spyro 2 still hold up in the face of a very different world.

9. FEZ (PC)

For a while, I didn’t want to like FEZ. I had it on Steam, but only as a result of a Humble Bundle, back when you could specify how much of your bundle purchase went to each specific game creator. And I will never forget looking at Phil Fish and his stupid face, gleefully pulling his contribution slider allllll the way to the bottom, probably capping out at $0.01.

That was 2014. 10 years later, I have two thoughts. 1. Phil Fish’s controversy feels very very trite in comparison to what the internet or, fuck, even the ENTIRE WORLD has turned into. And 2. Phil Fish is a genius.

People were saying it at the time but I just didn’t want to believe them. And I probably didn’t have the capacity to wrap my head around what FEZ was doing. It’s an entry into what I want to define right now as an “unraveling” game (remember this, it will come up later!). On the surface, FEZ is simple. It even has simple graphics! You’re a simple man, living in a simple town, with only a jump button to your name. Then, another layer. A Fez, perhaps, on the top of your gay little head. In gameplay terms, the perspective now shifts when you press the triggers, I think all Fezes do that? Anyway, fun little platforming gimmick for a little 2D game, right?

Wrong. FEZ is a 3D game. Your position in the world is a little tricky to manipulate, but it is mapped in a 3D space. You can even view the world in 3D once you beat the game and get sunglasses. I think all sunglasses do that? Anyway, this allows for some inventive puzzle solving through trying to figure out where to jump and where to shift perspective to make your way out of the room. Can be pretty tricky, but ultimately achievable, right?

Wrong. The puzzles at the end of FEZ are not possible. Literally, I think. The last puzzle is not possible without datamines and brute-forcing it. But for the puzzles that are possible, the amount of honest to god code cracking you need to do at the end of the game is not what I was expecting. I had to bring out an honest to god notebook made of paper from wood and write down my interpretation of the game’s little language. Other games certainly take inspiration from the unraveling layers of FEZ,

8. TUNIC (PC)

Hope you were paying attention! Thank god this game comes right here on the list so I don’t have to test your attention span. TUNIC is also an unraveling type game, in sort of the exact same way to FEZ actually. It appears to be a gorgeous yet sort of simple claymation sorta interpretation of the original Legend of Zelda. You’ve got a couple a silly lookin enemies, item pickups like bombs and potions, you get to explore an overworld and some dungeons. It’s Zelda 1, right?

Wrong. TUNIC is Dark Souls. Beyond just being able to fat roll, enemy encounters can get brutally difficult, and they all respawn when you die. Upon death, you drop a bit of your coins on the ground in a ghost that will stick around when you come back to that same spot. You save and respawn at a fire. Now, comparing a game to Dark Souls is kind of like the most overdone thing in games writing at the point, but it definitely helps that you can get a sense of that original Zelda formula in all of FromSoft’s games. So TUNIC aping those trends feels like a good match, I think. From here, progression might start to make sense. You travel from save room to save room, clearing dungeons and beating bosses. Eventually you’ll find a really big one, and the game is over, right?

Wrong. TUNIC is a game about not being able to understand English. The story is pretty well known at this point I think, but the sole developer of TUNIC was inspired by playing through the notoriously obtuse-without-a-manual Zelda 1 without being able to understand the words of said manual. In TUNIC, you will find pieces of a very similar looking manual all throughout the world in no particular order and in a language you cannot read. Eventually in TUNIC you’ll hit a wall where you have no idea what to do or where to go. And suddenly, you look at a single page of the manual in a slightly different way, maybe even with your head tilted a little bit more to the right. And suddenly it all makes sense. 

There’s another way in which this game unravels but it’s sort of like the impossible puzzles in FEZ and I haven’t even begun to try and wrap my head around it. I beat this game with the bad ending and I still had a jolly ole time with it. Very much my sort of game this one is. No spoken dialogue, story communicated entirely through gameplay, and hard as balls bosses. Now if only this one featured a funny little dwarf….

7. Deep Rock Galactic (PC)

Me and my friends cycled through a lot of different games this year. Still wrought in grief over the loss of TF2 and Overwatch, I think. I was kind of the outside guy in these multiplayer romps, as I am burdened with two jobs and game at weird times of the night, but I got enough time in each of them to get the idea. But of all the multiplayer games I dabbled in, the one that I am so sad I wasn’t around to play more is Deep Rock Galactic.

DRG is immediately charming. Playing as a stupid drunk dwarf is kind of inherently a little ridiculous and Ghost Ship leans into that hard. There’s of course the dedicated ROCK AND STONE button, but did you know there’s a dedicated coughing button? Not even loud obnoxious coughing either; subtle, painful coughing that feels like a burden to deal with (don’t @ me I know it’s not supposed to be a coughing button). The hub of DRG is honestly the most fun part of the game, I think. Just spending time with the buds fucking around with barrels and getting drunk on exploding IPAs is quality stuff. 

I only played Driller, I think? The rest of the characters are probably fun though. I just liked being able to serve that oh-so-important purpose of pressing M1 in a direction and overheating by accident, as well as using my flamethrower to hurt my teammates. And using my C4 to hurt my teammates. I’m sure they all hate playing with me since I suck ass, but it’s hard for me to get mad at myself when I’m bad at the game since the stakes feel pretty low. Co-op games like this always appeal to me more than PVP for that exact reason, and I hope I can put DRG on this same list next year when I’m a little bit more seasoned.

DRG also fucked up my reflexes for every other game as I always want to press F to throw a flare into a dark room. Even in real life! 

6. Dying Light (PC)

Another multiplayer game, although this one isn’t really originally intended to be multiplayer. This game flew under the radar for me for a long time until one of my friends randomly suggested we play it co-op one day and we all happened to have it for free on the Critically Acclaimed Epic Games Launcher. First thing to address here, this game is shockingly seamless as a multiplayer game considering it’s obviously a single player game primarily. Ok, maybe not quite seamless since all the player characters are the same generic white guy protagonist. At least you can wear a clown outfit? But the connection never dips, you’re never kicked out for no reason, everyone gets to watch a cutscene at the same time. Great co-op experience overall.

Honestly, the story and scenario of Dying Light is very uninteresting to me. We haven’t even beat the main story yet. In fact, we go out of our way to not do the main story and just focus on side content as much as we can. Because the core gameplay of Dying Light is fantastic. Again, this game completely flew under the radar for me and I feel like the same thing happened to most people I know. So I was shocked at how good the game feels. Jumping from roof to roof rarely doesn’t work once you know what you’re doing thanks to the generous ledge grab system. And once you get a grappling hook? Bitch, every game should have a grappling hook. 

Combat is where the game really shines though. We set the difficulty to hard right away, which initially made it practically impossible to kill even the most basic type of zombie. If you’re just trying to whack the undead with a simple melee weapon, you’re probably going to get your health drained in an instant. Obviously you get better weapons, even guns towards the back half of the game. But you don’t want to use those all the time, especially guns since they make a ton of noise and alert a ton of infected. So it’s when you start unlocking cool-ass moves like the little kick you do to finish off downed enemies skulls, tackling zombies to the floor, vaulting over their heads to get a quick move on, even a whole ass dropkick to send them tumbling into a spike wall that Dying Light starts becoming fun as hell to just run around in. 

Dying Light is also tied with Zelda Tears of the Kingdom as having the most “dark” “darkness” in a game I played this year. You straight up cannot see anything at night in this game, and if you turn on your flashlight you might wake up your mom. She’ll grab and kill you!

5. Lethal Company (PC)

What makes writing about Lethal Company hard is that, in a way, it’s undeniable. There’s no wonder why this became one of 2023’s best sellers practically overnight. Its charm is just that apparent. But why? To me, it’s how it straddles the line.

Obviously, Lethal Company is hilarious. It’s baked into the animations, with a jerky running animation that radiates Scooby-Doo-like energy and the single greatest dancing animation in all of gaming. Despite picking up items to later sell being the whole point of the game, they pack in so many silly little trinkets that are hard to separate yourself from; some can even make sounds! The first time I ever picked up the airhorn was on video, and I popped off harder for that than anything else this year. You may find yourself barrelling off the edge of a railing to your death because you thought you could jump over a gap with a big screw in your hand. Lethal Company is not only trying to make you laugh, but gives you the tools to get into a situation that’ll make your friends laugh. 

But Lethal Company is also terrifying. Especially when you have no idea what you’re doing. Deep within the halls lurk otherworldly abominations with behavior that isn’t easy to parse your first time through. Some can be easy enough to avoid like the loot bugs and spiders. But others force you to change the way you move through the level, like the Bracken that requires you to constantly look behind you or else have your neck suddenly snapped, or the Coil Head that requires constant eye-contact or else have your neck suddenly snapped. If the terror was just contained to the halls, that would be one thing. But every Lethal Company player remembers their first time seeing the Forest Keeper, silently tip-toeing your way just out of sight else get eaten alive. You can certainly learn the patterns of each of these hostile entities to make progression easier, but keeping them all in mind while juggling the keys, ducks, and generators in your hands can often be too much to handle.

Despite all the horror elements, though, I never really get too scared playing Lethal Company? At least never for too long. And that’s the beauty of it - the line that the game is teetering on between comedy and terror. Even in observing the objectively very dangerous Bracken, it’s hard not to laugh at how sheepish he looks when backing away from you. When killed suddenly by a big dog outside your ship, the tension breaks once you realize that your friends are going to have to deal with that same dog and laugh as they die with you. Ultimately, Lethal Company’s charm lives and dies by how well it executes its two polar-opposite fundamental elements. 

If updates can give more of a reason to keep playing the game after you learn the trick to each of the monsters, then this will be a multiplayer game for the books. That and add in suit customization bro, like come on the rack is right there!!

4. Super Mario Bros. Wonder (NSW)

If I was 7, Super Mario Bros. Wonder would be my favorite game ever. I am actively envious of the kids who get to grow up playing this game. Mario always hits different when you’re first getting into this method of experiencing media. Learning the fundamentals of controlling Mario is a gaming memory I will always cherish.The timing required to stomp on blocks and enemies, juggling the power-ups required to get certain secrets in a level, and the flow state you reach in jaunting through the familiar sights and sounds are baked into my gaming DNA. 

As such, I found Super Mario Bros. Wonder to be very easy. There are some harder levels sprinkled throughout the game, but in a year that I beat every Super Meat Boy chapter without dying for fun, those didn’t give me much trouble. With that, plus the sheer number of Mario games I’ve played over the past 15 years of my life, I ate this game’s lunch and didn’t break a sweat. It’s probably unfair to knock a Mario game for being easy, but considering I’m not the only person who’s broached this criticism, I think it has enough merit. But again, I am envious of those who do not have this level of skill. To the kids wiping their greasy spaghetti hands on their Switch and Joy Cons, experiencing Mario for the first time because you liked Chris Pratt’s performance in the Mario movie. If this is your first time, this will leave an unforgettable impression.

Course-clear Mario games like Bros 3, World, 3D World, NSMB, and a bunch of other words and letter combinations are built on gimmicks. Gimmick is often used in a derogatory sense in gaming discussion circles to talk about shallow, meaningless fluff added to a game just to add a pinch of variety and extend run time. But as Mario has proven time and time again, gimmicks can be good, actually. It allows each level to stay fresh, with new ideas constantly being thrown at you with no time given to let any of it grow old. Mario Bros. Wonder is built off this same foundation, but goes absolutely nuts with it. The first part of every level is designed as normal, with some set of enemies, power-ups or other obstacles being presented at an easy pace. But as soon as you Touch Fuzzy, Get Dizzy, that gimmick is either flipped on its head or is magnified to the highest extent possible. When you allow your development team to design a game for years with no deadline, this is the type of experience you can create. 

Also, this should go without saying, but this is probably the best looking game I’ve played all year. It doesn’t do anything crazy technically (like this probably could have been done on the Wii?), but each screenshot is blooming with color, flavor, and life. Shouts out in particular to the new Luigi model. I have no idea what specifically they did to his proportions, but DO NOT change it. This is perfect. Look at him. Perfect.

3. The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom (NSW)

Hilariously, this is the second Nintendo game in a row on the top half of this list that I’m going to spend half the review bitching about. Because TOTK is the exact same as Breath of the Wild. No, not in the way you’re thinking, although that is somewhat part of it. Not because the world is the same, the overall presentation is the same, the areas are largely the same, the combat is the same, the structure of the game is pretty much the same. Not any of that, rather that this game shares BOTW’s biggest problem - it gets worse the more you think about it.

Because while I was playing it, it felt like the coolest thing ever. Ultrahand is a marvel of design and programming, obviously. Should go without saying that the potential of ultrahand is boundless, and that week where everyone was posting their Zelda creations was very fun. The abilities in general are so ingenious that they actively tricked me into playing the same 100 hour game again. Ascend in particular is one of those things that just breaks your brain and makes you want to do it in every single game that you play afterwards. The first time I discovered the depths, after not getting spoiled on it and not noticing it at all in the game’s trailers, made me feel the same magic as those opening hours of Breath of the Wild. It also shares a spot with Dying Light for having the “darkest” “darkness” in video gaming. Congrats! The awards in the mail. And after what I believe to be one of the greatest endings a Zelda game has ever had, with a killer final fight and that moment with Link and Zelda at the end, I was convinced I had played my favorite game ever.

But of course, you cannot make these sorts of decisions on your favorite X thing ever in a day, a week, even a year. It grows with time. And over time, I had a stark realization that Tears of the Kingdom didn’t really fix many of the issues I had with Breath of the Wild, even if I thought they did at the time. Item degradation was annoying the first go around, but the second time, especially considering all the crafting you have to do to get good weapons, feels especially tedious. The story is just as daft and pointless, even if it ends on a better note. The “Sacred Stone?” repetition has already been memed to death at this point but it’s notable how I didn’t even notice it at first since I had already long since tuned out of the story. Dungeons still don’t hit the same as in previous Zeldas, with the precise almost Metroid-like design of items locking progression not even attempted for a second time. Even the depths, which enamored me so deeply when I first found them, gradually became a slog to travel through as its visual repetition and lack of unique content started to dawn on me.

When I was playing Breath of the Wild for the first time, in a life that feels like it was ages and ages ago, I distinctly remember being in awe of the world they had created and the joy I had in exploring it. Even though I had my faults with the game, as I kept thinking about it, that lasting impression is what sticks out so many years later. Will the same thing happen to Tears of the Kingdom? Will its strengths persist in my head in a decade? Or will its blemishes keep it from true greatness in my mind?

One thing’s for sure: I never want to see a god damn Korok again. At least in this game you can create a device that sets them on fire, smushes them with a giant hammer, then catapults them over a mountain into a bottomless pit. Kinda fucked up you can do that…

2. Pizza Tower (PC)

Pizza Tower is fucked up game made by a fucked up man. How else can I explain the absolutely batshit insane ideas this game throws at you? The first level is called John Gutter. There’s another level in this game called “Oh Shit!” where you run around in the sewer. Mort the Chicken from the PS1 game Mort the Chicken returns to grab onto your head and force you to do double jumps. You’re forced to play golf. There’s a level where you get jumpscared by FNAF pizza topping animatronics and at the end you get to Shoot Them With A Shotgun. One of the bosses is a fucked up version of yourself that’s actually made of liquid and is secretly just a brain with eyes. You’re italian. 

I could go on. Despite my cursed Nintendo centric brain, I’ve never dabbled into Wario Land, which Pizza Tower obviously takes a lot of inspiration from. But when looking at gameplay of those older games after finishing this one, I don’t think I would really get a whole lot out of it. Pizza Tower is basically those Wario Land games made by a guy with as sick of a brain as I do, drawing all the assets with MSPaint and cramming each level with crazy bullshit and fun gameplay ideas. Those other games would probably feel kind of lacking in comparison. Like Mario Wonder, the levels in Pizza Tower are gimmicky by design, introducing one-off gameplay ideas and passing the ball to the next idea as soon as possible. So why is Pizza Tower higher than Mario Wonder?

Because Pizza Tower is an anime. When completing each level, you’re ranked from a scale of D to S, same as Sonic. At least that’s what it seems at first, though, as there is another rank. The coveted P-Rank is locked behind not just a perfect run collecting all the pizza toppings through the level, but looping back around and racing through that same level again. All within the time limit given to you when smacking the John at the end of each level. As you can probably tell, this is fucked up. Nothing else in Pizza Tower, not even the batshit level ideas, can reach how fucked up getting a P-Rank is in any level of this game. I’ve only gotten two I think? But Christ, what a rush it is. Pushing your familiarity with the controls and the level like this, reaching a glorious flow state is exactly where I love to be in a 2D platformer. And when I see that sick as hell anime OP ass P-Rank animation, I reach COMPLETE GAMING EUPHORIA.

I am so excited to jump back into this one once I have the time and give this the thorough beating it deserves. Just like how Peppino has been thoroughly beaten….. By The Cruel Hand He’s Been Dealt Through The Struggles Of Maintaining Your Own Pizza Business In A Horrible Capitalist Nightmare………

..

1. Pikmin 4 (NSW)

Hell yeah Baby!!! Pikmimn 4 Sweep! If you don’t play Pikmin 4 I’ll KILL YOu you stupid piece of shit!! 

Pikmin is doomed to be a niche. It’s got a bunch of cute little men walking around and a circular dog that you jump on the back of. But it is so brutally punishing that kids are almost certainly going to bounce off it. And the strategy-heads that would undoubtedly enjoy what it has to offer almost certainly won’t even give it a chance because of the cute little men and the circular dog. This dichotomy, of course, is why I love Pikmin.

I began the year in preparation for Pikmin 4 to finally play the original Pikmin on GameCube. Previously, I had one playthrough of Pikmin 3 but it honestly didn’t do all too much for me for whatever reason. So I wanted to go all the way back to the most busted up, brutal game in the series so I could understand the appeal. Within the first hour of play, all of my Pikmin had either been drowned or crushed by a giant Bulborb because I had no idea what I was doing. And that game has a strict time limit, so you can only fuck up so many times before you get a genuine game over. 

So what’s the appeal? Well Nintendo finally found a word for it in the marketing for Pikmin 4 that probably doesn’t exist in English so they just said fuck it and used the Japanese word anyway: “Dandori 段”. Basically being able to manage your tasks and resources in a timely fashion to reach maximum efficiency. Pikmin 1 forces you to figure this out to some degree or else you’re not getting home. And with the limited scope of that game’s levels, Pikmin types, and enemies, I think it’s a great way to learn. Each Pikmin has a clearly defined use case that directly corresponds with their color, and the obstacles in your path are easy to understand in relation to those basic abilities. Need a powerhouse that can take quick work of this giant beetle? Red is your go to. A ship part is stuck high up? The lanky and tall yellows are your guys. Water? Blue. You get the gist.

The problem with Pikmin 1? And every other Pikmin game for that matter? It’s not enough. It needs more. I’m cool with short games but Pikmin 1 can be beaten in like 3 hours. Pikmin 3 is like 10. Usually more content isn’t what makes a game “gooder” but I do genuinely think that the short run time of previous games made this idea of Dandori harder to tap into on a single playthrough. How did they fix this in Pikmin 4? 

WEll, my friend, they did this through VARIETY OF MODES!

The main story of Pikmin 4 is basically the 10 hour tutorial. A gentle romp through all the major areas, some largely easy enemies, no game-long time limit, heavy tutorializing, an introduction to all the Pikmin types, basically baby’s first Pikmin. Even if you only play the story, you have so much to sink your teeth into. The above ground areas are as fun as ever, with the addition of Oatchi as a Pikmin platform AND a way to introduce platforming into the Pikmin formula being such an obvious and fun addition. Caves return from Pikmin 2 as a break from the time-limit imposed by the rest of the game, allowing for some tighter combat sections and the satisfaction of scouring an entire area and getting 100% item completion. Dandori challenges scattered throughout the levels provide a taste of that hyper-focused time limit gameplay from Pikmin 1, forcing a greater degree of focus and understanding of the mechanics and design than in most of the rest of the game. Nighttime missions morph the usual Pikmin gameplay into more of a tower survival type of thing, protecting key areas while using the uniquely powerful new glow Pikmin. And each of the major areas all being in the garden of just somebody's house that you THEN get to go inside in what is by far the most unique level in a Pikmin game is some serious chef’s kiss type beat.

So that’s all well and good for the base game. But the post game? The post game? This is what takes Pikmin 4 to legendary heights. I CAN’T EVEN WRITE HERE everything I want to say because I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T PLAYED THIS GAME, and it was so joyous when I had these experiences blind. What I will say is this - this idea of Dandori and your understanding of it will be tested in some of the late game Dandori challenges. Entirely optional content by the way, nothing needed if you aren’t fucking with the idea of being an ancient Dandori master or anything. But this is the type of thing I live for in games. Mechanics and design being stretched to their limit, pushing your boundaries and forcing you to execute nearly perfectly to get the win. Usually uber-hard platformers are all that get this type of reaction out of me. Maybe I should be a strategy gamer? Am I finally ascending to be the Total War XCom Starcraft freakazoid I was always meant to be?

Maybe it was the surprise in how much I was enjoying Pikmin 4 for my entire 40 hour playthrough that gets it this high on the list. A marriage of gorgeous presentation, compelling mechanics, and content out the ass that no other game this year quite reached for me. DLC for this game is a must buy. Honestly, I might just play this game again some time soon, I need to make sure my feelings about it aren’t a fluke. 

And most importantly, YOU (yes, YOU, not the general ""you"") need to play this game. I DO NOT CARE if you have a Switch. DOWNLOAD THIS GAME FROM NSW2U.COM AND DOWNLOAD THE YUZU EMULATOR AND SEARCH ON GOOGLE “Nintendo Switch Keys Download” TO PLAY THIS GAME FOR FREE ON YOUR COMPUTER. Maybe you won’t even love it but DAMN IT I do. I’m glad Pikmin got another chance and for that chance to be the most feature-packed and gloriously executed game in the series by far. Hope this isn’t the end for our Pick-ed Men… Hope they don’t throw my colorful men in IP jail for 10 years again… Hope I can say hi to my good friend Olli mare one more time before I’m old and gray………

Thats it ok bye