#like the themes of depression and guilt and religious trauma

[slushiepizza]

Marie and Mother Mary

Relationship : Marie & Milo Greer

Tags : Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Partum Depression, Gender Roles, Catholicism, Motherhood, Italian American Marie Greer

Word Count : 1,510

ao3

Notes and Warnings:

this fic kind of surprised me because I'm not super into the Shaw Pack. But I do find Marie Greer's presence and bits and pieces we know of her character fascinating. I wanted to explore Marie's mind and feelings about being a mother when she's dealing with a gambling husband; and for her to raise someone like Milo Greer- she must've done a great job as a parent.

I took inspiration from my own experiences growing up with Catholicism and specifically in relation to the biblical Mary as a religious figure; and how mothers often find comfort in the thought of a figure who related in their struggles of motherhood and womanhood. It also has a theme of gender roles/ alluding to rigid gender identities because of the circumstances that Marie grew up in.

This fic isn't really... religious per se, and it takes more of a neutral standing while still criticizing how religion could be used to provoke feelings of personal guilt and trauma in someone who grew up in it, while also giving comfort to anyone that needed the universe to say that everything will be okay. If any of the themes may cause distress in you, I do implore you not read this fic, as consuming writing is a vulnerable activity.

The year was 1993. Marie Greer walked into the empty church lot with her baby in her arms. It had been decades since she last stepped on its stone floors. The security guard stationed outside looked at her strangely, but let her in once she asserted that she was there to pray.

She passed the main building for a small garden in the back. There were rows of wooden benches but nobody to be found. Good. Marie didn’t want company at the moment. To call it a garden was an overstatement- it was tiny and cramped, overgrown with vines. In front of the benches, the centerpiece of all the foliage was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mother Mary, she thought, the double entendre not escaping her. 

As soon as she sat down right in front of the statue- Milo wailed inconsolably like he always did. 

The baby’s loud cries echoed disturbing whatever peace that was left from the place. Marie sighed, tired and weary, of this. He was an especially sensitive child, smaller than other babies his age. Marie was used to catering to people who’d fuss over the littlest things, Colm had a particular affinity for order and cleanliness whenever he came back from blowing his month’s earnings in a night, after all. The addition of Milo to the family just added more on her plate- she had to catalog every single one of his many allergies, and make sure that the room was never dusty because he’d have a coughing fit otherwise. The replacement of their popcorned ceiling had not been cheap, either, not with Colm leaving barely anything left after his trips to Vegas.

She did this all for love. For him. For her husband. But oftentimes, she felt like there was nothing left of her to give. Dry. Hollow. 

She shushed Milo and lightly rocked him in hopes that he’d calm down but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, his nails accidentally scratched her in the arm. Marie winced and tried to soothe him, lightly patting his back. It took thirty minutes of rocking and soothing Milo until the baby went back to sleep. 

St. Mary’s weathered ivory-colored face looked down at her, her expression blank and unmoving. Her lips were sculpted into a serene smile. Her pupil-less eyes gazed back at Marie. 

Just like any other Italian-American family at the time, church was a routine for Marie growing up. Her mother would dress them in their Sunday’s best and wrangled her and her seven unruly siblings into the building. “Quit fussin’ your pigtails, Marie. I did that real pretty for you,” she’d chide. They’d sit in the back of the church because tardiness ran in that family’s blood like a curse. 

Past the twelfth and thirteenth pews, God felt distant. 

Marie would follow everything diligently. She stood up when everyone else stood up as the priest lifted the circular white wafer, the body of Christ, above the altar. As a child, her height wouldn’t allow her to catch a single glimpse of it. She’d comfort her younger siblings whenever they’d make a ruckus. But the whole thing- it went one ear out of the other. 

She could’ve sworn she tried her best to listen and followed whatever the adults did. 

I have greatly sinned, escaped past her lips as she did the same thing she had now, rocking her baby sister in her arms. At the time, she hadn’t even lost her milk teeth. 

She stopped going when she married Colm. He was the opposite of the man her mother wanted her to marry, and in retrospect, she felt that it was one of the many reasons she liked him. His mind was raucous, his eyes wild and unmoored. Like nothing was holding him back. Colm used to be an ambitious man- the thrill of being an Investigator for DUMP perfect for his unrested soul. 

Marie loved that part of him, the fact that he’d question everything, unbelieving in anything unproven. 

He said that he wanted to purge the world of assholes- the unjust, those who hurt others for their own sake. As he turned in empowered criminals in the pursuit of it, he became one himself. 

Marie met St.Mary’s gaze- almost challenging her hollow stare. Something surged through her, from the ache in her back settling to her tight diaphragm.

After the birth of her boy, Mary couldn’t cook or clean. All she did was stay in bed. Her sister came by to help take care of the house while Colm stepped outside as usual. She said that it was normal, her body had been through hell, after all. But the heavy feeling, the heaviness that settled in her chest persisted for the next two months.

 Marie hated feeling helpless- her house a mess, and her baby cried constantly. She was a woman of action, and stagnation shackled her, leaving her trapped. Her visit to the psychiatrist- and the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual- had told her that it was depression with a postpartum onset. She told the doctor that she refused to accept that she was a ‘bozo who was sick in the head’ and that she will cure herself with a margarita and a sorely needed hair perm alongside a fresh coat of manicure. 

And look where that got her. Crying in front of a statue in church.

She still stared at the other Mary, the statue’s size and height caused her to look like she was looking down on whoever prayed in the confined space, guiding them iin a time of need. With that, for once, Marie realized that she was angry. 

She wasn’t stuck to her mattress, fatigued, and lacked energy because of sorrow- she was so angry, the weight of her job description as wife, mother, woman, wolf, dog, bitch- Marie weighed down on her like anchors. She was angry, at the fact that Colm was nowhere to be found throughout all this, angry at her mother- for making her a mother to her own siblings when she was barely a child, angry at the fact that she couldn’t even love her child properly because she no longer had any love left in the hollow of her heart. 

The emotions had clawed the insides of her ribs and caused her to let out heavy breaths- she was a dog panting for air when there was none. 

“When does it get easier,” she demanded to the Mother of all Mothers through gritted teeth. “Tell me, Mary,” she begged, desperate, as tears started to roll down her face. “Tell me!” 

“When does being a mother ever get any easier?”

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, as she started to sob and heave quietly. 

A soft breeze blew past the branches of the trees that surrounded her. It moved the leaves and allowed them to move gently back and forth. The statue still looked down at her, hand slightly outstretched in a supposed kind, helpful gesture. Ants crawled from the crack in the marble, they moved past Mary’s dress down to the hem, circling around her exposed foot, past the head of the sneak that was crushed triumphantly under her toes. 

Marie sank into her seat, tired. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffling. Unbecoming of her, she thought. She’d rather die than let anyone see her like this. But there was a comfort between women, she supposed. Damage from rain stained Mary’s cheek like tears- not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own. The air was comfortable, easy, and Marie felt light. It reminded her of the 80s. Of girls in the bathroom of the disco, talking someone out of calling their past lovers as they applied lipstick and passed cigarettes between one another.

“I guess,” she sniffed. “I guess you know better, right?” she stared into a picture that hung on a distant wall. In it, St. Mary cried as she held Jesus' dying body. “He didn’t give you a hell of a good time either,” her voice cracked pathetically. 

Girl, tell me about it, Marie imagined the statue said. The Virgin Mary had the voice of her best friend in college. Is that not what being a mother is? The pain so bad, it feels like you’re splitting in two? Going through all seven hells for your baby’s sake?

“Why do we even put ourselves through this,” she chuckled sardonically. “If I wanted to go through pain, I’d rather just listen to Colm talk about whatever fish he caught on the weekend.” 

Mary didn’t answer, and Marie understood. Milo opened his big eyes in her arms and reached up to her with tiny hands. He giggled, light and oblivious to the puffiness of Mary’s face and the swell of her eyes. She cooed at him and held up a finger. Milo wrapped his hand around it, gentle. 

St. Mary’s serene smile was still plastered on her face, her hand outstretched in the air between them. 

[deer-sabaism]

facts about cannibalism — i have weird hyperfixations, i know.

what's cannibalism? cannibalism is the act of one individual of a species consuming all or part of another individual of the same species as food. cannibalism exists in the animal kingdom and rarely among humans for various reasons, ranging from survival to ritualistic practices.

the first type is defined as eating members of another group (conquered enemies, for example) and the second one, the eating of members of your own group, usually associated with ritual burial ceremonies.

cannibalism has been documented throughout human history, with one of the earliest recorded instances being the Gough’s Cave in England, where human bones from approximately 15,000 years ago showed signs of cannibalistic practices.

in certain cultures, cannibalism was performed as a ritualistic act, believed to transfer the strength or spirit of the consumed to the eater.

the Fore people of Papua New Guinea practiced transumption, a form of cannibalism, until the late 20th century, which led to the spread of the fatal prion disease kuru.

throughout history, there have been numerous accounts of cannibalism for survival. sailors lost at sea, explorers in uncharted territories, and victims of sieges and famines have resorted to consuming human flesh.

the case of the Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, which crashed in the Andes in 1972, is a well-documented instance where survivors ate the deceased to stay alive.

many cultures have myths and folklore featuring cannibalistic giants or monsters, such as the Wendigo in Algonquian folklore, which is said to embody both the act of cannibalism and the insatiable greed that leads to it.

cannibalism has been a recurring theme in literature and film, often used to explore themes of survival, horror, or the breakdown of societal norms. movies like "The Silence of the Lambs" and books like "Hannibal" by Thomas Harris have brought cannibalism into popular culture.

cannibalism is illegal in most countries, though the act itself is not explicitly mentioned in the law; rather, it is often prosecuted under laws against murder, desecration of corpses, or assault.

in medical science, the transplantation of human organs and tissues can be seen as a form of cannibalism, though it is, of course, conducted for life-saving purposes and with consent.

research into prion diseases like kuru has provided valuable insights into neurodegenerative diseases and the risks associated with consuming human neural tissue.

with advances in lab-grown meats and other synthetic food technologies, some speculate about the ethical implications of creating human flesh for consumption without the need for death or harm.

cannibalism can cause severe psychological effects, including trauma, PTSD, guilt, shame, dissociation, social isolation, and stigmatization. it can deeply impact identity and self-perception, particularly when conflicting with cultural or religious beliefs. survival cannibalism may lead to survival guilt, while instances involving psychopathy can reflect broader antisocial behaviors. long-term mental health issues like depression and anxiety are also common. thw psychological impact varies based on individual resilience and circumstances.

climate change could potentially increase instances of cannibalism in the animal kingdom as resources become scarcer and species are forced into closer quarters or new territories.

there have been rare instances of self-cannibalism, known as autophagy, where individuals consume parts of their own bodies, often as a result of mental illness or extreme starvation.

cannibalism is studied in various academic fields, including anthropology, psychology, and biology, to understand its historical, cultural, and biological aspects.

educational discussions about cannibalism can challenge students to think critically about ethical issues, human behavior, and the diversity of cultural practices around the world.

cannibalism, a topic as old as humanity, spans across cultures and continents, revealing both dark and fascinating aspects of human history. Whether driven by necessity, ritual, or psychological compulsion, the act of consuming human flesh highlights social and ethical issues.

thanks for reading :)

[aspd-culture]

is guilt-based anxiety (example: scared of being a burden), depression (example: feeling guilty for being alive, for being a burden and all that low self-esteem nonsense) and guilt/moral-based ocd (example: feeling like youre an abuser or committed a heinous crime that you didnt commit, like S/A-OCD or P-OCD), or themes of guilt in schz (example: delusions where you think youre guilty of having done something you havent, like murder for instance, or hallucinations of voices who encourage the themes stated in the example i gave for depression) or ptsd/trauma (example: for experiencing trauma) etc. possible in aspd? and/or how would these things present in someone with aspd (as opposed to someone without aspd? people w/o ASPD (generally) feel a lot of (genuine) guilt and remorse and i experience... walmart-brand guilt. i feel anxious and "guilty" but only because of 1. whatever remnants of christian doctrination is in my brain 2. my phobias 3. my need for control, or 4. a byproduct of my mental illnesses. (probably a learned thought process for me - its not really natural for me, not really out of care for others (unless you count ocd), and the thought pattern is what ive been told throughout my life/otherwise originated from others)

All of that is very possible and actually very relevant to my experience as a pwASPD, as well as OCD, PTSD, and religious trauma. Hopefully that means I can give you a relatively in-depth explanation of what this feels like for me firsthand.

So all of these types of Great Value guilt are moreso examples of shame. Religious trauma causes shame, guilt OCD is generally a misnomer for shame, and shame is a *major* symptom of clinical depression and of PTSD. Shame is a more personal take on guilt, in that it affects your opinion of who you are as a person, and it can (and often does) exist outside of actually having done something wrong both in prosocials and pwASPD. Guilt is an instinct when you have done something wrong to admit it and work to change the behavior in the future and make up for the harm it caused or had the potential to cause. Shame doesn’t care if you’ve actually wronged anyone nor does it care if you change the behavior in the future - and it doesn’t believe you can *ever* make up for it. Shame says you are a terrible horrible no-good very bad person because of *insert reason* and for that you must work your ass off to try to be redeemed while knowing you are never ever going to be. Shame is irrational while guilt is (considered by prosocials to be) rational.

In pwASPD, shame tends to be polarizing. I have talked to pwASPD who felt shame *much* more intensely because they had no experience with guilt to temper it, so the feeling was entirely foreign (this is how I experience it, although I’ve done some work to unlearn that), and I’ve met other pwASPD who can completely ignore the feeling of shame because they can easily identify it as not beneficial and therefore ignore it. I think part of it depends on how you take on things like ableism as well - it seems to correlate that people who don’t internalize any ableism are better at pushing away feelings of shame, whilst people like me who struggle with internalizing ableism are more distressed by shame.

It’s also worth noting that shame specifically associated with PTSD from the same place that led to the ASPD (so in other words, related to childhood trauma) can end up being the pwASPD’s only definition of guilt, and feel very all-encompassing because of that. They may feel haunted by any little thing they do that would have been wrong in the eyes of the person who caused the trauma. This can result in a pwASPD who is very timid and/or shows few symptoms. In my case, issues with this led me to lean away from the more obvious symptoms of my ASPD, which is why I had to fight myself on whether or not I truly had it before I was diagnosed. I was fairly meek for most of my life, and the classic behaviors many pwASPD experience like violent outbursts leading to breaking things and/or hurting animals or other children, breaking rules and defying authority, etc. was, for me, replaced by the more covert versions of those things. I broke things - but they were my things that I knew wouldn’t be missed. I would get bursts of rage and take it out on things I knew could take it or that I could excuse as being lost, or better yet, things that could have easily been broken by other means. For example, I had a tendency to break pencils when I was angry, so I would intentionally pick up any pencils I found on the floor at school and break *those* when I was angry, and for the same reason I washed and saved popsicle sticks “for arts and crafts”. I fell into the manipulation and deception (besides of my main caregiver who is an Exception) side more than the rule-breaking and violence side due to that trauma. The shame for the actions was something I could only tolerate if I could tell myself “nobody but you knows what you did” or “the only thing you broke are things that don’t mean anything to anybody and would be in the trash otherwise”.

I would say the biggest thing that pwASPD dealing with that intense shame feeling would do differently than most other pwASPD is to appear more “in control”. ASPD forms from trauma, so if that traumatic shame (and yes, growing up with OCD without knowing it and without having safe support *is* very often traumatic) is constantly beating on you as a part of the trauma, certain symptoms may not show up the same way as they would for someone where they didn’t have that. It’s not the same as not doing something because you can control the urge/impulse - what I’ve described here is just redirection of said impulse - and it’s not the same as feeling guilt. It’s a symptom of one or multiple other disorders playing in tandem with the ASPD symptoms.

As for how pwASPD deal with this shame compared to prosocials, I would say that it has the potential seriously numb us in a way that it doesn’t to prosocials. Generally, prosocials have a better idea of how to identify between the feelings of guilt vs shame, which is how most of them learn to recognize and act on one while not taking in the other. At the point where they can’t, it usually creates an anxiety disorder on top of whatever is causing the shame. In pwASPD however, if we feel shame like this, it often makes us even *less* receptive to the feeling of true guilt. For those of us who easily ignore the shame, guilt just gets lumped in with that and they move on, and for those of us that internalize the shame, guilt pales in comparison and we don’t see it as intrusive enough to listen to.

All of this is, as always, fairly anecdotal, but this is how I experience it combined with how people I have talked to describe it. It’s worth noting that many elitists will claim that feeling shame means you can’t have ASPD. I simply do not have the bandwidth to go into the details of *how ridiculous* that is right now, but it is in no way true. There is zero reason, in my opinion, to say that a symptom of another disorder cannot exist at the same time as ASPD. Afaik, there is currently no disorder that excludes you from the diagnosis of ASPD. The only disorders that even come close are bipolar disorder, schizophrenia/other disorders causing psychosis, and substance abuse disorder - but none of these truly exclude you from an ASPD diagnosis, they just require extra examination to make sure the symptoms do not only occur when manic, in psychosis, or while h1gh/drvnk respectively.

Sorry if this is a bit of a novel, I’m getting used to being back and trying to be concise again.

[aetherealmoss]

Okay, hear me out, this should be anonymous bc digital footprint and shit but whatever HEAR ME OUT!!!

Soap was sexually abused in his childhood by a close family friend, a man from the military they met in church (military part optional, it'd be more for plot convenience, but church part is important)

He's an adult now, it should be fine, he's grown taller and stronger than that man ever was, but when someone far too similar to him (or, if u want that extra step of drama, actually him) appears, all that emotional stability CRUMBLES.

HE FEELS LIKE A CHILD AGAIN, LIKE THE BOY WHO BEGGED FOR PROTECTION BUT GOT TOLD OFF BY HIS PARENTS BC "XX is a good married Christian man, he's not a fag."

I just need to see Soap spiralling and diving headfirst into depression and the panic attacks that follow a single touch from any of his colleagues EXCEPT Ghost.

Because it's always Ghost, it will always be Ghost.

If this is too chaotic lmk I got very into it

It gets worse before it gets better, for sure.

thank u so much for the lovely request <;3 u can also read it over at ao3!

rating: mature

tags: #angst #slight it gets worse before it gets better #religious trauma #religious guilt #religious themes and imagery #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced past rape #getting together #comforting through the worst imaginable #they argue #they solve it right after but #anger #lots of it #starry nights and coffees #witchcraft practices mentioned and slightly done #self-harm #soap bites the skin around his nails until they bleed #pierced ghost

---

Soap has always been told that anger lives in the pits of the stomach, and when it comes up to show itself, it is a monster. It is a monster that burns up from soft intestines, burns upwards and upwards and upwards until it reaches the mouth, until it bears and grows its teeth, until it sinks its fangs into the world and controls it. 

But, for him, the anger is a monster that travels fast and burns even brighter and it comes right from the tips of his fingers, up into his knuckles, and he is just like his father when he strikes first, asks later. 

When the world bares its fangs at him, Soap raises his claws, and he obviously strikes first, he knows how to find exactly where it hurts every single time and he attacks precisely there. He is entirely unlike his mother, with her cold and slow anger.

So maybe it’s some sort of karmic retribution when a man walks into their meeting room and Soap reels. He has memories of the past in the forefront of his mind, because that man he has those same eyes that haunt him, that same fucking build that once towered over him, the same sharpness on his face that he so used to adore in that fucked up way he did and even the same beard that would cut and hurt. The same cross necklace smacking his chest, God is mocking him even now, at his big age. The same military standing that he used to idolise.

It all reminds him far too much of the past. A past he has striven to forget, a past he has worked tirelessly with countless therapists to overcome, a past that should not affect him like it does just then—he feels all his organs shut down.

And he thinks, over and over again, that by his big age, he should be fine and he should be completely and utterly sane—yet his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, his breathing hitches—Ghost looks at him and it’s fucking humiliating, the way he can see right through him.

He can’t stop the memories that flood his brain—he still remembers the begging, the blood, the angry screams, the pained screams, the god, the prayers, the tears, the touches, the grandmother’s protection. He is empty of everything that is good, if he remembers the past and that man so fucking vividly. How empty of him, to be so full of someone he hates.

He knows, internally and in a very faraway part of his brain, that none of it is real. Not anymore, anyways. But his body still clams up, he is still terrified, and the world still tips and eventually crashes when Price calls out into the room. 

If there is a God, Soap will swallow Him whole, will make Him cry.

God has a mean and sadistic streak, and Soap almost laughs at the irony of the situation, and he would’ve and could’ve just ran away if it weren’t for the tears springing into his eyes and threatening to overflow. 

He hates Him.

Perhaps he would strike first this time too, of the anger won in the end. He would have God kneeling, the fucker at the tip of his knife, the world cradling a bomb.

“This is the team we’ll be working alongside for this mission,” his voice is calm and collected and he has not noticed Soap’s inner (almost outer) panic. Soap does not blame him for it, yet he wants to. Price does not know anything about his past beyond what he needed, and he did not need to know of the predator that lives in Soap’s mind. 

The man’s eyes fall on him, and he has to do everything in his power to not simply get up and walk away—or worse, pull out a gun and shoot the fucker in the face—, to ignore the pull and tug of the world wanting to tip and fall apart, even though the man has done nothing and Soap is just projecting his issues into innocent people who don’t deserve his anger. 

He doesn’t even know the man. Perhaps he is a wonderful soldier, perhaps he is not even religious, just uses the cross in honour of someone else. But his brain doesn’t care about that, and he is entirely ruled by his emotions, and the man is just old enough to remind him of a married man with wandering hands and God as an excuse for wanting someone as young as Soap had been.

He feels like a sobbing child again, asking a God he doesn’t believe in to save him because no other adult would. 

He feels like a bitter and angry child again, asking why neither God nor anyone ever saved him.

“I hope you will, at least, be cordial with each other,” because Price cannot ask for people to like each other, especially not people glued together with just the wishes of peace.

He continues with his talk, goes over the details of the mission, which Soap pays no attention to, which will bite him in the ass later on, he assumes, but he is seething in anger and fear and he knows Ghost’s eyes are on him—intensively, extensively—but he finds he can’t make his jaw work beyond its clenching and his stomach is so twisted that he feels he’s going to puke. His fingers are going into overdrive as he taps them against his bouncing leg. He wants to go back to his bad habits, to bite his fingers until they are raw and bloody. He’s so fucking tired of being afraid of men with just the right characteristics.

“—dismissed,” is the last word he catches from Price’s mouth, and he watches as everyone slowly gets up and leaves. Gaz hangs back to stay with him, touches Soap’s shoulder—

“Don’t touch me,” he demands, he is mean beyond what he needs to be, and he watches Gaz's excited face crumble. Of course, he didn’t notice anything, he was excited about another mission, about another opportunity to save the world of all its evil. Ghost tenses up beside him.

Price calls for him before he can even say anything. He’s eternally thankful for it. He’s sure he would’ve snapped even worse if he had remained, if he had asked. He doesn’t want to deal with questions. 

He can feel Price’s eyes on him. He ignores them with a ferocity only dogs should know.

He watches them move, with a perspective that makes him feel as though he is in a body that isn’t his own, watches his own body remain stuck to his chair. He feels a presence on his side, and he almost lashes out.

“Soap,” Ghost’s voice comes with a kindness he doesn’t know how to deal with, hasn’t really heard it like that before, and if he were in any other state, he would think about it for days to come. Maybe even daydream about it. But in his current state, they just make his walls come up higher, stronger. He doesn’t deal well with kindness in the face of his fucked up past.

“What?” comes his harsh reply, instead. Ghost straightens, looms over Soap instead of leaning into his eyeline, his face settles into something harsher instead, the lines of their boundaries boldens. Soap raises a hand up to his mouth anyways, starts slowly peeling away at the skin on the tips of his fingers, right besides his pretty fucked up nails, he has not done this in years. He bleeds almost instantly.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles it around his gnawing. He can almost tell Ghost wants to slap his hand away, but he thankfully doesn’t. He allows Soap a moment of self-destruction. Soap feels like he deserves that moment, that piece of self-destruction, he held himself together quite well. Is still holding himself together… well enough.

“You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Oh, aye, Lt, wish that were the case,” he wishes he could explode. At least that would be pretty. “It’s nothin’, there’s nothin’ wrong. Just leave, aye? Sure Price is callin’ ye or somethin’.” his accent lulls out stronger. He wants to be left alone, he wants Ghost to keep pushing. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.

“Pull yourself together,” the words lull out like a bullet and he knows Ghost doesn’t even know he’s holding a weapon, but it strikes him all the same. His jaw moves all on its own, but Ghost hasn’t stopped talking. “We need you clear and sane for the mission.” he turns on his heels, leaves the room with a slam of the door.

Belatedly, Soap wishes he hadn’t left. Wishes even more that he hadn’t acted like he did. He feels like a child again, feels entirely too much like he is turning into his father, always quick to anger and quick to snap.

“Fuck.” his voice cracks around the edges. He closes his eyes, tears spill out without his permission, and he is now entirely grateful that Ghost did not stick around. He does not want him to hear the shake of his voice, does not want him to see this part of him, so shameful and entirely ugly.

—

When the sun rises and the teams roll out, Soap is cursing all the gods alive and dead and inbetween for putting him in the same fucking team as the fucker that keeps triggering his past memories. His fingers are raw and bleeding into his gloves and he questions all that there is in the world, how dare God allow this to happen to him? What kind of God even is He? 

Sure, it isn’t anyone’s fault but his own that he didn’t speak up and tell them about it or, at least, tell them to keep him far, far away from him—but who wants to admit to a past like his own, to people who supposedly admire him and his work? Not him, certainly, because he has a penchant for making life harder for himself.

His jaw is clenched and his teeth hurt from the strength of them on each other, and his hold on his gun is firmer and stronger than it ever has been before, and he knows Gaz is looking and looking at him like he’s a total foreigner in the body of Soap, with the way he remains silent through it all, with the way he gives Ghost one-worded replies whenever he needs to. There are no jokes he can tell that don’t make his heart race.

Soap really hopes he won’t ask anything, especially not where they are and not once they’re done here, because he knows his reply won’t be good, or kind, or even make sense to people who have no context.

“Soap,” he hears that man’s gravely voice, fucked through years of cigarettes burrying in his longs, and he locks up—flashes pass through his mind like he’s back there, the name is different but he’s there. “You’re clear to detonate.” and he unlocks all at once rapidly, because the mission is far more important than his triggers, and he’s nodding his head before he realizes it and he starts stepping towards the building. There’s simply something in him that knows how to fight and when and where—he knows this fight since he was very small, he carries it like a badge of honour through the ages and the years. And the fight is only outwardly when it calls for it, and it hasn’t called yet.

He doesn’t know what he’s exploding, exactly, but Price gave his orders and so did this captain, and he just knows he is and that’s all he really needs to know for the maniac inside him to feel delighted in making anything at all explode. Even though he feels he’s the one who he should explore.

He knows he’s doing something reckless when a hand belonging to that captain fucker brushes his back in a pat and a low ‘well done’ is murmured right into his ear, because the finger on the detonation finger is so very intentional and his press of it even more.

The building explodes in a beautiful symphony of sounds and colours and collapses. 

The team is only far enough for minor injuries to happen, but when his comms come back to life, his ears ring and yet he can still hear his captain’s voice, Price’s harsh voice echoes in a way that is entirely too familiar.

He should feel a certain type of regret, but he only regrets not being inside the collapsed building, so maybe he should hold off on feeling things like that.

—

“What were you thinking?” is the first thing Price says to him, because as soon as he saw him, he motioned with his hands and kept his mouth firmly shut. And now they’re back on base and it is deserted except for them. Gaz and Ghost are there too, but they definitely look like they don’t want to be. Gaz shifts his weight between his feet, Ghost holds his chin high. “Do you understand that that could’ve gone entirely wrong?”

“I didn’t mean—” he did, in some way. Price taught him all about fighting the wrongs of the world, gave him ways of aiming his anger at the right people, taught him how to bare his teeth instead of just his fists—and he knows he used it in the wrong goddamn place.

“But you did it,” Price says, with a certain firmness that has Soap reeling. He steps closer to Soap, hits his chest with a finger, Soap breathes and breathes and only hears the words spoken because they’re so fucking insane. “So you’re on timeout.”

“What?” he asks, incredulous, almost laughs at the situation. “What am I, a kid?” he feels utterly unfloored, and his hands twitch at his side, and Price’s finger imprints into his chest like a burning that doesn’t feel good, at all, and he knows Price is nothing like the man in his memories, but any touch at all has him spiralling. “Ye cannae just do that.” and he can’t because it feels like he’s back home, with his parents blaming him for someone else’s wandering hands, with his parents telling him it was all his fault and that they didn’t believe his pleas for safety.

“If you behave like one, you’re gonna be treated like one. What else did you expect?” he shakes his head, taps at Soap’s chest again and his eyes settle harder when Soap slaps his hand away. “I’m your captain, Soap, don’t forget that. I can do what I please, and you’ll listen, and comply.”

“Oh, fuck right off. Ye cannae be serious!” his voice raises beyond what he wants it to, and in the ultimate not-child-like move, he leaves the common room, stomps (he’d like to believe he walked) into his own room.

The door slams behind him, and he knows he’s being entirely insane, and he knows he did something stupid and he can and will full well admit it at a later time, but his heart is beating too fast and he’s so beyond fucking scared that he doesn’t know what else to do.

He moves through the room with a nervous fluttering of steps, he turns the whole place upside down until he finds what he wants—until his hands come across silver pentagrams and old tarot cards and random crystals, and he remembers his grandmother, and he almost starts sobbing right then and there, as he clasps the necklace tight around his neck.

He misses the only person who ever understood him, the only golden thread tying him to his lineage, the only one that he bears with pride.

He feels like life is always going to be like this, terrible and haunting and burning.

He goes through the motions of his rituals, of his vigils, of the things his grandmother taught him and that he kept close to his chest. He doesn’t care if he believes its actual protection or not—he does it all the same, finds comfort in the way the sigils come to him with ease, in the overwhelming scent of burning candles, in the prayers his grandmother made, in the protection he believes he still carries from her.

He thinks he should have a hold of his emotions far better than this, but he doesn’t and he doesn’t and he doesn’t, so he just watches his hands stain the paper sigils as he places them against each other, as he burns them, as he claims them.

When there’s a knock on his door, he thinks for half a second that it could be the man, and he knows that’s ridiculous yet he thinks it all the same—but Ghost’s voice sounds out and his heart half-settles. He swallows down the panic, places down the candle and the sigil.

“Sergeant.” knock, knock, knock. A melodious little thing.

“What do ye want, Ghost?” he’s tired and he’s angry and he’s exhausted of all this fear that he masks as anger, all this anger that comes off like fear, and his voice sounds entirely like not his own at all. He just wants to scream at someone, and yet he knows none of the people he can scream at have any fault, so he holds his tongue and his anger.

But where does he put it? Where does he put the anger, so it won’t lash out? Where does he put it when he doesn’t want to set it down, because if he does he’s going to cry.

“I’m your babysitter,” he lets it hang in the air for a little. “Let me in.”

“The fuck do ye mean, my babysitter?” he opens the door, anger brimming again and again and he’d lash out, he knows he would, if it were anyone but Ghost standing there—or at least he believes that he can hold himself back from hurting Ghost. Could he even hurt him? His words aren’t worth that much.

(he left the door unlocked, just in case, and now he regrets it.)

He shrugs, waits for Soap to step to the side before he steps inside the room, because Soap does step aside, leaning against the wall as Soap stands there, arms crossed and angry, always angry these past few days.

“Don’t know,” he tilts his head, eyes focused on Soap, and he knows Ghost knows and Ghost knows he knows, and there’s no need for all these fucking riddles, but they speak through them all the same. “Price thought you might need a handler.”

“And you’re it?” it’s ridiculous that his anger doesn’t settle into the joke of the situation, doesn’t dwindle and die out.

“Who else?” Soap thinks, doesn’t come up with anyone, and he feels the distaste in his mouth, swallows it down so he doesn’t scream out. “Exactly. Now, settle down. Stand down.”

Soap shakes his head, he doesn’t know what the hell Ghost is thinking, but he cannot possibly think he can handle Soap when he’s off his handle. 

He doesn’t move, not even when Ghost nods his head towards his bed, as if motioning him to sit down.

“What happened?”

“Ye know exactly what happened,” he says it slowly, like Ghost is stupid for even asking that.

“I know what happened, yeah, from my point of view. From Price’s. Even from Gaz’s,” he moves a hand through the air, and Soap almost flinches at it, at the similarity of movements—his father in the shape of God, the lingering hurt in his body. “Not yours, though. So,” like he’s just casually asking for the weather. “What happened?”

“It’s entirely none of yer business, Ghost.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sergeant,” he tuts, looks Soap right in the eyes again. “Because we’re both here, ain’t we? So it’s my bloody problem when you fly off the handle like that.”

“I didn’t fly off the handle—”

“No? So you put your team at risk just… for the fun of it?”

“I didnae mean to put ye in danger—”

“But you did,” Soap frowns. Where the hell are they going with this? “And I know you enough to know you’d never do that without reason. So I’m asking.” because he could be doing something else, he could be digging, he could sink his teeth into Soap’s brain and come up with all the answers he needs, that he wants.

“Ye wanna know? Go lookin’ for it,” he sees the movement of Ghost’s jaw, the tensing of his shoulders. “Cause I won’t tell ye shit, Lt, cause it ain’t none of yer business, and if ye just leave me alone, I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“That’s not gonna fuckin’ work,” Ghost tilts his head, taps his fingers against his thigh, crosses his arms after. 

Soap just brings his hands up in the air, shrugs like they’re at an impasse. 

Somehow, he feels like he’s losing this argument by losing his temper, yet he cannot hold back the way anger shimmers and burns at the center of his palm.

“Leave, Ghost.”

Ghost doesn’t move and Soap closes his eyes, breathes in and out, wrings his hands together and feels the sting and burn of his torn-up skin—it doesn’t help settle his anger, at all.

“Ghost, I’m not in the mood for this shite, alright? So just leave me alone for a fucking second and we’ll return back to normal.”

“Still not possible or plausible, sergeant,” he shakes his head. “Not when I was there when you got like this. So, spill, or you’ll overflow and get yourself killed and, Johnny, I’m not gonna watch that, or even allow it to happen.”

“And why the fuck would ye care, Ghost? So what if I’m losing my damn mind?” he knows he is an animal let loose, baring its teeth at anyone who dares get too close, his anger feeds itself off of his body and feeds him anger back. “The fuck’s that gotta do with ye? Besides any professional basis, cause what you’re doin’ here ain’t fucking professional worry or some shite like that.”

“Johnny—”

“No! I’m serious here, what the fuck are ye doing here? Price sent ye? Really? Ye expect me to believe that?”

“Soap—”

“Cause I don’t, ye know? Believe that—”

“If you let me speak,” Ghost raises his voice just above Soap’s, watches him flinch and step back. Lowers his voice again. “I can tell you why I’m here.”

Soap sets his jaw. Nods.

“I’m worried about you, Johnny,” and that is a confession he wasn’t expecting. It almost makes him break. “‘Cause I saw you in that meeting room, and I know that look. I know that look and those eyes and that fear, and I’m really hoping you’ll tell me I’m seeing shit or projecting.”

“Well, ye are. Now, leave.” he points at the door, like that will entice Ghost to step out. Ghost remains against the wall, as he has for their whole interaction. “Please, Ghost, just leave.”

Ghost taps his arm, sighs, bumps his head back against the wall.

“Why are you even being stubborn?”

“Because it’s private, alright? Ye ever heard of privacy? I’m sure ye have shit ye don’t want me to know about—”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I don’t,” he shrugs. “You can ask me anythin’ you wanna.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit and ye know it.”

“Ask, then.”

“I—I don’t—that’s not the point!” he brings his hands up in the air, moves them around. “Why are ye being like this, honestly? I don’t wanna tell ye anything, and I’m not gonna, and I wish ye’d stop asking about it.”

“Then we’ll just stay here like good ol’ boys until you calm down.”

“I’m perfectly calm.”

“Didn’t know you had a thing for lying.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he throws him the finger, mildly wonders why and then does it more firmly. He turns around so he can’t look at Ghost. If he can’t see him, Ghost can’t see him back, or some other bullshit logic like that.

He’s almost vibrating out of his skin. He can feel his hands shaking. He brings one up to his mouth and he tastes iron and smells blood immediately and yet he bites at the skin anyways. His eyes burn. Oh, he really doesn’t want to cry.

He hears Ghost moving, hears the shuffling of his uniform, the strength of his steps. He feels him looming over his back for a second and holds his breath. Then hears the creaking of the bed, the coldness of his back.

“These beds don’t get any better,” he hears Ghost mutter, almost laughs, but the laugh that bubbles up in his throat turns into a sob and he tilts himself even further away from Ghost’s line of sight.

Fuck.

His shoulders tremble, his whole body does, and he clutches helplessly at his pentagram, blood mixes with iron mixes with tears.

He feels Ghost at his back again, gentle hands on his elbows, and he’s being dragged to bed and made to sit down. He curls up, draws his body down until he’s almost chest-to-knees, and he cries because he started and now he can’t fucking stop.

Ghost’s hand is on the small of his back, making soothing sorts of motions over and over again.

“This is stupid,” he mutters to himself mostly, between sobs. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Ghost starts but Soap doesn’t let him finish, snaps up and looks at Ghost, even though he’s crying and he looks pathetic and red and blotchy.

“No, alright? This is stupid and I’m being stupid and this whole thing shouldn’t’ve happened and I’m sorry, okay? I just—he just—” he closes his eyes tightly and waits for the words to form correctly. “He looks so much like him. But it’s not him, and I keep—fuck.” he shakes his head, looks at Ghost, almost startles at the way he’s looking back at him. Like he knows. Like he understands.

He forces his eyes and head away, stares holes into the ground as he tries to stop crying.

He hiccups and takes stuttering breaths in uneven manners, feels the crawling of fear like it is a good friend, understands that his eyes are overflowing and his mind is running far too fast.

Ghost’s hand wraps around his wrist—before Soap can fight him and snap, Ghost brings it to his chest, presses his palm tightly over his heart.

“Breathe with me, Johnny,” he murmurs, voice low and calm and he has this sort of magic way of making Soap feel better with so little. It makes him feel like he’s not too far gone to be healed. “Come on. Good boy,” Soap’s chest trembles with the slow breathing, with the way his eyes still shed tears.

“Sorry,” he says between cries and breaths. “Just—I don’t know. I don’t know how to not tell Price and have this… figure itself out.” he appreciates Ghost all the same, even between the frustration of circling around each other for months at this point.

“Don’t think Price is gonna allow you in the field anytime soon,” Ghost hums at his own words, taps Soap’s wrist and presses his fingers harder against Soap’s back. The weight is comforting. It makes breathing easier again. “You’ll get an eval soon, even.”

“They know, anyway. They cleared me back then. It’s just… an episode, or something.”

“Think they’ll clear you now, too?” Soap bites his tongue, feels the inner turmoil in his brain blare. And then he shrugs.

“Hopefully,” his voice cracks and he winces. He looks back at Ghost, sees himself reflected back in his brown eyes. Feels the squeezes of his wrist. “I need a coffee. And fresh air.”

“I think I can allow that,” but Ghost doesn’t move. His jaw grinds back and forth, like he wants to say something. Soap steals his hand back, rubs both his hands over his eyes, cleans up the tears and breathes in far too deeply.

“Just say it, Ghost. What is it?”

“I know a spot.”

“What?” he laughs a little, confused, staring up at Ghost through his hands.

“Stargazing. I know a spot for that.”

“Far?”

“No, pretty close.”

“Take me there, then, warden, don’t wanna be in this prison.”

“Only a little dramatic.” Soap shrugs, gives him a watery type of grin. Soap watches as his mask folds and unfolds, hiding his smile underneath it.

Ghost gets up, turns to Soap, and outstretches his hand. Soap takes it with glee, and allows himself to be dragged up from his bed and out of his room.

—

The world breathes its tale as Soap waits for Ghost to return with their coffees. He’s checking his fingers and the damage he has done to them, face crumpled in guilt—he had worked so hard to break the habit, and he just completely fucked up his own progress. 

He supposes triggers work like that, anyways, but it doesn’t make him feel any better or less guilty or less wrong.

He supposes, too, that he was simply born wrong, that he won’t ever be forgiven for all his sins, that his birth was against the word of God and He cursed him and lodged Himself into his body to never allow happiness to course freely through it.

It’s… a tad dramatic.

He laughs at himself, shakes his head. He wishes he could rid himself of thoughts like that.

“What’s so funny?” he tilts his head back and up at Ghost, who appears suddenly, who looks utterly ridiculous with the silliest mugs in hand and that intimidating build and fucking skull mask.

“Right now? Ye are. Did ye know ye look ridiculous?”

“Thought you liked it,” he sits down next to Soap. “With all that staring you do.”

“I don’t stare,” Ghost just looks at him, and passes him his mug (this cat shaped, horrifying thing) and he looks back, and then crumbles, takes the warm mug in his cold hands. “Fine. Whatever. But ye still look ridiculous.” 

Ghost laughs, this startled little noise in the back of his throat that slips without him wanting it to. Soap delights in every note of it.

Ghost sits down next to him, just a few spaces closer than usual, and Soap bumps their knees together, then remains against the warmth of Ghost’s legs. He wants to lean further against him, but his heart unsettles at the thought of it, and his mind races in just the slightest incorrect manner. 

Soap isn’t an expert on silence, and this whole situation has been slowly eating him up from the inside-out, and he taps his bloody-bleeding fingers against his knee to maybe shut himself up.

It doesn’t work.

“I used to go to church,” he starts, slowly. “Thought it was so cool to be with my parents for a day of the week, where they wouldn’t argue, and they wouldn’t yell at me for some shite I probably did.”

“Doesn’t surprise me you were a troublemaker.”

“Aye, still am, ain’t I?”

“Exactly.”

“I was really good at it, which was totally a reasonable thing to want, I’m sure,” he shakes his head. “I knew the books back to front, front to back, talked to so many priests they knew me by name, by sin.” he clicks his tongue against his teeth, feels the rising of blood that overflows his mouth. “And then he showed up. This… cool military guy. I was… eight, maybe.”

Ghost’s hand finds his, presses palm into knuckles, intertwines fingers tightly. He sighs, both at the warmth that spreads through him and at what he’s about to confess.

“I thought he was so cool. And he would know everything, too. And he would be so willing to answer any and all of my questions. I used to wonder why,” he wets his lips, swallows the lump in his throat. Ghost squeezes his hand, a silent you don’t have to talk anymore. He works past the stoppage on his throat, anyway, because he wants to give Ghost some more of him. “Now, I know why, but back then it was all this wonder and admiration. All this… love, for some sort of fatherly figure that wouldn’t punish me for my questions.”

He closes his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s saying all this anymore. What will it help? Does talking have to help?

“The first time… it happened, I was nine. And he asked me to come home with him because he had something to give me,” he looks at Ghost. Ghost looks back. He can see the way his brows are furrowed. “I wish I hadn’t gone. I remember crying, I remember telling my parents, I remember their yelling, their punishment, like I made that fucker do what he did to me, like I wasn’t the victim in the situation. It kept happening and I—I don’t even remember half the times it happened, I just know they did, because I’d write it down. ‘It happened again’, in this pink diary I stole from one of my sisters.” he moves a hand through the air. “Dunno where it even is, anymore. I hope no one found it, don’t wanna traumatise them with the shite I wrote in that.”

Ghost inches closer, their arms are pressed together now, too, and he shivers. Ghost remains silent, lets Soap work through the words swirling in his brain, wanting to spill from his mouth.

“I know it wasn’t my fault, ye know? I went through intense therapy for this, back when I was 18 and threw myself at the army like it’d stop the church from following. The same thing happened then. A captain that was just a little too similar to him. That’s how they even found out anything happened, I mean, there weren’t any police reports or anything. Just… word of mouth, back then,” he shrugs. “Small towns, aye? People talk.”

“Yeah,” Ghost’s voice punches out of his throat, he looks like he’s the one suffering for Soap. Soap bumps shoulders with him, takes a sip from his coffee, warms up at the hotness of it, at the way Ghost knows his order even though he teases him for its sweetness.

“My nan was the only one that believed me,” he tugs at the pentagram hanging from his neck. “She was upset with God, with the church, even more with my parents, with her own son. I remember her turning to me, all anger and beauty, and saying ‘we’ll figure out our own religion, make up our own Gods, and they’ll protect ye correctly this time’. She found paganism, witchcraft. I didn’t… don’t believe in it, same as how I don’t believe in God, but I thought it was fun, and it would give me an excuse to be at her house for longer than I should. And her house would always smell really nice, and I could be a kid freely and without fear.”

“Is your grandma—”

“Dead. Few years back. Old age, or something. Fucked me up real good, too. The therapy sessions had to start up all over again and everything.”

He sighs, slowly lowers himself to the ground, bumps his head against the soft grass. There’s a pretty yellow flower at the corner of his view. Ghost’s head follows his movements, but he remains upright.

“I thought I was over it for good. I mean, Price looks nothing like him, but he’s a captain all the same and I like him, don’t feel any fear around him. And maybe I stupidly thought that I’d never find anyone like him ever again.”

“Not stupid.”

“I know. Just… I was naive. I was unaware of how much that fucked me up when I knew I shouldn’t be,” he tugs at Ghost’s hand. “I should’ve told Price, right?”

“Yeah. It’d be important for him to know. Could’ve prevented you almost killing your own teammates.”

“Sorry,” the apology isn’t even meant for Ghost, really, because all he did to Ghost was not talk to him, and compared to almost killing someone, he thinks that might be on the lower half of the importance list. He apologises anyways. He missed their banter. “I was just… so angry, and so tired of being afraid of everything and—and a part of me thought… that ye wouldn’t believe me, or just… tell me to suck it up, be a man,” he runs his tongue over his teeth. “Been in enough teams where that happened, y’know? The brain really fucks ye up, aye?”

Ghost is silent.

Soap would take offence to it, or maybe clam up all over again, if it weren’t for the tight hold on his hand, and the bright shine of the starry sky, and the moon is full and beautiful. It all feels like a holiness he can have and hold.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in the soft scent of coffee mingling with fresh and beautiful grass mingling with Ghost’s wood-like aroma.

He hears a lot of rustling, feels Ghost move, but he never lets go of his hand, so he only opens his eyes once the noises stop. 

Ghost’s bare face overwhelms his eyes.

He blinks a couple too times.

And he is entirely over the overwhelming shame religions bring, but Ghost just looks like something holy, like something he cannot have, and he craves it, craves him, wants him entirely and selfishly to himself.

“Hi?” he watches Ghost’s face break into a smile, and he is entirely enamoured by it.

“Secret for a secret.”

“The whole team knows what ye look like—” Ghost tilts his head, and Soap looks closer. There is a glint in the silver moonlight, that catches light and has Soap sitting up and getting far too uncomfortably close to Ghost’s face. “The hell is that?”

“Can’t actually have them,” Soap brings a hand up, touches Ghost’s eyebrow and glides along it, circles the glistening piercing there. Ghost lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Ye have so many of ‘em. Does Price know?”

“Yeah. Found out by accident,” Soap’s hand tracks the path of his face, of his scars, meets his nose in all its elegant brokenness, taps at the little stud on the side of his nose, flicks his septum piercing up just to watch Ghost’s face scrunch.

And then he lets his hand drop, doesn’t dare going too far, going as far as touching the ones decorating his lips. Ghost opens his eyes again, looks at Soap.

“I think my secret is far more interesting,” Soap says, frowning just a little, just playfully enough for Ghost’s brows to raise.

“You don’t look like you actually think that.”

“Well, Ghost, ye are a very interesting man,” he tilts his head. “And I already knew my secret. So…” he mumbles, eyes trained in the way Ghost’s mouth moves, the way he darts his tongue over the piercings, the way his tongue also has a flash of jewellery in it.

Ghost squeezes his hand. 

Good gods, if Ghost were the one to destroy him, he’d allow it. Follow him into broken buildings and collapsed thoughts.

“Really fucking sucks that you’re actually handsome,” he frowns at Soap’s statement, confusion written all over his pretty face. “Even worse that you’re cocky about it. How am I meant to compliment ye? Ye already know it all, it’ll feel empty.”

Ghost laughs, shakes his head. He brings Soap’s hand up and kisses his knuckles so tenderly that Soap almost falls apart.

Maybe this is when and how they break and break around each other, when and how they allow themselves to put each other back together like puzzle pieces.

“Thinking ‘bout me long enough to wanna compliment me, Johnny?”

“Oh, come on,” he rolls his eyes, pokes Ghost’s cheek to earn the unamused stare he gets. “Don’t act stupid.”

“I’m not,” Ghost tilts his head. “Just wanna hear you say it.”

“Hm,” Soap hums, sighs, lets his head fall against Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost allows him to stay resting there for a few seconds, but then he’s tugging at Soap’s wrist and placing a hand on the back of his head.

“What?” he asks, raises his brows at Ghost, delights in the little squeeze it gets him on the back of his head.

Ghost kisses his forehead. The cold metal of his piercings send a shiver down Soap’s spine. His mouth feels dry. They are so close, even closer than usual. Ghost has never given him more than a few of his fingers, and now it feels like he’s giving him his whole fucking body.

“What are ye doin’?” he asks in a low tone. He’s afraid that his words will be the ones ruining the moment.

“Gaining courage.”

“Courage?”

“To kiss you,” Soap’s breath stutters, he’s pretty sure he even gasps. He nods, feels Ghost’s lips press against his temple.

“Okay.” he allows him to take his time, because he also needs to take his own time. To take a step back and try to figure out how this happened. 

He supposes it was always coming.

Is being vulnerable a requirement for Ghost? He’ll be as goddamn vulnerable as the human body allows, if that’s the case. He’ll bare himself fully naked, mind and thoughts and body if he wants him to.

Ghost’s lips press against his eye, which automatically closes, and it feels like a kiss of devotion.

They press a kiss against his cheek, next, and Soap nuzzles into him. Feels Ghost’s smile against him.

Before Ghost has the courage to properly kiss him, Soap presses his hands against his chest. Feels his stuttering breath, the way his heart is speeding out of his chest. He places his mug down in some location that he’ll definitely forget about.

“Ghost,” he makes a face, almost like utter disgust, Soap smiles. “Simon.”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you?” he makes a face, this pouty thing that makes the rings of his snake bites jut out. Soap brings a hand up to his face, feels and watches him nuzzle his cheek against it.

And then he sighs, like he resigned himself to his fate, like his heart isn’t racing, like his ears aren’t blushing-red.

“Yes.” 

And Soap kisses him.

It’s this soft and tender thing, at first—the press of lips, the slight moving of mouths, the freezing of metal against warm skin, the smell of coffee on both of their breaths, the hands of devotion.

And it evolves into this needy, passionate thing, with Ghost pulling him into his lap, pulling them impossibly closer. Soap is pretty sure he bites Ghost’s piercings, tugs on them a little, and Ghost groans.

Ghost tastes like dreams and coffee and everything Soap has ever wanted, everything he has dreamed about for nights upon nights upon nights.

His hand on his hip, the other on his hair, his own on his chest and the side of Ghost’s throat, all keep him steady-unsteady, and he realizes he is slowly forgetting the ache beyond his eyes, the old scars in his mind.

If kissing Ghost can make him replace the unpleasant emotions, even if for just a moment, then he has all the more reason to indulge.

They part to breathe, and Ghost looks at him with this adoration in his eyes that makes Soap’s life feel like it’s restarting in all the right ways.

“Wanted to do that for a while now,” Ghost huffs against him and Soap hums at his words, smiles without any kind of fear.

“Me too. A long while,” he buries his head in the crook of Ghost’s neck, breathes him in like he has never breathed anything better before in his life, and tightens his hold around him, now with both arms around his torso.

“Can’t believe it took you having a mental breakdown to happen, though.”

“I make my best decisions when I’m not doing too well.”

“Don’t think that’s too healthy.”

“I’ll work it out in the therapy sessions I’m totally due, don’t worry.”

“As long as you keep kissing me, I won’t.” Soap answers by kissing his neck, buzzing in warmth at the soft sigh that passes through Ghost’s lips.

Ghost’s hands move to his hair, to his back, bury themselves in the places they belong, soothe Soap’s mind further and further.

“Do ye wanna know something?” he asks against his neck, and then pulls away from it, so he can look him in the eyes.

“What is it?” he tilts his head, speaks in this soft tone Soap will have to get used to, because it contrasts so much to his usual one.

“I think I love ye, Simon.”

“I know I love you, Johnny,” is his easy reply, the smile on his face, the squeeze of their bodies together.

There is a world in which Soap is loved, and he is in it, and he does not have to suffer alone. Not anymore.

There is love beyond the hurt. There are hands that will hold him kindly. There are sentences that can be spoken without words. There is love, right where he can reach it—and he reaches for it, embraces it with his whole body. The rest will figure itself out slowly and surely.

[nomorefstogive]

Hydro Archon Story: A Tale of Tides

Hello all, sorry for the delay in posting this I was working on my ao3 fic and several games that have peaked my interest in recent days in addition to a recent bout of a cold which has been quite annoying.

But all of that aside,m I feel that since we are drawing ever nearer to the day when we will be bid travel to the land of the Hydro archon and try and fix whatever wonderful mess that land is in, it is high time I reveal some of my headcanons about her and my take on how her story would be in a SAGAU.

Please note that I will be attempting to exclude my ‘Mother Knows Best’ and ‘Twin God Au’ from this one save for a brief mention of them at the end, so it can be read as the events of her story without either of those aus needing to be read previously.

I will be posting a list of personal headcanons that I apply to her, both in my own Aus and in SAGAU in general after I post this,  I was originally going to make the two the same post but I have decided against that given that I feel they would not mesh well together if I were to do so.

I also feel that I should apologize for my somewhat overindulgence in using my AUs in the headcanons that I will be posting after this fic, as well as the general chaos that said headcanons are in. 

My lack of being a concise person and my own inability to shut up for more than 2.0 seconds when an idea strikes me have made for them being in something of a non concise state of chaos, but I hope you like them all the same. 

With all of that said, it is time to raise the curtains and let the show begin!

Trigger Warnings for: Self Mutilation, Eye Trauma, Religious themes, Cultish Themes, Depression, Grief, Self Loathing, Guilt, and Trauma.

                                                 Story starts Here:

Come all ye who wish to hear! 

Come all ye of faith and loyalty splendorous for there is a tale this day to be heard!

Come ye faithful and ye loyal, ye righteous and just and hear well here and now the tale of her lady of Justice.

Come ye just and faithful and here the tale of the Divine Judge of Fontaine, the Justicar of Hydro, her Honor Minos the Justicar of Hydro! 

As you gather and your ears to my words do turn, let thy minds wander back to days afore our world did burn. 

To days when they from on high did deign to grace the base land and walk aside you and I under the gleaming light of the stars their mother had wove oh so long ago. 

To days when the one who shaped us and our lands did wander forth to see what had been made by their children’s hands. 

Let our tale begin to echo, from lands where the rivers run with the gleam of crystals and where the sea as sapphire shines under the light cast from the Mother’s eyes.

To Fontaine, ever fair and just do we turn our gaze.

To Fontaine where the judge doth preside and her court is held do our eyes drift.

To Fontaine, where she whose words do decide the guilty’s fates does reside. 

For in these days most ancient and fair was there the most just and righteous of all servants of the Divine who did preside over those just lands. 

Of great beauty was she in those bygone days, with skin of marble and hair of crystalline sapphire with streaks of diamond white woven through the silken locks. The long waves of her sapphire locks oft found themselves with a tri-cone hat resting upon them as their long locks framed a face of sharp cheeks and pointed chin.

 Tall was she, a statuesque beauty who was oft garbed in armor of sapphire and cobalt forged to bear resemblance of the all the layers and depths of the terrible and great seas she ruled over, and inlaid with gold and silver was the gleaming armor such that it seemed to radiate a glorious light, and upon her shoulders there was draped a cloak of scales taken from the corpse of one of her great foes during the war of the Archons.

In those ancient days did she hold fast in her hands her great blade, forged of gleaming silver and inlaid with sapphire was the executioner's blade that she bore with pride for she had forged it herself from the remains of many of the demons of her lands that had fallen at her hands both upon the surface of her domain and in the depths of the sea where their bones laid forever unseen.

And great and terrible was this blade, for it was as tall as she who wielded it and, bore the very scales of justice themselves as it’s guard above a grip of leather colored as red as the blood of the guilty that the blade so loved to spill, and on it’s pommel there laid a large and polished sapphire that gleamed with a radiant light when the sun would shine upon it known as ‘The Eye of The Sea’ for it was said to be the eye of the very beast whose bones had been forged into the blade itself.

But greatest and most grand of all of the features of she who presides over Justice held during those long away days were her eyes, and indeed such wondrous orbs they were!

For they were orbs of radiant gold with rings of silver surrounding sapphire pupils that bore within them crystalline white designs of the very scales of justice themselves.

And yet it was not just the magnificence of the wondrous orbs' radiant appearance that made them the grandest feature that the Justiciar of Hydro possessed. For these orbs could tell her the true intentions of any she gazed upon and could likewise pierce through even the greatest and most elaborate web of lies and deception. 

And it was with such power at her disposal and with a mind keen and sharp as the blade she bore that she ruled her land in those ancient days, and what a ruler she was! For during those long away days did the lands of Rivers and culture thrive as she ruled with a firm but just hand, and such was the prosperity of her lands and of her people that there did come a day when the most holy and high did descend to meet with this most just of their faithful.

And lo did the Shaper descend from their heavenly throne to appear before the great Justiciar who greeted them with a smile that shone as the diamonds brought forth from the very depths of Liyue. 

And the Justiciar did kneel and humble herself afore the most divine, and yet the Shaper wished not for one of their most faithful and just to kneel afor them and did bid her rise, and yet still did she kneel for a moment longer as she took her Shaper’s hand and pressed to it a gentle kiss before she did rise and embrace them and bid them welcome to her home.

And for long did they linger in the land of the Just where the Justiciar did show the most holy the great cities that she had so carefully crafted, where the streets were of rivers and bridges and the buildings were great ivory spires that shone with hints of sapphire and silver under the gleaming rays of the morning light. 

It was there that the Shaper found themselves enthralled by the charismatic whit and the guillotine bladed tongue of the woman who commanded the seas of justice, and likewise did she revel in the honest words that came from the woman’s mouth when she spoke of all manner of matters be it in regards to her own creations or the workings of the artists of her land. 

And therein lay another thing that did bind these two so tightly together, for they did greatly love to pursue the works of those who let inspiration and wonder take their hands and minds and guide them to craft wonders of their own to further enrich the beauty of the world that the Shaper had crafted oh so long ago.

And in these days of old, where the Justiciar of Hydro would hold her Shaper’s hand as they did walk across the sapphire waters of the canals amidst the ivory stonework of the great city of the land of the waves, did they make merry and revel in the company of each other as they looked upon all that had been wrought by the hands of the Archon and her people as they labored to build forth from the ashes of their war torn lands a new and prosperous realm.

A realm where law was king and justice and wisdom were virtues that heavenly gleamed amidst towering shrines to truth and order that were bathed in the splashing waves of the sapphire seas the ruby blood of heretic and unclean. 

And as they wandered through those sapphire streets, the fish below flocking to dance beneath their feet, did she who reigned over justice and the seas take the hand of her beloved and once more press her lips to it as she leaned into their ear and softly spoke-

“My eyes shall ever behold only the truth of this world and of your radiance. Know well that you are eternally safe by my side, for my gaze shall ever know the intentions and flaws of all of whom it rests upon.

By my right as your Divine Judge and your Eyes shall no harm come to you so long as I stand by your side, your eminence. Now, how about we retire to my estate, your grace? 

I have recently come into possession of a rather fine vintage I would like to share with someone other than the God of Drunkards. We can enjoy it while we talk about that fool's taste in colors because I swear to you that painting almost made me ill.”

And so it was that they retired to a towering estate of ivory and sapphire stone that sat perched atop a great waterfall, its ivory towers casting their watchful gaze upon all the lands and sea that in its shadows laid. 

And there it was in the safety of a study filled with book and scroll drink and conversation did flow as they sat and they spoke of the sights they had seen and of the sights they would see, of dreams both near and oh so far as they both rested and planned a future to carve a better land. 

And for many a long long age was this the way that things would be, when the shaper did come to grace Fontaine they would find themselves swept away by the tidal embrace of its ruler, bid to follow as wonders and marvels they were shown by a comrade dearer than most would ever know.

So it was that through these ages their bond grew deep and deeper still, until there came a flame of yearning within the heart of she who championed truth and justice as she labored alongside of the one she had come to cherish to pen the codes of laws that would unify the lands. 

Greater and greater did the flame within the sea grow, till it seemed fit to swallow all whole, held fast in check though it was by misplaced guilt and boundless love. 

For she who held the flame within did see her hands as far too stained to be laid upon one who should never know pain, and so it was she held the flame back and smothered it with waters black with guilt and hate towards herself that would never abate. 

And even as she saw one whose beauty was as the ice she ruled let her own heart melt and swell with the thawing ice of love, did she yet keep her own dulled for far too much of sinners blood had come to stain her hands.

Yet as time marched on she found it oh so hard, to quench and drowned a flame that she yearned to let engulf her till not remained but ashen ground as she saw many others cast their gazes upon the one she adored.

Perhaps a day could have been where the flame was from its cage set free and let to engulf her in a loving inferno, a day when she could have the one she cherished most even if their heart could not be hers alone.

Yet never would this flame catch tinder and set their hearts alight, for their would come that most dreadful of nights, when those who loved and were loved in turn were bid to part as a nation burned.

For the sins of few were wrought upon many and many further still, till all the world would suffer the heretics bill. 

For the day would come when the might of gods of Celestial plane and earthly domains fell short before shadowed blades of heresy and lies, and The End the Shaper was bid to court. 

And though all were due an equal share of blame, would she who ruled over justice lay it all upon her name. 

For in this moment when needed most, when in lands of intent unknown, did her gift and power fail and leave them all to watch the one they loved and cherished most turn to not but celestial motes as to the cosmos and infinite expanse they were bid return.

And oh how grief and anger and madness most profound seize tight and hold the Archon of the Seas who wept and shrieked such that all who dwelt above and below the oceans waves could hear the sound. 

Long would she weep and sob as she hid herself away in the depths of her estate, the sigh of the land she had so long hoped to share with the one she cherished most too much for her to bear. 

Long would she hid herself away in a tower barred to all but the voices of loathing that within her head did resound their venomed words and poisoned barbs as they drove the Justiciar of Hydro to the ground in heaving sobs and mournful cries as she pleaded to be the one who died instead.

For many a year she would try and drown the voices in solace of bottle of wine, and in comfort of book, although all of these had been poisoned unto her by the memories of whom it was that would sit with her and delight in their shared joy of the tales that lay inscribed upon the pages before their eyes. 

Even in sleep was she not granted respite from the hissing voices of guilt and the poisoned words of condemnation, for ever before her gaze would the scene replay and ever would she be the one blamed for failure by the one she loved most of all. 

At last no more could she take, when her sleepless nights numbered beyond the count of the stars in the sky, and so did she flee into the depths of a shrine crafted by her own hands, a shrine where the statue of her beloved rested with their hand outstretched for her to take in the middle of a lake she had made within the depths of her estate. 

Once she would marvel at the silver and gold and emerald and ruby and sapphire and other precious stones and metals that she had cut and carved herself to decorate the statue of her beloved and the murals that lined the walls of her personal shrine, yet not this time could she bring herself to take in the wondrous site. 

Once she would have been careful to not disturb the fish that gathered in the shallow lake around the statue, coming into this holy place from tunnels that lead to ocean depths to pay their own respects but no longer could she care as she cast herself at the statues feet.

There was a time when she would have marveled at the orbs of hydro that bathed the room in ever shifting light, and made the gems engraved ceiling shine like the skies of Teyvat at night, and yet again was the sight to much for her to bear as she placed her face into her palms as she wept and sobbed afr the statue of her most beloved. 

And there it was, before the statue she had made to the one she loved most of all with her own two hands so long ago, that she at last allowed for the grief and rage and guilt to surge forth and pull her down into their murky depths as she wailed out for her fallen love to hear-

“Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless! THESE DAMNED EYES ARE USELESS! How could I not See-!? How Could I not-!? I’m sorry your grace…I…AHHHH!.......These eyes…These eyes do not deserve to see the world you crafted any longer…let this…let this be my first act…of atonement…AHHHHHHHHHH!”

And with a great wail of anguish born of agony not just of flesh but of the soul did she who had long overseen the laws of the world tear from her head the eyes that had failed her when they were needed most of all, and with impetus wrath did she cast them into the depths of the sapphire seas as an offering to her fallen love as sanguine tears flowed from her weeping sockets as she knelt and sobbed afore their alter, her blood staining the waters ruby as she wept.

And as she wept she could not stob the sobbing laughs that tore free from her throat, for oh how long had they said it, how long had they known this would come to be when they cried it out?

Now Justice truly was blind!

And oh how that thought left her cackling in madness and grief till she rolled upon her back and fell still in slumber in those scarlet water till she gathered the strength to leave and search for wraps to cover her now blind sockets. 

The doors of her shrine sealing shut behind her, locking away the armor born once in pride so long ago and the torn orbs that still yet glowed from their perch within the statue of the Shaper's hands. 

Many a long year would pass as all of Fontaine would weep as their archon hid herself away within the walls of her towering estate, the halls now veiled in ever deepening shadows as she hid herself away from the world that she felt she had failed. 

And there she would remain entombed while yet living within the halls of her own estate, not but a specter with bleeding sockets who deigned roam the hall with bottle in one hand and grief in the other as she cried out for the one she failed most of all. 

And oh how she wept and cried out for that most holy and high that she felt she had left to die in both her sleeping and waking hours, rivulets of scarlet streaming from her empty sockets as she cried out for both forgiveness and to never be forgiven to be hated and to be loved by the one she had failed oh so much.

For how long it was she languished in the darkened halls of her home, her only companions the servants who remained by her side out of pity and loyalty and the once treasured tomes and scrolls now left to gather dust and tears when her maddening grief engulfs her and bids her smash aside drained bottles of wine and tear at all that lay around her in wrathful frenzy.

For long would she hide herself away in the dark confines of her home, languishing in sorrowful shadows till at last she crept forth from the doors of her estate, a spectral wraith risen from the deepest of sepulchral graven depoths to haunt the living with its presence. 

For many a year she would walk the streets of the land she had once so proudly overseen, the light of dawn that once reflected on gleaming cobblestones now forever lost to the endless dark of the grief and despair that festered within her as a rotting wound.

As years passed on and on, the waves of grief and loathing breaking upon her as water does unto stone turned her sobbing into maddened laughter as the cracks within her grew too great for even one as immovable as her to bear. 

And thus there came the day, when the drive for justice and for truth was lost to the murky depths, as Minos cast her head back and laughed heartily and madly a grief fueled craze did tightly her heart seize. 

And thus did justice fall to not but indulgence and wanton hedonism as she called out for more wine and greater and greater spectacles to immerse herself in, such that she may drown her grief and sorrow and fill the void carved the eroding waters of grief and hatred, though all was in vain for never could the void be filled and so onwards she fell into her spiral of despair.

Soon did Minos turn to the spectacle she had always enjoyed most of all, that spectacle that resounded and clamored from within Justice’s halls. 

Oh how her ears rang with delight at the sound of gavel and plea and testimony and cry did only make her feel oh so alive. 

For the thrill of the court, the spectacle of trial, and the organized chaos of the law were the banquet of hedonism upon which she would come to dine. 

And so it was that she set out to drown herself in these spectacles in full, to bring forth greater and greater clammer and commotion till her pain within was drowned by the tide of it.

She cared not for the pollution of her land’s rivers as it trudged forward, nor of the corruption that began to spread as a pestilence amongst her people, for if anything they were but seasoning to the dish of delight that rang with trial and the end of a life. 

Day after day she would labor to alter and warp, to conceal and mislead, to rewrite and remake the very truths and laws that she had once held so very dear.

For in the chaos of the change of a law in the middle of a trial, in the cries of the jurors and judge, in the revelling of either side, did she find a spectacle into which she could flee. 

For though her eyes could this sight no longer behold, the sounds alone their story told and made for such a beautiful work that she could never hold back her desire to applaud and call forth for an Encore and for more and more till the void within was field at last and peace she could find from the scathing lambasts that echoed within her own head.

Long was it indeed that she would sit upon a balcony watching the court, veiled in black and mournful suits as she rapped her cane and awaited her newest chance to forget the pain within.

Long was the time where she let her land swell with the rot of corruption and lawlessness let run amok as the land was bid to suffer for the greed of the people till waters so pristine no matched the murky depths into which she had sunk.

And though there were yet those who fought and labored hard to keep the flame of truth and justice alight, they found themselves falling afore the blight, and so with their dying breaths they cried out for one to come and save their lands even as they felt themselves begin to fall into the reaper’s hands.

And yet their prayers were not in vain, for there did come a day when all of this would change, for by design of fate or heavenly will a star had come to show their lady that there was reason to have hope and joy and purpose still.

To let not despair and pain her mind consume, for the time would soon be for the faithful to be given their due.

At first they were but whispered words, of a Star that walked on two legs, with hair and eyes of molten gold and power beyond the visions of the heavens, that walked the world and change and wonder brought as there was with them a feeling long thought forever lost.

For indeed it was said that there was wrapped around this wandering Star was the feeling of grace long since lost when both Celestia and the Seven pillar were bid to hang their heads in disgrace for a failure supreme above all when they did allow for the one who their world shaped by traitors blades to fall.

And those who were saved by them did cry out ‘lo indeed there was a Star that crossed the land, a Star that took the faithful’s hand, and bid them rise from dark abyss unto the light of heavenly bliss’. 

For their coming did herald well, the day when with joys the bells would be rung, to herald forth a day of reunion and of the broken world being made whole once more as the choirs of Celestia sung.

For the coming of the Star upon their lands did herald forth that most auspicious and holy of days, when pain and grief and sorrow would fade, and the beginning of a new world there would be made.

At first these rumors of grace and light, of change and of return she would not abide, ‘heresy’ and ‘lies’ she did them decry as ruinous judgment upon her land she turned, fury such the sea seemed fit to burn.

For how could it be that one who the world had failed would ever come to return to it?

How could it be that the one she cherished and failed most of all would deign return to the one who let them fall. 

And yet there did come a day, when from across sea and wave the star did come, and with them came the light not of morning dawn but of the heavens themselves come alight to rejoice for the returning of Teyvat’s own guiding light. 

Of how it was that the Star and her would meet this humble bard can tell not, only that it must have been through a most grand and wondrous feat for how else could it ever be, when the Star who walks is concerned?

Of what was done and what was said betwixt the grief blinded archon and the grace blessed Star I do not know, but only that it must have been far more than quarrels and blows for both would walk away alive with one holding a flame within newly bid alight by grace and the Divines loving sight.

Indeed this flame rekindled would burn and burn bright, away it would burn the dark of grief, and away it torch the creeping shadows of guilt, and at last it would ignite the fetid abyss of loathing and despair until not remained of them but ash and dust to be swallowed by the reborn seas. 

For within her here now burned a flame of that most dangerous and wondrous of things, that thing which bids men rise against gods and gods to trample men, a feeling so intoxicating that even the most potent of liquors is but pond water in compare, a feeling that drove her forth to call out to her servants that yet lingered in her halls-

“Cast down these curtains that have so long hid my halls, and then send out for my Justicars to come and gather at once!” As she thundered down the halls, feet bearing her to a door so long unused it was thought to be not but part of the wall as she continued-

“Tell them to be donned as their ancestors wore, their blades are to be sharp and the shields are to be sturdy, and each ought to have with them a length of thick rope and parchment and pen now hurry and move as the winds!” She bellowed as she opened the doors to her personal shrine, whirling to stretch out her hand to the Star which she had bid to follow as she continued-

“Star of distant lands blessed by most holy hands, come forth with me and bear witness to the rebirth of the Ruler of The Seas.” She spoke with tender softness as the Star took her hand and vanished with her into depths unseen.

And the servants did hurry to their ladies' words, many working at casting down the dark curtains which had long hid the estates halls in great darkness as their peers took from the manner like great gales of wind bore them as they surged to relay their ladies' words.

And from the city commotion there did come as man and woman were roused by the servants cries-

“Justicars! Justicars! Her Honor summons thee! With haste don the steel and plate in colors of golden days, fetch rope and sharpened blade and parchment and pen and hurry forth to the estate of your lady!” This they bellowed as they raced through the city streets.

And as the Justicars did as they were bade there came forth from the shrine of their lady a dazzling glow, a cry of joy and rapturous delight that heralded well the beginning of the Sinner’s Blight. 

For there came from those depths not the battered and broken husk that had loomed over them like a rotting wreck left to suffer the wrath of tides upon stone and sand, but rather a sight that from their lungs took their breath as they knelt in awe.

For behold! A broken woman she was no more, but the Archon of Justice she was reborn!

Har armor ages old yet gleamed as new, same as the blade she held aloft in one hand and the ancient tome of law she clasped in the other.

And yet it was not armor or tome or blade that stole their breaths but rather something lost since long before their forebears' deaths.

For upon them were the orbs of she who had been the Divine Judge, the one who had penned the laws of the world in those bygone eras and who now seemed to have been reborn afore them, her full and terrible majesty restored.

And to those who knelt before her this she called, this she spoke which bid cheer and joyous clamor arise, as the flames of justice began to illuminate the night-

 “Behold, for by the grace of the Mother. The Guide and The Shaper am I once more the Divine Judge! Once more do my eyes behold this world and see well how its beauty has been tarnished by the filth of the guilty and abhorrent who dare to blaspheme the radiance of the most holy! 

Let the gallows be readied and the blades of the guillotines be sharpened! Let the Justicars don their armor and take up their arms anew for once more shall we bring law and order to this world! 

Let the rivers run crimson and the oceans turn sanguine, let their blood and flesh be an offering to the most high and holy! May the guilty find atonement in death for no longer shall their lives be tolerated! 

Now go and spread forth law and order to this world once more, from Snezhnaya to Mondstadt shall we march till the trees are full and the crows upon faithless and heretic feast! 

May the Guide be ready with their scythe for the time has come for the crops of the rotten souls of the faithless to be reaped and set to suffer eternally amidst the wailing darkness of the abyss as the souls of the faithful are elevated unto the heavens!

May the Mother turn upon their homes her wrath and fury and lay them low until not even their foundations are left to sully the world of the Shaper’s design with their contaminated presences!

And may the gaze of the Shaper be upon us as we wipe clean the filth and detritus of the heretic and the apostate and the infidel from their masterpiece! 

Your holiness watch over us and know that never again shall my eyes fail you, for soon shall they once more see your radiance. 

Let our crusade begin!”

Fin

So what do you think, is this a merry mess of a train wreck or something actually semi-decent? I cannot rhyme to save my life, so writing like how I imagine Venti would sing is something very very draining for me to do, and I am not that satisfied with it overall for a whole host of other reasons ranging from feeling like it is too rushed in spots, too my feeling of not doing a good job at keeping the tone I was going for throughout it consistent. 

Either way, as I said at the beginning I will be posting my headcanons for the Hydro Archon after this, please keep an eye out for them and let me know what you think. 

With that said, stay safe and have a great day.

[annwayne]

The Red Logs: Return to the Temple Ch. 14

Last Chapter <- -> Next Chapter

Fem!OC X Crosshair

Word Count:  2070

Fic Summary:

There are benefits to owning a clone bar. Underworld lords don’t threaten you to pay for protection. Clones are great company. And the drinks taste great. However, there are also risks to owning a clone bar. Like, for example, becoming the fuck buddy of a special clone task force member so your life gets threatened when a Separatist puts out a bounty for your capture in order to use you as blackmail. Also your sleep schedule gets wrecked. But Anya Tougt is a little more capable than an average bar owner.

Ao3 Link Here

Warnings apply to whole fic:

Canon typical violence, descriptions of panic attacks, alcohol, swearing, 18+ themes (eventual smut), trauma, religious trauma parallels, mild gore

Authors Note:

I’ve been big depressed and struggling a lot, but managed to get a chapter done, so a chapter is posted. If ya like it give it a reblog and like.

26 BBY. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anakin smile so much in one day. He was thrilled to hear about his mother. She had me deliver a holorecording to him. Other Jedi would deny her request. Anakin was incredibly thankful. Obi-Wan was not pleased.

“When?”

My helmet laid between my feet as Tech applied a bacta patch to my forehead. I hissed in a breath as the sting grew stronger with each application of cleaning and healing supplies. Apparently I was pretty banged up. Might even end up with a scar or two. Wonder what kind of story I’ll make up for them.

“When I knew about Anya Tougt, the bar owner my brother had been seeing or when I knew Annie the padawan was Anya Tougt?” Tech’s cadence felt taunting, but I’d heard enough from Crosshair to know that was rarely the case.

“Both, let’s start with both.” My eyes met his and we lingered. A mixture of exhaustion and frustration met softness in Tech’s expression.

He sighed, then dropped his gaze back towards the limited medical supplies sitting beside him and pulled out a needle and some sutures. “Before, before he met you I mean, Crosshair would go off on his own during leave but he never spent the night out.” He paused, looking up at me, then gestured for me to lift my arm. I obliged. “As I am sure you know, Anya, clones talk.” Now that he had some slack, Tech pulled my Jedi robes loose to reveal my injured shoulder. “It didn’t take long to find out your identity and your penchant for clones.”

My scowl told him to move on.

“But I did not know you were a Jedi, are a Jedi?” The clone shook his head before continuing. “Your public records started only a few years ago, but that is not odd on Coruscant. Even less so for someone living in the lower levels.” Calloused fingers delicately stitched my shoulder back together. “Annie was nowhere to be found in the Jedi Archives, however.”

I shot him a surprised look. “Those aren’t public records, Tech.”

“No, they are not.” He didn’t even look up from his work. “Only after I saw your reaction to the message I showed you on The Negotiator did I think of checking the records for Anya.”

“Lyn.” My breath carried her name.

“Yes, she was the first clue.”

First clue? My eyes narrowed. “You knew. When you came to talk to me that night, you knew I was Anya Tougt. You knew why there was a bounty on me.” Betrayal laced my words as guilt stirred in my chest.

Tech took in a deep breath, then set down the needle he had been using to sew up the deep cuts that snaked down my shoulder- almost like a doll hinge. “I only had my guess.” There was no malice in his words. No intent of harm. “Confronting you was the only way to prove or deny my hypothesis.”

That spark of anger cooled into annoyance. “I understand.” Hesitation lingered in the silence. Tech helped pull my robes back up-as best we could due to my limited mobility. Then he spoke.

“What I said, that was real, Anya.” Brown eyes met mine as Tech leaned into view. “I am sorry your trust was betrayed.” A small chuckle left his lips, and his eyes lit up. “Though, I’m not sorry it led to meeting you. I see why Crosshair became so fond of you.”

A choked laugh left me as I felt that familiar sting of tears pull at my eyes. This moment alone with Tech, drifting through the vast empty space, felt so similar to the quiet conversations I shared with Qui-Gon. “Meeting Crosshair’s brothers was a highlight.” Laughter turned into sobs. Not tragic sobs, but relieved ones.

Someone knew me.

We laughed, mine accompanied with tears, and Tech opened his arms, letting me lean into his careful half hug. We stayed like that for a moment, just long enough for the high of my emotions to level out. Then he moved back, picking up my cracked helmet, and handed it to me.

“You’ll need a new one.” He said with a smile.

After I wiped whatever tears were still left on my face into my cheeks, I pulled the helmet back on. Luckily it would still suffice as a means of concealing my identity. “No, there’s no way Obi-Wan will ever let me go on missions again.” My assurance did not hide my disappointment.

Tech closed up his med kit and put it back into the pack he usually carried. “You are not part of the Jedi Order, correct?”

“Yeah.” His expression was difficult to make out through the crack running down my viewfinder. But I caught a hint of a sneaky smile.

“That means you are a civilian,” Tech continued. “Which means you could officially apply to be a civilian consultant for Clone Force 99.” My gaze lifted. “There aren’t many in the GAR, but the position will not be difficult for you to obtain. Especially with my recommendation.”

The information froze me. I could keep going on missions with the squad? “Wait, really?” Then a slew of doubts flooded my thoughts. “Do you even want that? I mean,” My gaze dropped to my hands. Death and disaster seemed to always find me, no matter how far I ran. “I’d be more of a burden than help.” There was more I wanted to say. More to point out why this was a bad idea. But every thought slipped away before I could catch it.

“I know what I want, Anya, but do you?” Our eyes locked.

Then rattling came.

“Tech, The Negotiator just arrived.” Hunter’s voice filled the small pod. “They’re pulling us in now, we’ll meet you two in the Hangar.”

“Finally! We’ve been drifting fo-” Wreckers celebration was cut short when Hunter closed the comm.

Right as the Marauder detached from the Separatist command ship, an explosion caused the attack shuttle to lose basic flight controls, leaving them stuck floating in the debris ridden space just like us. Luckily everyone was okay, enough at least, but the wait had been longer than expected.

“Copy.” Tech answered and closed his comm, then glanced my way.

I sat in a bath, a normal bath, and replayed the messy dreams that filled my mind while I was healing. Technically, bacta isn’t the reason for those dreams–something about the medically induced sleep messing with the REM cycle–but it was a common enough phenomenon for the bacta in the bath to be blamed.

Flashing lights. Blaring alarms. Vekek’s tiny body atop Tech’s. My lightsaber, heavy and cold in my hands. Blue cutting through flesh. Life going limp. The dreams were clearer than the memories. She didn’t even make a sound.

No. I sunk deeper into the floral scented bath water. There was no other option. Vekek had to die.

My attention turned to my nose. Bacta smells horrible, like something sterile. So I scrubbed at my skin to try and rid myself of the scent. Even though the bacta bath had healed my wounds, I was incredibly sore. Every movement made my joints creak like a rusty droid. My gaze caught one of the new scars. It was thick and jagged, crawling over my shoulder and back–but I couldn’t see that part without a mirror. There was another at the base of my skull. I could feel the tough skin wind up my skull and past my hairline. At least they were pale, scarring lighter than my actual skin tone. Maybe no one would notice them.

A sigh left my lips. The scars didn’t upset me. It was what followed the scars that I dreaded. The questions. The lying. “I’ve done it for years.” My voice echoed back to me in the small square room. It didn’t sound convincing. I looked at my hands, fingertips all pruny from how long I’ve sat in the hot water.

Finally, I lifted myself from the silky water, the oils clinging to my heat-reddened skin as I stepped out of the rectangle bath. While drying myself off, my reflection caught my eye. I lifted up my hair, checking how deep the scar went. About five centimeters. The bald patch felt odd. A frown looked back at me. Without another second to think myself out of it, I dug through the small cabinets and found a black rectangle in Obi-Wan’s things. The razor buzzed loudly as I shaved the bottom quarter of my hair off–enough to make the bald patch look intentional.

A few minutes later I exited the refresher dressed in a fresh set of Jedi robes and with my remaining hair braided down. Obi-Wan sat casually on the single sofa in the small room, only glancing up to see me putting on my armor.

“Actually, you’ll find a gift in that bag there.” His head tilted behind me.

Unzipping the bag revealed clone armor, but it was different from standard armor. I could already feel how light the boots felt compared to what I had been wearing. The colors were different too. This plastoid was decorated with red accents and designs. As I clicked the pieces in place I noticed they fit much better than my previous set.

“How did-?”

I turned to ask Obi-Wan who shook his head in answer.

“Hmm..” Finally I held my helmet; a smaller and sleeker one than the clone design. Red stripes cut diagonal through the helmet's visor. “The batch made this, but why?”

With a sigh, Kenobi put down his datapad and looked up at me. “Yes. They made you armor.”

“That sounds like the beginning of a lecture.”

Obi-Wan squirmed. Which meant he stood and walked around the sofa. “Tech left you this.” He produced a thin data pad addressed to me.

“What?” My brow furrowed and I snatched the thin datapad from Obi-Wan’s hands. “The civilian consultant form, with his recommendation.” A small smile grew as I read the review. He had done all this?

“I can’t say I approve of this, Annie.” Kenobi’s words wiped the smile off my lips.

I pulled on my helmet, hoping to hide the emotions running across my face. “Well… It’s a good thing I don’t need your approval.” The words tasted bitter, like disappointment.

He turned back to me again, pacing along the length of the couch. “I thought you wanted to live a civilian life. To leave behind the ways of the Jedi and disconnect from the force. How can you do that when you’re pretending to be my padawan?”

“Call me a knight then.”

“Anya!” Obi-Wan broke his pacing to face me.

“Do I need to remind you that the council is the reason I’m here? They dragged me out of my life, my normal, non-Jedi life, for a bounty!?” A rip in my throat made my words crack. “And now suddenly you think I can go back, as if everything's the same?!”

A nasty crease pulled Obi-Wan’s face down. He glanced left and right before landing back on me. “You aren’t made for war.”

“Neither are children.” It was a low jab, and the hitch in his breath agreed.

Obi-Wan remained silent. We stood, staring. Pounding in my chest squeezed my fists. After a pause I thought would never end, he spoke. “Anya.” His gaze dropped from my visor. “You killed someone.”

Finally.

My jaw clenched. “To protect Tech. It wasn’t out of hate, if that’s what you're worried about.” I looked away from him. It didn’t help the hurt in my chest. “You have done the exact same.”

“Out of hate or not,” Obi-Wan approached me, that stern master’s look knitted into his face. Then he reached forward and I realized I’d been backing away. “You haven’t taken a life since Tali-”

I caught his extended hand, stopping his lips in an instant, and met his eyes.

Too many words rushed forward.

My jaw clenched.

His eyes softened.

“You don’t know that.” The hiss came out vile.

Those eyes hardened.

Before he could get another word in, I ripped my hand from him and headed to the door. Something paused me and squeezed a mumble from my lips. “You’re not Qui-Gon and you’re not Tali, so stop trying to be.” And then I stepped out, into the wide halls of The Negotiator.

Authors end chapter notes:

What do you think Tech wants when he says "I know what I want" What do you think he feels about Anya? Do you think Anya's killed someone else after leaving the order? Why do you think Anya and Obi-Wan keep getting into arguments? Let me know your thoughts if you have any! Thanks for reading :D

Dividers by Djarrex   

[ao3feed-tedlasso]

C'est la vie

by Bisexualanarcist

“The marks humans leave are too often scars.” ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Richard is a mess and is struggling. He let's it bottle up until things take turn for the worse.

Words: 671, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Ted Lasso (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Underage

Categories: M/M

Characters: Richard Montlaur, Sofia Montlaur, Andre Montlaur, Jan Maas, Moe Bumbercatch, Thierry Zoreaux, Will Kitman, Colin Hughes, Isaac McAdoo, Jamie Tartt, Sam Obisanya, Dani Rojas (Ted Lasso), Roy Kent, Keeley Jones, Ted Lasso, Coach Beard (Ted Lasso), Nathan Shelley, Rebecca Welton, Leslie Higgins, AFC Richmond Players (Ted Lasso), Original Characters

Relationships: Richard Montlaur/Original Male Character, AFC Richmond Players & Richard Montlaur, Richard Montlaur & Sofia Montlaur, Richard Montalur & Andre Montlaur, Jan Maas/Richard Montlaur

Additional Tags: Angst, Team as Family, Protective Siblings, Queer Themes, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt, Humor, Hurt No Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Depression, Smoking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Childhood Trauma, Child Neglect, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Mental Health Issues, Mental Breakdown, Self-Doubt, Coming Out, Chronic Illness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, he's going through it, Foster Care, Domestic Violence, Physical Abuse, Drug Withdrawal, Drug Addiction, no beta we die like Earl, Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Disorder, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Asthma, Flashbacks, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism, Mathematics, Physics, Medical Trauma, Hospitalization, Hiding Medical Issues, Medical Conditions, AFC Richmond Players are Himbos (Ted Lasso), Other Additional Tags to Be Added

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/47640457

[extremebooty]

dump of odd seo website pickup lines

Atheist

Did it hurt when you fell from non existent heaven? Because you look like an angel. Not the religious kind, but the kind I can get drunk enough to

Did it hurt when you were ripped from the cold bosom of oblivon and given conscious thought?

Religious

If it means anything, my mind has no religious viruses.

Lets compare stories of religious guilt trauma over Corned Beed and Kashmiri chai

"Dark Humor"

It's getting dark...

Wanna read?

Hello, my name is Endo...

I just wrote about you in my dark emotional journal

Tell me you are a banana because I find you peeling. Smell this rag! I’m sure you can inhale the chloroform. You have the most beautiful states I have ever seen. Can I be reincarnated as your child? I would like to suck on them till I am old and graying. 

If I could choose a place around you to live, I will choose your socks. I want to be with you only every damn step of the journey. Just say yes now, and I won’t have to spike your drink You are so beautiful that I want to be reincarnated as your child so that I can breastfeed by you until I’m 20. If I could be anything, I’d love to be your bathwater. 

On the off chance that you become mixed up amidst murkiness

Hello infant, need to see a combination between my white Dragon and your Dark Hole? (dark humor pick up lines )

I just expounded on you in my dim passionate diary. Wanna read? Hello child, would you say you are comprised of dull matter? Since you’re incredible. You should be Catwoman cause the Dark Knight Rises.

Did it hurt

Hey babe did it hurt when you had that gross tracking worm thing ripped out of your bellybutton? Because I’m nervous…

Did it hurt? When you clawed your way out of your grave?

Twilight

Have you ever wondered what started my scarf collection? Would you like to find out?

Robert Pattinson in Twilight

Game [of] Thrones

Want to come back to my house to watch Game of Bones? Err… Thrones! I meant ~Thrones~.

Baby! You know nothing. Want to learn something new?

Breaking Bad

Do you wanna come back to my place and see my Jesse Pinkman?

Boxer or briefs? Whitey. Tighties.

Move on over, Walter. I think Malcom wants to be in the middle.

Gay & Lesbian (most of these are actually Canada themed)

I’m a man who drinks beer from an Awesome Land. Need I say more?

Girl, you’re such a Banff (i.e., a Bad Ass, Nice, And Fascinating Female).

Gun

Take me to bed or lose me forever. from “Top Gun”

Hey sergent i want to empty my gun magazine in you.

Skeleton

Bone up.

I understand you better than you understand your skeleton. They are the cutest thing I want to have in my grave yard. 

Your skeleton with be better next to my bed.

And I don’t just mean my skeleton.

Medical

Another Doctor Is Required Because You Were Not Charged For Dating The Patient.

I need a life. Please lower your standards and go out with me.

Depression

Gracious you discouraged?

Young lady, when you don’t message me back, I at times go into a tropical depression.

“It is safe to say that you are the methods for creation? ‘Cause I truly wanna hold onto you. *Death. I need to hold onto demise.”

I don’t think a lot about depression, however, I’m quite incredible.

You appear to be discouraged. We should blast the depression out of one another!

Damn Girl, you’re adorable, allowed me to get your email address.

Hello, there sailor? Wanna… assess mama’s gills?

I’ve been somewhat discouraged since the time of my vasectomy.

[geminai-ramblez]

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐌

SUMMARY: His heart was covered in gold and yet nothing could penetrate the stone that kept cracking in pieces. It was shattering. His heart, that is, so small and so… young. What happened to you? Oh, you poor… little… boy.

CHARACTER(S): All for One (mentioned), Class 1-A, Iida Tenya, Midoriya Izuku, One for All Holders, Shigaraki Tomura, Shinsō Hitoshi, Uraraka Ochako, and Yagi Toshinori.

WARNING(S): DEPRESSION, HEAVY ANGST, MIND BREAK, OPEN ENDING, OTHER THEMES NOT EXPLICITLY MENTIONED, REFERENCES TO BLOOD, FIRE, EXPLOSIONS, PTSD, RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS, SLIGHTLY EXPLICIT DESCRIPTIONS OF BODY MUTILATION, MORAL AMBITIOUS CHARACTERS, SYMBOLISM, TRAUMA LEFT UNRESOLVED, AND UNHEALTHY MINDSETS!

A hollow explosion followed by a massive shockwave was heard and felt throughout the country of Japan, many people fearing it, many people looking shocked, and just the unfortunates were ready to fight at a moment's notice.

“Any moment now, All for One, All Might,” murmured a shallow voice. Their voices sounded tired, almost exhausted, looking at the destruction that green electricity created: body parts scattered everywhere, blood, and people left to wonder who caused such despair?

Destruction? At what cost?

“Hironobu-” murmured a scratchy, almost dead voice, “Quiet!” shouted the main voice, looking at the ghost who looked just like him, almost like him, and the instant guilt washed over them when looking at eyes full of innocence. They sighed, frustrated that they didn’t – that they couldn’t – keep their emotions in check again.

“Look, you must believe me that I know I’ve sunken very low, but whatever... they’ve done, they deserved,” justified the voices, looking at the version – their versions – that looked so disappointed, afraid even, on how far they have fallen from the light of grace.

“I’m the bad guy this time around, and – that's fine,” uttered the tired voices, “It’s not our fault things got this messy! It’s... Just! Some justice will finally be served! Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what we wanted?!” The voices look at their cleaner versions, the ones that didn’t have to taint their hands so deeply in red like they have done in manic.

There were small tears swelling up, throat clogged up in despair, insanity, but the answer was clear, “Please listen to yourself Hironobu...!” begged the cleaner versions, “Can’t you hear yourselves now? And not look...- Justice isn’t meant to be like this!” They shouted loud and clear, but no one could hear them. No one could hear them, but the soldier in front of them.

The little boy who became a soldier at such a despairing young age.

The little boy, the young-faced soldier looked away from the ghosts, “It’s time to step up or it was the time to step down the mantle.” Then they looked back, the sparkling eyes of a once young boy, withered away, and were replaced with insanity, manic, “And there’s only one answer left for me."

The smile of hope – the smile that was meant for hope – was washed away, “And I’ll stand up and fight because I know that we’re right, and I’m ready,” the little boy gulped, faking this confidence that began to feel foreign to them, “I’m ready, I’m ready...!” he repeated himself.

Making himself believe that he was prepared to have the world be against him once again, “Ready as I’ll ever be...!” cried out Midoriya Izuku, tears falling down his scarred face, and into the cracked concrete stone that once had a family walking on it.

A family, a friend, and a home that is now nothing but cracked bones left behind.

He could hear it, voices that were once his friends in a different life coming to get him, their anger, their rage, and their misery: he could feel it all. He put on his mask, one like what was once his hero costume, all dirty and beat up.

He looked like a monster.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Now’s the time to rise up, or it’s time to stand down,” commanded a young feminine voice, looking ahead as flashes of another life passed through her memory. This monster – this boy – knew her, but she didn’t know him. “And the answer is easy to see,” she said, looking at the crowd of twenty students that stood up to hear their name.

“And I swear to UA, if you’re in, get on board,” she demanded, raising her fist up to the sky similarly to All Might in his last battle in Kamino Ward because of this enemy... Wasn’t any normal, over-the-top, bloodthirsty villain.

Oh, no, no, no! This villain was a classmate of theirs, whether they realized it or not, but it didn’t really matter if they knew or not. It was felt. This connection to him – it was like a moth to a flame.

It was easy to tell that they had a connection to him because not once, not even a single time when they had an interaction with him, was he attacking them out of malice. He felt regretful, shameful, and broken. By all means, if she wasn’t in Class 1-A, she would’ve sounded crazy, but she wasn’t.

No one outside of their little bubble would call it crazy. It was instinct.

“Are you all ready?” she called out, looking ahead as she put on her pink visor, “I’m ready,” replied a knight in shining armor, “We’re ready!” began a masked purple-haired boy.

“We’re ready!” shouted people both young and old as a fire erupted, covering Musutafu, Shizuoka, Yokohama, and Hosu at the same time. And it was all created by one little boy.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Are you quite sure we can do this, Young Shigaraki?” the young man scoffed at the former number one hero, walking ahead of him to not look at him, annoyance laced his voice, “What choice do we even have now All Might?” he sneered.

A slight flinch escaped All Might, Yagi Toshinori, which caused Shigaraki to sigh slightly, pausing in his steps, making Yagi pause as well, “Listen, this team-up is only temporary, and I hate being near you, but together we will guarantee,” he murmured, cringing at his own words.

Yet it was the truth, no matter how ugly and disgusting it felt to say those four words. “You’ll get your precious student back, and I’ll get my Sensei, deal?�� asked Shigaraki, looking at Yagi over his shoulders, and the sentiment – no matter how ironic it felt – was mutual, “Deal.” agreed All Might.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

As more people ran away from the colour green, the fires started to look almost pretty in his eyes, mania spreading through his veins as this pain – this ugly, despairing, and misery pain – flooded through their veins, “I’ll make them hear us!” Midoriya Izuku yelled out for the world to hear.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Now it’s time to redeem,” murmured faint, quiet voices from beyond the grave, “Or it’s time to resolve...”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Prove it isn’t just about us,” whispered Uraraka Ochako and the rest of Class 1-A or this version of Class 1-A. No one knew who Hironobu was, but they knew – they knew he had ties to them with how he interacted with them before. He knew them – and their leading guess – he saw how their lives ended.

Scary and they knew it was a far-fetched theory that they decided to unanimously agree on, but if they knew anything about Hironobu... It was his eyes. His eyes, no matter how dull they got over time, were so readable, open, and wide. It just took his eyes to be stared at and they knew everything.

His eyes felt familiar, friendly once ago, and they hated – they ever so hated this dull appearance that was the cause of his insanity. “1-A!” shouted the class president through his helmet, “It’s time to bring him home! Are you all ready?!” It’s time to be the one for all of him.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“And the outcome,” the voices started to get louder and louder, “will hardly,” they began to shout inside Izuku’s head, “come free!” All those old – and so young – voices hollered, begging for Izuku to hear them, to acknowledge them again because this wasn’t –

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

‘I’ll save my home,’ thought Shigaraki, further going deep into the burning embers of inferno, ‘And I’ll save my successor,’ thought Yagi as the crashing waves of One for All cried out to the eighth user to bring Nine home. To bring him back home after all of this... war. This misery eating them all alive from the inside out, making them vomit, and dance with the devil tonight.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Now the line’s in the sand,” mourned the voices, “And our moment’s at hand,” repeated One for All, feeling its energy, its power, being used in a way that shouldn't have been possible for its users. And yet... And yet, Midoriya Izuku never followed the natural order. This grievance, this pain that every user of One for All carried... they never felt it come to this apprehension.

This level.

One for All couldn’t stop what the Ninth user was doing, they couldn’t do anything, but hope and pray to whatever deity was out there that their little boy would be stopped sooner rather than later so he could come back home and heal.

Heal properly.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

And “I’m ready!” repeated Class 1-A, entering the gates of hell and carnage. And heal properly, talk properly to him rather than avoid the problem at hand because they’ve realized a little too late that all of this could’ve been prevented. “I’m ready,” established Uraraka, jumping high to look at the center of the ring.

Where the ringmaster, Hironobu, was looking straight at them through his monstrous mask full of dirt and blood. ‘Who will hear your call first?’

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“I’m ready,” Yagi and Shigaraki told themselves as they saw through the cracks at the figure that supposedly was the Ninth user of One for All, “Hironobu,” gritted out Shigaraki in distaste, “Ninth...” muttered Yagi in agony.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“Ready...,” started out Izuku, raising his hand to release a giant black ball that had thousands, if not millions, of void-like tendrils: Black Whip. “As I’ll...” he grinned in agony, the pain in his chest, the blood on his hands, “Ever...” it just – wouldn't stop. This wasn’t Midoriya Izuku anymore, this wasn’t him anymore, “Be~.” This was Hironobu: The Symbol of Contronym.

ETYMOLOGY: 敬修 'hi • ro • no • bu'

敬 • "respect, honor, reverence"

修 • "repair, mend, fix"

A/N: HELLO! This one-shot was heavily inspired by "Ready as I'll Ever Be" and my ability to make angst. Seriously, I was just typing away, and boom! Angst appeared unexpectedly.

Since I hinted at it, the gist was that Midoriya time-traveled (though it wasn't really mentioned, just implied) from a bad future, and essentially broke down, but not in the healthiest ways as you can see.

He made the world - Japan - turn its backs on him again, and again, that was his life before ever getting One for All. When he was quirkless.

And! And another thing, no one knows who Midoriya Izuku is in this AU! It's mentioned that this Class 1-A never met Izuku and he was replaced with Shinsō, however, by some divine intervention they had glimpses of the 'what ifs,' of what could've been if they hadn't ignored the glimpses.

Anyway, thank you for reading, this was genuinely made to help me write again, but I thought it was good enough to share! I hope you get to rest and all of that because only my back knows how much pain it was in when typing away this 1500+ word one-shot. - Gemini Out!

[falloutdilf]

idc if you hate imagine dragons or think i’m cringe or whatever but listening to smoke + mirrors as a depressed catholic 13 year old was literally life changing for me like there was so much going on in my life that i had no idea how to name or deal with and i was constantly being told that i was just being dramatic or going through a phase by every single adult in my life and then BAM there’s a whole album that affirmed every single thing i was feeling. like that was the first time i truly connected to a piece of art like that and i will never ever hear a single bad word about that album

[with-love-from-hell]

Blasphemy (part 2)

Request by @mind-on-fire​

Genre:  hurt/comfort, angst

Primary characters featured: Simeon & Mammon

Written for a GN!MC

WC: ~1.5k

Part one Part three

TRIGGER WARNING: Religious trauma, mentions of past physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, some sexual themes, C-PTSD,  graphic depictions of violence.

CW: discussion of eternal damnation/fears of death and the afterlife, anxiety, depression, executive dysfunction, dissociation, negative self-talk, swearing, existential crises, romantic relationship between mammon x mc

You awoke the next morning in Mammon’s warm embrace. He was still fast asleep as it was pretty early. You wondered what had awoken you- your alarm hadn’t been ringing, and you hadn’t had another nightmare after Mammon came to bed with you. You pulled out your D.D.D to look at your messages. A message from Simeon glared back at you from your inbox. 

Simeon never pried into your personal life, but he was able to recognize the signs of trauma within humans. He had only wished he could have watched over you during that tumultuous period of your life, but he knew that wishing away the past was a fruitless pass time. He always did his best to act extra kind and gentle toward you, but he never seemed to get past your faux exterior of friendliness.

He wanted to be close to you...he wanted to be your friend...and he wanted you to trust him.

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

Though you had been so terrified at first, you were finding comfort in the 7 demons who you now shared a home with. It was difficult for you to be around all of them- especially Belphie- but it became easier day by day. The one thing you continued to struggle with though, was the angels.

Simeon had tried so hard to be friendly and kind to you- and you could see that- but you couldn’t help feeling suspicious of what was underneath his exterior. You knew nothing about god, heaven, or angels, other than what you were brainwashed to believe. Every time you looked at him, you saw the face of your father, and your mother, and the clergy who judged you, and the man who assaulted you instead. You kept your distance for this reason, much to his dismay. He always felt a sense of fear when you were around him, and he knew there was something underlying your behavior, but he never pried into the specific details. 

You never told him why you were so terrified of him. The only individuals who knew of your past when you first arrived were Lucifer, Barbatos, and Diavolo- and now Mammon was aware as well. But everyone else was kept in the shadows about it. Perhaps it was for the best. After all, you didn’t want to let your guard down again and risk being manipulated for the thousandth time by someone who could just be out to hurt you...

The brothers had all proven to you that- while they were dangerous- they were complex- just like humans. They experienced intense emotions, but not just anger- they felt love, they felt guilt, and they felt sorrow just as intensely. In a sense, they wore their hearts on their sleeves, and you found comfort in that. 

Angels, though- they remained so stoic...it was hard to tell what they were feeling, and the inability to read them frightened you. It was almost like they were robotic in nature- unfeeling, rigid, and calculating. Though he presented as friendly and kind, Simeon was no exception to that rule. He always presented himself as confident and morally upright, but never criticized the brothers for their sins. Again- his personality was admirable...but there was something you didn’t trust about it.

It often reminded you of how your parents would often be unpredictably irate at you when you would do something wrong- though the vagueness of what they considered to be “wrong” or “sinful” resulted in a large amounts of information being miscommunicated. They would act as if they were superior to you, and all the others in your church community. While the other children were never allowed to watch sinful TV shows like Spongebob, you weren’t even allowed to watch TV at all. Your only source of media to enjoy was pre-recorded sermons and reading the word of god. 

Of course, you snuck in these sinful desires from time to time. And even when the media was not loaded with sin- such as the one time you watched Veggie Tales at a friend’s house when you were 7- you were still punished. For what? You didn’t quite understand. Surely if the media was void of sin, it was okay?

But that’s not how they viewed it. Any type of Media that wasn't directly sent from those who were holier than your parents was considered the temptation of the devil. No matter how pure they seemed on the surface, there was always something- some temptation underlying the messages that seeped between the lines and tried to corrupt your mind to the ways of sinners. 

And look at you now. Could you even compare to the Angel that viewed you as so delicate and pure? Obviously not- you took great joy in the company of demons after all. Perhaps the messaging you received, albeit mostly incorrect, was mostly right in it’s assumptions that only perfect beings get to experience the bliss of heaven- but you knew now that most people did not fall into such a category. 

And yet...there was still a sense of love coming from the Angel as he smiled at you. 

Could it be genuine? 

You weren’t sure. How could you be?

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

You shakily opened the message from the angel, taking deep breaths to calm the anxiety that arose within you whenever you received a call or text from him. 

“Hey Mc. I was wondering if you wanted to grab some coffee this morning before RAD classes start.” 

You stared at the message. Simeon always tried to invite you out with him and you always turned him down. The thought of being so vulnerable around him made you anxious. In fact- you actually preferred the company of the demons. 

“Hi Simeon. I would love to, but I already made plans with Mammon for breakfast.” 

“Oh! Would it be okay if I joined you then?” 

You cursed under your breath. He was so persistent- often not taking no for an answer. Your thoughts wandered to why he could be so insistent on spending time with you. You were so fearful of Simeon hurting you, despite he has given you no evidence to suggest that he would. But neither did the others in your past- or so you thought. In reality, there were many red flags given in those instances. 

But when you look at the world through rose colored glasses, all red flags are disguised. 

You sighed, figuring that your one excuse was now worn out, and you had to oblige to his offer. This had been happening more and more recently, but you were thankful that Mammon was usually attached to your hips and never left you alone with the angels. Luke was more or less harmless, and he was much easier to read than Simeon, but you knew that was because he was young. 

You sighed and returned his message.

“Yeah, that would be ok. We will meet you at Purgatory Hall at 9.”

“Wonderful! I look forward to it!” 

You felt a lump develop in your throat. 

What did he want from you?

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

You picked aimlessly at the food in front of you as Mammon blabbered on to Simeon about his most recent big win at the casino. Your gaze was vacant as you watched the glass of water sitting near your plate sweat profusely. Through the reflection on the water, you can see Simeon stealing glances at you as Mammon continued on with his riveting tale.

You found your thoughts dancing around the image of Simeon’s angel form. The puffy white wings that beat against the sky as he gracefully moved about the gardens in the celestial realm. The picture in your mind was almost Rubenesque- and you couldn’t help but lust for the calming and alluring image of the heavenly gardens of your fantasy.

“Mc?” 

The calling of your name snapped you out of your daydream. You darted your gaze between Mammon and Simeon- unsure of what they had said before calling your name. “Huh?”

Mammon was staring at you, a concerned expression painted on his features as he gripped your knee under the table. He was worried about your emotional state- knowing full well the anxiety you experienced when interacting with Simeon. 

“I asked how you have been doing.” Simeon gave you a soft smile, his voice reminiscent of the soothing touch of cashmere as he spoke. “We don’t talk much, so I am never aware of your day-to-day activities.” 

You swallowed and dropped your gaze. “Oh...I’ve been alright. Just...you know...going to class and doing homework...and stuff.” 

Your voice trailed off as you continued to pick at your food. It was now very cold- probably not tasting very good if you were to attempt to eat it. Fortunately for you, your appetite was never around in Simeon’s presence. He made you so anxious that you couldn’t help but experience the feeling of needing to regurgitate any food you put in your body. 

Simeon stared at you, a look of pity in his features. He wanted you to feel comfortable around him, but he knew now that it may be too much to ask. Though he knew your distance was forced...he found himself pining for something that would likely never be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[unwelcome-ozian]

Hey Oz, hope this ask finds you well. What are the subtle signs you might've been programmed/experienced ritual abuse? Everything online seems to give overt examples...

Child believes he or she is evil or causes others to be evil Mistrust of others outside the group Strong fear of God Overly obedient or perfectionistic Strong feelings of shame or guilt Programmed statements or behaviors Sleep problems or nightmares

I did my best with identifying the trauma responses that are looked for in ritual abuse/programming. Trauma responses are important for those around the child/person to monitor who are doing the abuse/programming. The responses are normal responses to trauma. What the cult attempts to do is teach the survivors to cover their responses to blend in to society. The ritual abuse warning signs are shrouded by the trauma signs.

Symptoms of R.A. in children: 0-3 Excessive fear (i.e. separation from the care giver, of the dark) Sleeping issues Failure to thrive Feeding issues /difficulty swallowing

Children with DID are much more likely to develop imaginary friends at a younger age (two or three years old), and often have more of them. These friends seem very real to the child with a great deal of reality confusion and persistent impersonation. The imaginary friend does not always “act” in the best interest of the child. And, the child may be truly unable to remember misbehaviours, blaming it on the imaginary friend.

Children 3-9 Fear of specific things: people, places objects Refusing to talk about fears Nightmares difficulty sleeping Trouble eating changes in appetite food aversion Excessive shame/shame based behavior Behavior regression Body shame begins Attachment issues Difficulty walking Fearful of specific days Sexualized behavior with ritual themes Hiding Self preservation begins Passive response to difficult situations Confusion due to not knowing where to find protection Concrete triggers/verbal and visual cues Playing reenactment Heightened gag reflex Fear of religious symbols (crosses, Jesus, crucifixes, colors, and numbers 777) Talking about people in masks Talking about people in robes Use of ritual phrases in play (love is a lie that binds and ties) Ritual phrases with children will sound like rhymes

Common signs are frequent trance-like states (“spacing out” or daydreaming), as well as the child reporting that people often become angry or upset with them for unknown reasons. Or, the child shows dramatic changes in preferences, such as food, games, or clothes, as well as changes in language, accent, or even voice or handwriting style. The child may experience recurrent periods of amnesia or missing blocks of time, such as having no memory of the previous day, which may include denying behaviours that others have personally witnessed the child do. These could be negative behaviors, but may also include behaviours that the child would appear to have little motivation to deny. Additional common signs in children with DID are having an imaginary friend well into school-age, as well as unprovoked rages and violent behaviour that may seem to come out of nowhere.

9-13 Depression Nightmares Excessive masturbation/sexualized behavior Eating disorders/ food aversion Suicidal thoughts and gestures Poor social skills Overly attached/clingy Cutting/burning Resists removing clothes at appropriate times/layering of clothing Emotional shutdown Hiding Apathetic world view Re-enactment behavior as coping skills (drinking blood, pinning people down in specific ways during “play”) Fear of high days when it begins to get dark. (Normal behavior during the day.) Talk of people in masks Bible verses are misquoted (Jesus says suffer the children) They may talk about things inside them that are “watching them.” No spiritual identity when asked Secretive about where family/people they are with spend their time. Absent from school after high days (most people don’t know the high days so they wouldn’t suspect)

13-18 Thinks of body as dirty/repulsive bad Difficulty regulating emotions No sense of safety/attempts at safety are misguided Interpersonal relationships difficulty due to trauma response Distorted worldview Impulsive and compulsive behavior related to the abuse and to avoid the abuse Attempting to stay the night at a friends house on a high day (knowing they won’t be allowed) Self harm will involve symbols of the cult/occult Reenactment of the trauma to gain control. (May present as roll playing. People will think they are morbid with an active imagination)

Adulthood Fear of intimacy Flashbacks Body memories Fear of being in a circle or group of people standing in a circle Aversion to certain meats Fear of basement small rooms Body memories

Any age artwork depicting grids, graves, cyclonic shapes, doodles of circles, occult symbols, people in robes( purple, red, black) masks, bonfires, distorted drawings of Jesus and other spiritual figures and items.

Oz

[heavencollins]

Top 10 Films of 2020: Part One

2020 was a rough year for a lot of reasons, but even more rough due to the lack of an existent film industry for over half of the year.  Sure, there are small productions happening and movies being released on VOD, as well as some in theatres, but so many great films were pushed back this year—movies I was excited to possibly have on my top ten.  Minari, Promising Young Woman, Zola, The Green Knight, Saint Maud.  Okay most of those are A24 releases but A24 literally released next to none of their slate for this year and it’s one of the most disappointing things to happen in the entertainment industry in my opinion.  

Alas, I still found cinema through streaming, paying $20 for a VOD rental, and those amazing $1.80 rentals from Redbox (remember when they were only a dollar?  because I do).  And honestly?  It was probably the hardest time curating a top ten that I’ve had in a long time; with so much just available through the internet and owning every single popular streaming service, it was both impossible to watch everything I wanted but also since I watched a lot of what i wanted, I ended up loving most of it.  For a year that was so dismal in every other way possible, the films that were released ended up being a shining light more often than not.  Of course, like every other year, a lot of hot garbage came out too, but that isn’t the focus of this—the great, amazing, can’t believe these are real films.  

So let’s start from number ten.  This was my first and only $20 rental this year, starring a man who I personally admire: Pete Davidson.  

10. The King Of Staten Island, directed by Judd Apatow and written by Judd Apatow, Pete Davidson, and Dave Sirus.  

Judd Apatow is one of the first directors who I watched religiously, and hearing that he was doing a film with Pete Davidson that was essentially based on Davidson’s life meant that I knew I’d have to watch it.  Scott, played by Davidson, is a twenty-something with no direct path in life; he lives with his mother, his sister is going off to college—something he never attempted—and he has no real career.  His father died in a large building structure fire, much like Davidson’s actual father, a firefighter who passed away while responding to the twin towers during 9/11.  Scott is emotionally a wreck, plagued with depression and anxiety, a chronic weed smoker, and dreams of being a tattoo artist that he practices by tattooing his group of rag-tag friends, but none of the tattoos are very great.  

The thing about an Apatow film is they border the line between comedy and drama very well, kind of a complicated little dance.  But, King of Staten Island is very much a drama more than a comedy.  Bill Burr plays Ray, the father of a kid that Scott tattoos earlier on in the film.  Ray comes stomping up to Scott’s mother’s house, and Margie, played by Marissa Tomei, opens the door.  It’s essentially love at first sight.  She hasn’t dated since Scott’s father passed, and to make matters worse, Ray is also a firefighter.  This complicates emotions for Scott, as he loves his mother but also doesn’t know how to deal with the feeling that his mother is finally moving on and may face heartbreak again.  

Davidson puts it all on the table in this film.  It’s poignant and realistic; at the start, Scott is driving down the highway and closes his eyes, way longer than you should.  It sets the tone from the start that this man isn’t okay, but also he’s scared of dying because as soon as he opens his eyes again and sees he may be about to crash, he quickly panics and readjusts his wheel.  This struck a chord with me as most people know that Davidson has struggled with suicidal thoughts in the past.  It’s a beautiful film that memorializes both how much Davidson’s father meant to him, but also the cycles of grief and trauma that last throughout your life.  

9: Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn), directed by Cathy Yan and written by Christina Hodson.

Suicide Squad is one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen period, fact.  Birds of Prey is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen period, fact.  I never, ever, ever thought I’d see a day where a DC movie was in my top ten, but this year anything is possible.  Birds of Prey is a display of feminism, badassery, and all around perfection.  You jump right into the story, hearing Margot Robbie’s classic Harley Quinn voice laid over an animation showing what we missed in her life so far, which means you don’t have to have any previous knowledge of the other films.  Birds of Prey is meant to stand alone from any other movie preceding this one, and that’s just part of why it’s so great.

This film knows not to take itself too seriously.  Margot Robbie is a dream as Harley Quinn, using just the right amount of playfulness to put a little edge on her, while also maintaining the manic-panic-pixie-dream-girl effect.  Perhaps the best scene is when Harley goes and purchases the perfect egg breakfast sandwich, and then she drops it, causing a dramatic slow motion effect that proves she really does love that sandwich more than anything in the world.  Or her realistic apartment, nothing truly fancy, just a little hole in the wall above a rundown Chinese restaurant.  But then she has an amazing ensemble of other women actors around her, which are what really uplift her performance. 

The funhouse fight scene at the end may be the best in superhero movie history.  I mean, I guess, is Harley Quinn really a superhero?  She’s kind of the anti-hero, which is what makes her so great.  She’s somebody who isn’t even close to perfect but she still succeeds and tries to help and uplift the other women on her team.  There’s just something special about this movie that made me smile and laugh the entire time.  It’s a reminder that it’s okay to have fun every once in a while.  

8: The Assistant, directed and written by Kitty Green.

For those who don’t know, I work as an assistant during the day for a small business here in Vermont.  The work is mundane but it’s a job that’s giving me experience for the future.  In The Assistant, Jane, played by Julia Garner, is an assistant to a “powerful entertainment mogul.”  She gets lunch, answers phones, is the first one into the office, the last one out of the office, finds herself overshadowed by her male counterparts and getting the majority of the “grunt” work, and becomes more and more aware of what’s really going on at this office throughout a day in her life.  

What’s interesting about this film is nothing is ever seen; everything Jane starts to feel is just based on intuition.  Her boss is tricky, finding ways to keep his abuse of women out of the public eye, out of the eye of any female employees.  This is obviously in response to #MeToo, Times Up, and the Harvey Weinstein news from the last few years, and it works surprisingly well as a film that just unnerves you and gets under your skin.  

The reality of assault in the film industry is that until it’s widely public and known, nobody is going to know about it.  You can report it to your company, to other women, to other men, to anybody, and nobody will take you seriously until they either experience it themselves or know somebody else who has.  The Assistant hits the ball out of the park with the ending, even if it doesn’t give a vindictive satisfaction to viewers, because it’s simply the truth of the matter.  

7: Tenet, directed and written by Christopher Nolan.

I really don’t know what to say about this one.  It’s really controversial to like it but I absolutely LOVED this movie, it’s pure fucking vibes.  A lot of people are cinema purists, which I am not, and will never claim to be, which was a huge deal with this film.  Personally, this works way better at home than it ever would in a theater.  It’s slightly long, the sound mixing makes it so it can be hard to hear dialogue over loud noises and the score, and it’s the type of movie you may have to rewind  a few times.  

My partner and I watched this in 4K Ultra HD with subtitles on, and let me tell you, it was amazing.  Everything about the acting, the diversity in the film, the fact that Nolan literally has a character say “Don’t try to understand it, just experience it”???? VIBES.  That’s all I can say about it.  Plus, Elizabeth Debicki plays an actual badass who stands against her abuser and that enough is five stars.  A tall queen standing up against her short joker—absolute feminism.  

Sure, no character gets any development, but is that seriously necessary for every film?  It’s an action flick about time and space and none of it makes sense and you can’t force it to.  Why does everything need to make sense in a time where we are literally living through a pandemic?  Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience of Tenet.  It’s more fun when you don’t take it seriously.  

6: The Devil All The Time, directed by Antonio Campos and written by Antonio Campos, Donald Ray Pollock, and Paulo Campos.

I never read the book this was based on, but this film made me want to.  I love a film where multiple plot lines converge into one central story and this one did it so well, all with the same theme surrounding every single character: the guilt of sin and how no matter how much you think you can save yourself, you can’t truly save yourself.  I’m not a huge fan of Tom Holland, but he shines as Arvin from beginning to end.  Pattinson brings a creepy southern preacher to life with an accent that he will never be able to match again.  Keough gives a performance you can only sympathize with as you know she’s being manipulated the entire time.  Every character in this is corrupt in their own way but some in worse ways than others.

I don’t know how much to say about this one without spoiling it, either, because the core of this film is on the characters and what leads to their untimely ends, because pretty much everybody ends up dead.  It’s grim and dark but it’s so beautiful and tells the story in a way that keeps you interested throughout the entire run time.  It surprised me but there’s never truly been a Robert Pattinson starring movie that I’ve hated, so am I really surprised?  I’m a TwiHard at heart even at age 22. 

[life-rewritten]

Psycho but it’s okay- The Lady with the red shoes analysis.

RED SHOES

Psycho but it’s okay’s second episode title is the lady with the red shoes. This fairy tale is narrated towards the end of the episode by Moo Young who has decided that Gang Tae will be her red shoes. Except, this fairy-tale isn’t based on one of her books. It’s written by Hans Christian Anderson. That’s right the writer of little mermaid and others. If you know his stories then you will immediately realise that, Moo Young thinking Gang Tae is her red shoes, is not a good sign. Why, because Hans only wrote dark fairy tales and in this case the girl with the red shoes, those red shoes are not a good thing.  

Here’s a small summary of the girl with the red shoes. It’s an exceedingly long story. 

THE RED SHOES:

‘Karen our girl is poor and is forced to live in harsh conditions to survive. Her feet are frozen due to the cold conditions and she finds solace/warmth in these red shoes she makes. Her mother dies, and she gets adopted by a kind old lady who can’t see very well. The lady is religious and warns Karen not to wear red shoes to the church for her confirmation but to wear black shoes. Still Karen tricks her into getting her the red shoes since she can not see. Karen becomes obsessed with these red shoes that were tossed away by a princess; she can’t stop obsessing over them even in front of God in church. A wizard curses the shoes and make them dance. Karen wants to go to a ball, so she chooses to wear the dancing red shoes, unfortunately for her, the shoes don’t stop dancing. An angel appears angered by her vanity and selfishness and curses her to dance until she dies. Exhausted because of dancing Karen comes to detest the red shoes, she cuts her feet of, but the red shoes still follow her dancing and she becomes frightened, anxious, and depressed. She quietly resigns to the corner of the church because the shoes prevent her from entering. The angel finds her when humble and takes her to heaven taking her away from the red shoes. 

See not really a romantic message calling Gang Tae her red shoes. Because it hints to the psychological consequences of addiction and obsession. It hints at co-dependency and obsession and not in a good way. In the story Karen isn’t a good character she’s selfish and stubborn and vain, and that’s why the angel curses her, the need to be removed from her obsession becomes her punishment for her character. This already is showing you what Moo Young is doing, a mistake in misunderstanding that Gang Tae (her red shoes), chasing after him is a noble and passionate thing. Because he makes her feel something and causes her to not explode. But her obsession with him instead of being romantic is dark and it bars her from doing what she wants to do, which is to find happiness and peace. 

Which brings me to the question for the story. If we are trying to foreshadow or guess what’s going to happen what do the red shoes represent?

 LACK OF CONTROL/ANTISOCIAL PERSONALITY DISORDER (ASPD)

One her lack of control over her life due to the ASPD as she falls more for Gang Tae.

In my opinion I view Gang Tae as the angel that gives her peace but also curses her to be haunted by the red shoes, or to notice how dangerous her obsession was. Gang Tae as the red shoes representing her obsession with wanting to be in control and wanting to be praised and noticed i.e. her vanity like Karen.  Remember because of her ASPD she doesn’t think she has an issue. She wants to be stronger because of her ability not to care. The red shoes however is about guilt and lack of free will, and when she falls for Gang Tae, she probably starts to view her healing and feelings as weakness and starts to feel guilty for her personality.

She may realise their relationship is hurting him because of her believing she brings the shadow of death around people near her. Like I said there seems to be a connection to the murder of his mum which still hasn’t been uncovered which could be linked to her own traumas, unveiling that truth could cause issues between them, her violent tendencies used when she protects him could increase and cause more pain for them even if she doesn’t mean it to.

ESCAPING COLDNESS/LONLINESS

   The mother figure in the story relates to Moo Young’s own ‘dead’ mother. It is at her funeral that Karen is taken into the world of wealth and becomes obsessed with the idea of a better life. Her poverty and the coldness of the world (literally causing her feet to freeze and hurt) and her mother dying is what causes her to be obsessed with the red shoes. In this case the shoes in the tale represents warmth, love, and beauty all the things she’s lost. I have a post already about how Moo Young wants to have all of this, to be known for all of this so she can be in control. Gang Tae again becomes like the red shoes and shows her potential for love, and beauty (someone who calls her beautiful because of her eyes, someone who previously followed her and loved her for being her self before running) and her feeling things can be seen as the warmth Karen craves for and receives when she makes her own red shoes.

However, like I said before she feels punished by Gang Tae because of her ASPD because it might make both feel like the relationship is draining and traumatic. Especially since in the other tale of him following her around, it’s because of her ASPD he runs away. This could foreshadow that just like the boy who got hooked by the girl who was a monster, he would also later be free from the hook because of events linked to her condition. The red shoes in this case can also represent protection, and that’s why Moo Young becomes obsessed with Gang Tae. He’s now her protection from loneliness and her coldness. He makes her have a companion and makes her care. Having to grow in harsh situations as Karen grows feeling alone (theme of the show remember?) and in the cold, she needs the red shoes for the warmth and powers of idealism they give her, they’re like a magical gift. So, she wants to have them near her always. This is like Moo Young who has felt lonely all her life because of her ASPD. Again, she uses fairy tales to change her story and make her self-needed, powerful, and not evil. The witch in her stories lead people to self-love and strength after being tortured with unhappiness. I think that’s interesting because the angel in the red shoes does that, in a way Moo Young wants to be viewed as the role of the angel in the story, but she ends up embracing that she’s Karen and Gang Tae is her red shoes.

WANTING TO BE THE HERO

     Again, Karen as an antihero is connected to Moo Young. Karen can’t control her life because of how she was born poor and unfortunate, and so one way for her to become stronger and never be poor again is the ball and the red shoes, to be wealthy and strong and beautiful. Therefore, she does things because of her vanity. Moo Young on the other hand is born with ASPD and is treated like a monster she chooses to embrace being that way because she can never be good. In the story humbling herself and letting go of the obsession of the red shoes is what gives Karen peace. This foreshadows again that Moo Young embracing her ASPD and accepting she has a condition will lead to her healing with Gang Tae. 

[demiromantic-official]

Carnival of Aros July 2020

I haven’t participated in one of these before, but since music is quite important to me, I decided that this one I would write about. 

My View as a Consumer

Now I feel that I’m bit different than most arospecs, especially in my relationship to music. I don’t have a problem with songs about love, though I do dislike most of those sappy, cliché ones like those played on the pop stations. However as a musician, lyrics are not the only things I think of when deciding whether I like a song, which also may make my view a bit different than others. 

Mostly I listen to new wave / post punk from the ‘80s, and those songs  reflected the depressing and tumultuous emotions of the era. They explored themes like depression, hopelessness, fascism, the Cold War, threat of nuclear destruction, longing, disconnect, stardom, politics, WWII, addiction, war, humans relationship with technology, religious guilt, commercialism, and many others that are clearly not love but which also doesn’t have a clear meaning to me.  Or maybe they weren’t meant to have a meaning, like the songwriters of New Order claim about their songs.

When it does come to the love songs, I don’t feel the revulsion or disconnect that many arospecs seem to feel. I do dislike many of the vapid meaningless ones that are found on the pop stations (like Ed Sheeran etc), but most of the ones I listen to, I’m not sure if I would call them love songs. Maybe I’m being naïve, but even though I know the songwriter was thinking about someone they loved when writing it, the lyrics that have a deeper meaning than “i saw this hot girl and i wish we would date”, and are therefore interesting to me. Rather the feelings are described in such a way that it could be about a close friend, or someone that means a lot, without even stretching. They seem more about the human experience and interconnectedness, rather than purely romance. Even though I don’t experience romantic attraction, I like songs that delve deep into the human experience, about longing and fear and death and brokenness and other profound emotions. There’s a reason that era of music was sometimes described as “the new romantic”. Take “Lovesong” by the Cure for example. 

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am home again

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am whole again

Now it’s no secret that Robert Smith wrote it about his wife whom he had been with for years, but I also think it describes something about the human experience that most people can relate to: being a broken and hurt person, but having people in your life that make you feel safe, make you not think so much about your brokenness. And that’s part of my aromantic experience, I think. That I don’t listen to songs with a “love filter”, but rather I think about what the song says about the human experience, about the deeper emotions that most people are afraid to talk about. It’s the same with his song “Disintegration”. Even though the song alludes to being about losing a partner, it’s much more than that. It’s (according to interviews, but also my own interpretation) about depression and drug addiction and having such a bleak view on life that you don’t see the possibility of being whole again. The poetry in it is stunning. I’ve never heard a song that better describes what it feels like to go through a trauma and to be in so much pain that you don’t know you can survive much longer, or that in his words:

through the eye of a needle, 

it’s easier for me to get closer to heaven than ever be whole again.

I guess what I’ve been trying to describe is that as an arospec person, I don’t seek out traditional love songs, but I like the kinds that mention love, that maybe have love as a theme, but which aren’t entirely about it, those which have much deeper themes that describe other aspects of the human experience that maybe most people are afraid to touch on. I’ve related a lot of such songs, or songs about a failing relationship / losing a lover that do not explicitly mention it being about a partner, to being about other situations in my own life, such as losing a friend. Or platonic love, in general. 

I don’t think there are any songs I’ve related to being aromantic in particular; I’ve had an easier time relating songs to asexuality (like some Smiths songs, such as Pretty Girls Make Graves, can relate to asexuality since Morrissey viewed himself as such). Nevertheless, I still feel that music has been able to describe my range of experiences, and I’ve never felt excluded or underrepresented. 

If one wanted to be coy, though, I could name the song “Shot by Both Sides” by Magazine as one to which I could add an aromantic meaning. It’s meant to be about having a political view that leaves one “shot by both sides”, which one can say a lot about even today, when the loudest voices are extremists and having a nuanced opinion leaves many people hated by both majorities, but I won’t go into that on this blog. However sometimes it sadly feel like the aro experience...Straight people don’t accept us because we aren’t straight enough, because we’re cold people who don’t know love (in their eyes). And LGBT+ people don’t like us because we can “pass” as straight. I know not all people feel this and outside of the occasional hateful ask and mutual making a “aro and aces don’t belong in the community post” “haha all these asks trying to convince me otherwise are funny you’re not gonna convince me”, I’ve not experienced anything like this firsthand. But the sentiment is there.

My View as a Songwriter

When I write songs, I try to keep this same energy of the earlier songs I mentioned. That is, if the song is about a person or being hurt by a person, I try to make it in such a way that multiple interpretations are valid. It could be about a friend, or it could be someone else. I focus on the feelings, or even on topics that are not about interhuman connections. 

I don’t necessarily think that songwriters should be expected to be inclusive of the community, like the promptings asked. Unlike movies/shows, songs can be highly personal and typically express some emotion, experience, social commentary, or opinion that the person has, and I feel there’s an extent to which you can tell someone how to make their art (not giving spotlight to people who sing about rape/pedophilia/racism in a way that’s not satire and not social commentary or a demand for change is one exception I stand by 100%). With movies and books it’s different, because then you’re telling a story and fantasy or not, stories should contain myriads of experiences because they are almost always a reflection of the outer world in at least a small way. 

I think it’s a lot easier to be inclusive of the trans or gay community, by changing lines slightly to be vague about the genders of the people involved, which is something Pete Shelley from the Buzzcocks did to make his music accessible for people no matter their gender or what gender they liked. And it can be done without changing the meaning. 

That being said, as an artist I can recommend the following actions:

Reach out to your favorite artists! I know a lot might not answer especially if they are well-known, and fan mail doesn’t seem to be a thing anymore, but it’s a good try. Bringing up the Smiths again, I remember an interview talking about Hand in Glove (one of their many songs that have a reference to homosexuality), in which songwriters Morrissey and Johnny basically talked about being inclusive with the song. Even when they were playing cover songs, they didn’t have a problem playing a song but a girl pop group about wanting a boy. Based on his bio, I know Johnny is likely not LGBT, but is a wonderful ally. I say this to point out that if you show how important being included is, the artist may just do something similar.

Maybe try different out artists/genres? This doesn’t solve the problem of being included, but I see a lot of arospecs claim most music is about romantic love...and as someone who sees themselves as well-versed in music...it’s really not? Maybe it’s because almost all my music is alternative and because I used to listen to a lot of punk which often is social commentary and calls for change, but in my experience of listening I’ve heard a wide range of experiences and parts of humanity expressed, evening disregarding the songs that are ambiguous about whether they are about romantic love or other love. Even popular artists like Radiohead and Nirvana have many songs with different topics than love. Sure, the topic of love may be represented than any single other topic alone, but combined the other number of songs on other topics are great too.

Support aromantic artists (or artists who sing about topics you relate to). Artists need support to keep making music, so support the ones who include you. And who knows, maybe more aromantic artists will start singing about their experiences as support grows.

[haloud]

“Not as Lost, Violent Souls:” Alex Manes and T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” -- part 3 (fin.)

- intro - part 1 - part 2 -

- posted in final edited format on ao3 -

Previously on:

(gif by bisexualalienblast, used with permission)

This is not a happy poem. Nor do I believe that analyzing it in this way will reveal any more hopeful, happier meaning for Eliot’s hollow men or for Alex Manes. The existence of the hollow men is a bleak one, and at the very beginning of Roswell, New Mexico—the inciting events that build upon each other until Alex references the poem—Alex is in a fairly bleak place himself. However. I, unlike Eliot, do not believe in unhappy endings, so I didn’t want to close out this section just with a whimper. So while this essay concerns itself primarily with bleakness, I still want to remind everyone that “the world ends with a whimper” in episode nine of thirteen (and yet to come). Alex has already punched through the end of the world and is in the process of pulling himself through that hole and out the other side, retaking agency, rediscovering himself, relearning what he wants and how he is going to achieve those desires. The hollow men may have only empty hopes, but Alex’s hope is very real, and his character’s journey, as is the case with all characters in Roswell’s first season, has only just begun.

Part three of this essay will reexamine Alex’s character, his relationship to “The Hollow Men” at various points in his life, and his decision to quote the poem in context from a Watsonian perspective.

Part VI: Alien nation

In order to examine the place of “The Hollow Men” in Alex’s life, we should start at the earliest point for which we have any context for his character. In episode 1x05, Alex references himself as a child before high school and says his father knew he was gay before he did. This mention is brief and barely expanded, but it does provide a point of reference for Alex as a child and the alienation he experienced beginning from such a young age. The audience is given much more context for his character as a teenager on the cusp of becoming a young man, in his last year of high school and about to enter adulthood. It is likely in high school that Alex would have encountered the works of T.S. Eliot—that’s when I did, personally, through both class assignments and a deeply teenage draw towards angsty modernist poets. Eliot’s work is—and I’m drawing on the evidence of my eyes, here, rather than the scholarly—moody and depressing and vague, full of literary references and snippets of myriad different languages, and all those things are intensely appealing to the emo teen.

There are aspects of Eliot’s work that would have come through for Alex as a representation of his personal experience. Eliot himself was not a soldier; he remained at Oxford through the duration of the first World War, and nor did he involve himself in World War II. However, “The Waste Land” and “The Hollow Men” are poems about war all the same, written in the post-war landscape of 1920’s London and among all the accompanying—appropriately dichotomous—depression and euphoria of victory, survival, guilt, and the Treaty of Versailles. The tension between Eliot’s civilian status and the unavoidable nature of writing about war creates a compellingly fitting—or compellingly antithetical—profile of an author in the life of Alex Manes, who was a soldier long before he officially became an airman. As he states, “My father was my war.”. Unlike war poets both canonized and lost to history, Eliot could not write about the realities of the battlefield. However, the emotions felt, and communicated in “The Hollow Men,” are still intensely resonant with the feelings of soldiers. The struggle with hope and loss of hope, the religious imagery, the over-hanging, vague menace of the Shadow, all call to difficulties of returning soldiers and the transition back into a “normal” life, which may never be “normal” again. Therefore, while Eliot’s body of work in general appeals to a person with Alex’s personality, his taste in fashion and music, and in his stage of life at eighteen, “The Hollow Men” as a specific instance of Eliot’s work would have called to Alex more personally.

The religious themes contained in “The Hollow Men” would have had a particular resonance for Alex as a gay young man trapped in a restrictive, though not outright religiously based, household. Again, I draw from personal experience. Because of the opinion of queerness held by conservative religion, which is at best a sort of compassionate condemnation, young queer people often have an instinct toward rebellion and reclamation of the cultural narratives of salvation and damnation. The hollow men in the poem are a group of people condemned to an eternal purgatory, outside of paradise, outside of hell, and this denial of the spiritual right to judgment hits on some aspects of that rebellious feeling. The religious imagery in “The Hollow Men” is indicative of Eliot’s despair at the failings of love, which he attempts to ameliorate with a turn towards God and Christianity, but this is not a path that holds any sort of sanctuary for Alex, even as he struggles with heartbreak and despair. While I can’t say with certainty how Alex feels about religion, I can say that religious alienation is both another type of alienation keenly felt by many queer youth as well as a key feature in understanding “The Hollow Men.”

This understanding of the poem’s religious themes as well as aspects of the poem I earlier established regarding Alex’s relationship with his father provide understanding as to how Alex might have experienced the poem as a young man. I can imagine a scenario in which he was exposed to Eliot’s writing through school and how that writing might have stuck with him through the ensuing decade. Time passed, he grew up, but the feeling of alienation only grew more severe as he compartmentalized his personal identity and his identity as an airman—and lived more completely in the latter. Until, that is, the audience first meets him in the pilot episode of Roswell, New Mexico.

We first meet Alex as an airman, not as a civilian, but the connection he has with Michael is immediately established. It first comes off as antagonistic, but over the course of the episode it unspools itself until the final romantic confrontation at the very end of the episode. Though the viewer is unsure how adversarial Alex may be at this point, no doubt remains that he is a person leading an intensely complicated life. In subsequent episodes, we see Alex shed the uniform more and more, even as he struggles to overthrow his father’s influence and does not always succeed. Finally, in episode 1x08, he learns that Isobel, Max, and, most importantly, Michael are in fact aliens; and not only that, but Michael has been identified as a high-level threat. Though this information is filtered through the lens of his father’s manipulation, and he rightly rejects that worldview, Alex is still left with a choice to make. Does he follow his heart, which tells him that his father must be wrong and that the man he loves couldn’t possibly be the evil Project Shepherd says he is, or does he follow his head, which tells him that he needs to have all the information before he can make any sort of decision, and that he has to do so alone, not trusting anyone else, not simply going up to Michael and asking?

This is the choice Alex struggles to make in the days and weeks leading up to the confrontation with Michael in the Wild Pony at the beginning of episode 1x09. It is a choice with an explicit emotional link to his identity as an airman, as shown in the later conversation between Alex and Kyle:

Alex: “I just…I can’t go in blind.” Kyle: “I’m talking about a conversation, Manes. Not a war.”

But even when he’s faced with Michael demanding the answer to a question he doesn’t even know Alex is asking, Alex hasn’t yet decided. That decision comes at the end of the episode, when he declares “I’m tired of walking away” and asks Michael to tell him everything. During that moment in the Wild Pony, Alex is still caught, one could say, between the idea and the reality, the motion and the act, the emotion and the response. And he doesn’t say “we’re done;” he doesn’t say “not now;” he doesn’t say “let’s talk.” He quotes “The Hollow Men.”

Part VII: Conclusion

By invoking “The Hollow Men,” Alex calls upon this entire body of bleak imagery, of hopelessness, and of futility. Even what potential for salvation exists within the poem is “the hope only / of empty men.” “Sometimes the world ends with a whimper” is a gut punch of a line to begin with, but the statement he makes is even more deliberate and definite than it first appears. First, it’s a tacit admission that this thing between himself and Michael that he’s ending has or does constitute a “world” of its own. Second, if Alex identifies with the speaker of the poem, it’s an admission that not only does the world end with a whimper, but that it does so because of failings within himself, the same failings of the hollow men. It’s an apology as much as it is a rejection.

Alex’s journey, as previously stated, does not end when he references the end of the world itself. His character, despite the massive strides taken throughout season one, has not completed its arc. He has not struggled for the last time against the influence of his father or the consequences of a lifetime of trauma. There will always be a part of him that identifies with the scarecrow and the effigy. With this explication of “The Hollow Men,” I strive to identify the imagery and themes within the poem that are illustrative of Alex’s character, some of his internal struggles, and his choice to reference the poem at such a subtly key moment. Episode 1x09, both the confrontation in the Wild Pony and the reconnection in the junkyard, is a pivotal moment for both Alex’s character and his relationship with Michael. Understanding the potential weight behind his choice of words aids understanding of him in totality, where he is coming from, and where he may go from here.

References

Eliot, T.S. “The Hollow Men.” Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Major Authors, ed. Stephen Greenblatt, 9th ed., 2013, pp. 2728.

Howard, Jeffrey G. “T.S. Eliot’s THE HOLLOW MEN.” The Explicator, vol. 70, no. 1, 2012, pp. 8-12, https://doi.org/10.1080/00144940.2012.656736. Accessed 2 Sept. 2019.

“Poets of Reality; Six Twentieth-Century Writers.” Cambridge, Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1965.

Smith, Grover. T.S. Eliot’s Poetry and Plays: A Study in Sources and Meaning. Chicago: U of Chicago, 1956. Print.

“Watsonian vs. Doylist.” TvTropes.org. Accessed 27 Aug. 2019.

Worthen, John. T.S. Eliot : A Short Biography. London: Haus Pub., 2011. Print.