#mostly doing this to force myself to create things to fill in the gaps

[windermeresimblr]

Duke Alun FitzCrispin grants the fiefdom of Tivoria to Eustace de Biena.

[drbased]

The self may be an illusion, but the self is necessarily a whole; that is, there is nowhere else the self resides: when we say the 'the self is an illusion' it is the same as saying that this chair is an illusion: the chair is, chemically speaking, mostly empty space, atoms held together by mysterious forces that when experienced from a certain distance become form and purpose combined; regardless, the chair is still a distinct entity by the very nature of its existence. Likewise, the 'self' may be a confused congregation of biological forces, impulses, thought, stimuli, feeling, attitude, memory, knowledge - but it is still necessarily itself; there is no other self.

So, then, with the model of the self, with the recognition of the self as necessarily a whole - what of the parts that seem to conflict? In the modern day (I cannot speak for generations past, but no doubt this has always existed in different forms), we treat the self as fragmentable and fragmented. 'Mental illness' forms a tumour on the self, possibly malignant and destructive if engaged with: depression, anxiety, addiction - all these form a shadow in the corner of our eye, representing something we Must Not Indulge - the only time we are encouraged to face them it is combative. The most well-meaning psychologists still have this view: our approach to mental health is, ultimately, double-think - you have a point of view, and that is valid, but it is Wrong.

So, then, what if your Mental Illness(tm) is part of yourself - is it a bad part of you? Is it rotten, should it be amputated? Well... I wouldn't be so hasty. Most people jump to the amputation first: I did that at first. But after a decade of depression, I came out the other end agreeing with it. I chose to not be depressed because I care about my happiness, not because my 'logic' was wrong, or an overreaction. There is no such thing as an overreaction, because the mind, the self, exists as a separate entity from the rest of the world precisely because it is the place where thoughts, feelings and attitudes get to exist freely without moral consideration: the only moment they become 'wrong' is when they cause harm - and, even then, 'wrong' is not something all-encompassing, a bad mark on a test; there is no 'wrong' and there is no 'should' - there are only actions and there are consequences. And if you dislike the consequences, well - there is your answer. I decided that there was an irony in my depression I didn't much like: my depression was obsessed with the idea that I didn't deserve the pain and hurt that I grew up with, and so I said 'I agree with you, I didn't deserve that pain - and if I didn't deserve it then, I do not deserve it now'. I agreed with myself - instead of claiming some greater, more dramatic narrative to justify my pain, as if there is some objective measure of pain, I recognise that my mind is a safe place to say 'fuck you, that hurt and I didn't deserve it'. I was finally able to accept my pain, something my depression had never let me do. In essence, my depression was me procrastinating on my pain - never quite feeling confident enough in my own independent worldview, in my selfhood, to accept it and move on. To fill in the gaps, my depression created a dramatic narrative. The reality, however, was embarrassingly mundane, and overcoming embarrassment was a large part of overcoming depression: if it really wasn't All That Bad, then what was I so miserable about all the time?

Mainstream recognition of mental illness says that there is a Logical and Correct mode of thought, and that anything else is a false logic, an aberration, incorrect, dangerous. My experience of mental illness recovering is the recognition that no singular mode of thought is inherently logical: by choosing happiness, I am not choosing something more logical. My depression was a form of martyrdom: I refused to be happy simply because the world demanded my compliance. My new 'logic' is one that says there is no logic, there is only action and consequence, and I do not like the consequences upon myself of martyrdom, especially martyrdom that only hurts me. I was not making some radical statement in being depressed, and in doing so I was refusing to acknowledge my full self-hood. I used to express that I 'didn't feel human', and looking back it floors me thinking how literal that expression was. The dramatic, ironic self-deprecation we use to describe ourselves we pretend is poetic flourish, but in reality is the self crying out to be noticed, to be whole: in the modern day we are forced into believing that we are Comfortable, that we are not Allowed to be in pain, and any pain is covered up with self-deprecating jokes, and mental illness labels are used as premature self-flagellation to avoid acceptance that we are individual human beings with wildly differing points of view, attitude and things we like. You wouldn't say you 'can't cope' with going to the ballet, but rather that you simply don't like going to ballet. A major embarrassment of mental illness, and a major thing recognised in healing, is that you were pushing yourself to do things you didn't like doing, and then labelled yourself as 'unable to cope' with them.

Non-depressed me is not a whole-lot materially different than depressed me, but the I feel different, I talk different. I engage the fullness of myself in the decisions I make; if there are consequences I dislike that contradict with each other, I engage with them instead of immediately dismissing one as inconvenient and wondering why I then feel uncomfortable. I noticed early on that my depressive episodes only seemed to impact things I didn't want to do anyway; sometimes those things were embarrassing, if only to myself. In finding myself I had to shrink my world down - the endless hope of my positive periods was engaged with, and I had to recognise that I do not want to be everything for everyone all the time, and that I do not consist of boundless possibility, I am not simply walking potential: I am messy, I am human, and I am whole.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

if you don't mind me asking, how do you plan your fics? you're really good at giving your fics like an overarching structure and cohesiveness, I've tried planning my fics before but I just don't know where to start, mostly I just write whatever and hope it finds a structure lol

related to this

I don't mind at all, sweetheart

Also, thank you! That's very sweet. I try to have some semblance of plot to hold my porn together, lmao.

Before I explain what I, personally, do, I want to mention a writing concept a friend of mine explained to me. When it comes to creating stories, there's no wrong way of writing, obviously. But, there are different approaches to creation. And, supposedly, with writers, there are two models: the gardener and the architect.

The gardener doesn't have much of a plan going into their writing. They may have an idea, but not an actual outline. They prepare the dirt, drop in a seed, and water it and let it get enough sun. Sure, they know what kind of seed they dropped in, but they're not exactly sure about what will grow--how tall the plant will be, how big the leaves, how much it will produce, etc.? It's a little supposedly more free and seat-of-the-pants with a focus on big picture.

The architect, however, has a plan going in. Ahead of time. The plan is structured. Imagine a blueprint drawing with lots of details--specific lengths, angles, different perspectives, side notes, etc. Then, the writing is executed according to the plan. It's supposedly a little more strict and detail oriented.

The types are just different ways to go about things, though. One isn't better than the other. And I have to say, between those two types, I am certainly an architect. Yet, I have always admired gardeners. It seems way more wild and free and creative. And I, personally, think those kinds of writers find flow much better. I'm obsessive and strict, and sometimes I have a difficult time getting out of my routines, which can take some of the magic out of writing (or art in general) for me. But, I also know I am lucky to be able to write the way I do--setting schedules, making plans, forcing myself to stick to them even if I am not feeling a particular scene, and getting words out so I have a finished product with relative speed.

Normally, I plan my fics by having a concept and building around the scene or basic ideas.

What do I want to include? What point do I want to make? What thing do I want to explore?

With this series that I'm planning--without giving too much away, haha--I started with the alternative universe and the characters I wanted to play with. The alternative universe I'd been thinking about included characters with specific backgrounds. So, I knew how I wanted the characters to interact at the end, but I wanted to build up to that point rather than just cutting to the end. I thought it'd be more interesting to explore the entire relationship, not just the end.

So, with the end of the story in mind, then I thought about other scenes I was interested in including. Important moments I wanted them to have. After that, I placed in a first meeting point. Then, I got to planning the middle parts.

Side note though, with this particular AU, I ended up coming up with the title for the overall series before I had all the parts of the story. I had the AU, the end point, and an idea of how to get them to meet when I had an idea for the title. With the title and the longing for a series, then I thought about what I wanted the individual fics to be called. With all those names, then I filled in the gaps. Having the structure of possible names for each fic allowed me to get into the knitty gritty.

As for planning individual fics, I go through several stags.

The first stage is completely bare bones and looks like:

Puppy play

Puppy Steve

Collar, cage, leash, tail plug, desperation, hip wiggling

(I literally use jot dots)

The second stage is a little more detailed, giving a basic play-by-play for the fic, and looks like:

Steve has always been eager and Bucky enjoys that about him, so, he figures why not exploit it? He brings up the idea to Steve

Have them have a conversation...

Steve agrees, blushing

Bucky orders some light gear... it arrives...

(If this were a real fic plan, the plan would continue on play-by-play all the way to the aftercare/end)

The third stage is more detailed still, I flesh out all the jot dots into actual sentences, and it looks like this:

Steve gets all dopey and sweet the moment he gets hard. It's as if his dick turns off his brain. Bucky has been into it since the first time he saw it happen--intimately close to the other man with a deep, primal urge to dig his teeth into Steve's skin just from watching how he melts. His eyes going dark, his skin turning pink, and his breathing getting heavy even as he starts whimpering in the back of his throat. With the realization of his spontaneous melting, even before orgasm, Bucky has gotten more and more into it over time. If that's even possible, considering how much he liked it immediately. Bucky's also pushed for those dopey, dumb, sweet instincts more and more.

So, it's only natural to wonder how far he can take it. How far can he take Steve?

(That would be a more fleshed out version of the first-ish bullet point)

The fourth stage is taking the fic out of jot dots and putting it into actual fic format. I do this one by one, re-reading and adding or subtracting as I go.

Steve gets all dopey and sweet the moment he gets hard. It's as if his dick turns off his brain. Bucky has been into it since the first time he saw it happen--intimately close to the other man with a deep, primal urge to dig his teeth into Steve's skin just from watching how he melts. His eyes go dark, his skin turns pink, and his breathing gets heavy--panting even as he starts whimpering in the back of his throat.

With the realization of his spontaneous melting, even before his orgasm, Bucky has gotten more and more into it over time, if that's even possible, considering how much he liked it immediately. Bucky's also pushed for those dopey, dumb, sweet instincts more and more.

So, it's only natural to wonder how far he can take it, right? How far can he take Steve? How stupid can he get, panting and whining like a puppy, heeling at Bucky's command even though he wants to run wild.

The fifth stage is another re-reading.

(With changes, minor or major, depending)

The sixth stage is putting the fic through Grammarly/whatever grammar and spelling program I'm using to check my work.

(Then I copy and paste my fic into AO3 and do the formatting I need to there for tags, spacing, summaries, etc.)

I hope that answers your questions, lol.

TLDR; I start with a scene in mind usually, then build out from there. Planning takes up most of my fic writing time, considering just how "done" looking my fics are by the third stage. Planning is nice, but just seeing what happens can be fun, too, I wish I could do more of that, actually, haha. The cohesiveness mostly comes from thinking about why I want to write a fic/series. Even if the why is simply "I want to explore this kink because I like this kink" and not something life changing.

Thanks for the ask!

[skinsharpenedteeth]

Tonight, We Are Young

So as a New Year’s gift, I give to you another NYE Malex fic, because apparently I can’t help myself. I hope 2021 treats everyone better than 2020 did!

Also available on AO3!

    “This party is fucking lame,” Alex commented, watching his classmates mill around the Evans’ mini-mansion with their red Solo cups filled with vodka, rum, or whatever mixed with fruit juice or soda. He was tired of watching people grind on each other to Christina Aguilera or 50cent while was left dodging assholes like Kyle Valenti all evening. 

    “Well, what do you propose we do instead?” Michael asked, head hanging upside down from over the side of the pool table he was laying across. His eyes were half obscured by gold, glittery 2008 glasses and he smelled a little like weed and spring rain. Alex thought briefly about wanting to Spiderman kiss him while he hung like that, but stopped himself with a sharp reminder that they were ‘just friends’. 

    They’d been hanging out since Alex had offered the backyard shed for Michael’s use during the cold winter nights. He knew he was using it, but hadn’t gotten up the courage to go talk to him yet while he was there. He was afraid he’d bring his father’s attention to it if he spent too much time out there, spent too much time with another boy in a room with the vaguest notion of privacy and a bed… 

    “You wanna get out of here? I know a place…,’ Alex started, but Michael was already sitting up before Alex could finish. He rolled off his back and then jumped off the table to stand beside where Alex was still sitting cross-legged against the pool table leg. He grinned down at Alex, smile wide and sweet and making Alex blush a little like he always did when Michael looked right at him like that, and held out his hand to pull Alex up off the floor. Alex took his hand and Michael gave a helpful tug as Alex pushed his way up. It was too much, Alex was overbalancing and falling against Michael’s chest. Michael’s hand let go of Alex’s so he could grip his waist and help steady him. The blush that had been only a pink tinge at Michael’s smile flared red as his hands landed against his solid chest and he felt how close they were. 

    “Oh-OH! Watch out Guerin or he’ll take advantage of you!” a raucous yell rang out through the crowd. Alex shut his eyes and stepped back quickly, cursing the gods for creating Kyle Valenti, and also for the feeling of Michael’s hands quickly falling from his body. 

    “Fuck off, Valenti,” Michael yelled back, throwing up a middle finger. 

    “You got something to fucking say?!” Kyle yelled, obviously a little drunk, as he pushed past the intervening people and shoved Michael backwards a step or two. Alex stood shocked, not sure what was happening, when Michael shoved Kyle back. 

    “Pretty sure I said what needed saying. Why don’t you go back to ‘your boys’ and circle jerk until midnight? Make sure you ‘no homo’ before your dicks out though, or it's definitely homo,” Michael goaded, getting into Kyle’s face. Their chests were touching and they looked so close they couldn’t possibly be able to focus on one another. Alex reached out and grabbed Michael’s arm, his hands closing firmly around his bicep as he stepped close. 

    “Let’s just get out of here,” Alex pleaded, well aware of how many eyes were on them. He didn’t want this kind of attention, didn’t need to be on anyone else’s radar. 

    “Going to let your boyfriend tell you what to do, Guerin?” Kyle taunted, obviously itching for a fight. Michael looked at him for another moment before sliding his eyes over to Alex’s. Alex could see the softening around the edges of Michael’s eyes as they held contact with his and hoped he couldn’t see the fear in him. He didn’t think he was successful in hiding it, because Michael’s mouth jaw clenched and he closed his eyes in resignation.

    “Yeah, I am. Get fucked,” Michael said tiredly, not looking back at Kyle's face but backing away from him instead. He turned and headed back towards the bedroom where everyone's coats were and then to the front door with Alex hot on his heels. Alex could hear Liz cussing at Kyle half in Spanish as they left and at least felt safer knowing they would be gone before he could shake free of her to continue trying to rile Michael into a fight.

    The cold late December air hit him hard as they left the warmth of the Evans’ house and stalked towards Michael’s truck. As soon as Michael shut the driver’s door, the engine roared to life and he turned up the vents to try and make the heaters kick in quicker. Alex slid in the passenger side and quietly buckled his seat belt. 

    “So where we headin’?” Michael asked, turning to look over at him with his usual lazy grin. Alex marveled how quickly the anger and violence had drained out of him. He looked like he hadn’t just been about to throw punches. He was casual and relaxed as he slouched in his seat, wrist resting over the top of the steering wheel. Alex noted the mostly full bottle of Jack sitting next to his thigh and had an idea. 

    “Uh, once we get out of the neighborhood, hit Main going northwest,” Alex instructed, eyeing the bottle warily. He knew how he got when he was drunk, but he’d never been with Michael inebriated before. He was worried he’d say the wrong thing or touch him when he didn’t want to be touched. Drinking was easier with Maria, Liz, and Rosa because he didn’t want to kiss them or see them naked so if he collapsed with his head in a lap or held someone’s hand it was innocent. There was no intention behind it. He didn’t think he could have that same freedom with Michael. He definitely wanted to kiss and touch Michael in ways that would make his dad kick his ass if he ever found out. 

    Michael followed his quiet instructions until they were driving out past the city limits, high beams the only lights for miles around. Michael had turned on the radio and put the volume on low while he waited for Alex to speak. Alex fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie, pulling them taut on one side and then the other, his leg bouncing rhythmically against the bottom of the foot well. Silently, still watching the road, Michael reached over and curled his fingers around Alex’s knee. Alex froze, staring wide eyed at Michael’s hand, before he let it slip off Alex's leg and rest between them on the bench seat. He looked up and saw Michael darting a grin over at him. 

    “So where are we going?” Michael asked, leaving his hand between them and making Alex ache with how much he wanted to reach over and cover it with his own. 

    “There’s a place not too far from here where my brothers and I used to build bonfires. I figured we’d go set some shit on fire for awhile,” Alex replied, a little self-consciously. Would Michael think this was dumb?

    “Cool,” he answered, his fingers starting to tap on the bench seat. Alex watched his fingers for a moment, marveling at how square and even his nails were and how perfect his knuckles seemed to be before turning his attention back to the road. He was getting distracted and they were getting close to where the turn off was. 

    “There’s going to be a sign pretty soon that says Camp Honor. It’s going to be over here on the left. That’s the turn we make. Then there’s a fork about two miles in and we’ll take the right fork,” Alex rattled off, wishing they were already parked so he could take a shot of bourbon to calm his nerves. He actually hoped Michael had some more weed on him. A joint would help put him to ease. 

    “Camp Honor?” Michael asked, shooting Alex a curious look, eyebrow raised.

    “It’s a hunting camp. There’s no season right now, so no one will be around,” Alex replied. At least he hoped there was no season that time of the year. He hadn’t been up there since he was fourteen and that had been its own disaster he’d like to never remember. 

    The truck bounced over the ruts and hills in the barely discernible road up to the fire pit. Alex sincerely hoped that the tradition of hauling all the fallen branches and detritus from around the cabin and hunting grounds had kept up in the years since he’d been the one sent out to do most of it. They rolled up to a clearing and Alex could make out the fallen trees they’d moved to make places for them to sit around the pit. 

    “Go ahead and park. This is the place,” Alex said, turning to Michael and putting a hand on his arm as if he weren’t paying attention. Michael slowed the truck and put it in park. He peered through the darkness. 

    “You know, when you said you knew a place I was imagining… something different,” Michael said as he continued to look skeptically at what little was illuminated by the truck’s headlights. Alex rolled his eyes and pushed open his door. As soon as his Docs hit the ground, he was excited to see how high he could get the flames. Bonfire night had been the only night he looked forward to when he’d been forced to do long camping trips with his brothers and the Valenti’s. He went ahead and walked forward towards the pit, hoping against hope there was a stack of wood in its sunken sand floor. When he got to the edge, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and then looked over to Michael and grinned broadly. 

    “Let's get this thing lit and then you can turn off your headlights,” Alex said excitedly, carefully making his way down into the shallowly dug ten by ten dirt bowl they used for fire nights. He checked over the wood and was glad to see he should be able to get away with just lighting the thing up. His brothers or Kyle must be planning to come out here soon. He took a small, sadistic pleasure in knowing he’d get to use it before they would and they’d have to go get chopped wood from the cabin and haul it out here if they wanted a fire. He patted his pockets and fished out a lighter from the pocket of his black skinny jeans. He flicked it a couple times before it caught and then he carefully moved his hand down through a gap in the wood until he could catch the tiny yellow flame on the tinder. As it caught, he carefully extracted his hand and started gently blowing air towards the flame. When it started to catch and spread, he stood back up and watched it, feeling oddly proud about starting the easiest fire of his life. When he turned, Michael was smiling at him fondly. 

    “Guess I’ll go turn off my headlights so I don’t drain the battery and we can roll out of here later,” he commented, turning and clapping his hand over Alex’s chest before letting it slide away as he started back towards his car. Alex tried to ignore the thrill he felt at Michael’s affectionate gesture and instead concentrated on the way his breath fogged as he exhaled and how cold his hands were even stuffed in his pocket. The fire was slowly getting going, but it would be a while before it was truly letting off heat to warm them. 

    Scuffing behind him alerted him of Michael’s return and he turned to see him sitting on the edge of the fire ring, whiskey uncapped, and being raised to his lips. Alex went and sat next to him, leaning towards the warmth that radiated off his body almost unconsciously. When Michael passed him the bottle, he took a healthy swig, coughing as he handed it back. 

    “Fuck, how do people drink that shit?” he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and trying vainly to hide his grimace and watering eyes. 

    “Pretty sure nobody drinks for the taste,” Michael observed with a grin, watching him as he caught his breath before taking another swig from the bottle himself. He didn’t cough after his swallow and Alex felt heat infusing his cheeks at how uncool he must look to not be able to handle the burn of alcohol on his throat. 

    “I do better with vodka,” Alex said defensively, picking at the sides of his Vans as he stared at the growing fire. He toppled to the side when Michael slammed his body into him, elbows, shoulders, and hips pressed close against Alex. Alex let out a squawk of indignation, but didn’t protest when he righted himself and could feel the warmth of Michael bleeding through his too-thin layers of clothing where they touched.

    “Jesus, it’s fucking cold,” Michael hissed through gritten teeth. Alex could feel the small tremors of him shivering and he wrapped an arm around him gingerly. He waited for Michael to protest or push him away and call him a ‘fag’, but when he just huddled closer Alex relaxed against him. Alex pried the whiskey bottle out from his fingers and took another manly swallow, coughing into his shoulder when he finished.

    They stared at the fire, both shivering and sharing the bottle between them. As the alcohol and flames started to warm them, Alex felt Michael shifting more until his head was resting on Alex’s chest. Alex found himself running his fingers through Michael’s curls in fascination at how the light from the flames caught the brown ringlets and turned them to gold.

    “We really should have thought this out better,” Michael observed. 

    “Hm?” Alex asked as he stretched out his legs towards the warmth. 

    “We should have brought snacks and music and something else to do besides drink,” Michael complained, lifting himself off of Alex’s chest and sitting up. He took the bottle from Alex’s side and helped himself to another mouth full.

    “We could tell ghost stories?” Alex supplied, ready for the incredulous look Michael gave him. It still made him laugh when he looked over his shoulder at Alex like he was full of shit. “Well, what else would you do around a fire with someone if you didn’t have snacks or music?”

    “Depends on the someone,” Michael replied, innuendo lacing his voice and making something hot in Alex’s stomach churn, but eyes staring straight into the fire in front of them.

    “We… we can do what you do with them?” Alex offered bravely. His throat felt dry and he was pretty sure he was going to die. Did he really just say that to Michael? Michael looked over at him consideringly and handed him the bottle. 

    “We are,” Michael replied shortly. Alex shriveled a little in embarrassment, but he took the bottle and dutifully took a sip, trying to shift his body away so it wasn’t leaning quite as fully on Michael’s. Alex capped the bottle and put it in the dirt between legs before leaning back onto his elbows to stare up at the stars. 

    “Why did you stop me from hitting Valenti?” Michael asked a few minutes later. Alex had been staring at the stars, enjoying the heat on his legs from the fire. He tipped his head back down to see Michael half turned and staring at him. 

    “What do you mean, why? He’s a fucking tool and not worth the effort,” Alex spit out. He didn’t really want to think about Valenti right then. 

    “He deserves to get his fucking head knocked off,” Michael replied heatedly, turning back to stare at the fire. Alex looked at the back of his head for a moment in confusion. 

    “Well, I agree, but why do you care what he says?” Alex asked, a little unsure what answer he was hoping for. Michael looked back over his shoulder at Alex for a split second before snorting and looking back at the fire. 

    “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. I just hate seeing him treat you like shit because of his own insecurities. You’re not his punching bag. You deserve to be treated better.”

    Alex sighed and looked back up at the stars. The sky was starting to spin a little so he let himself collapse all the way down onto his back. Without looking, he reached out and grabbed the back of Michael’s jacket and tugged him until he was laying down also. Their shoulders were overlapping despite the fact that they each had room to move. Tentatively, heart pounding so hard Alex could swear he heard it in his ears, he moved his hand over to press against Michael’s. He held his breath and waited, tensing as if he were going to be hit, but when it never came he let the air out of his lungs slowly. Then he felt Michael move his hand and in a gesture born more of instinct than finesse, scoop his hand up and thread their fingers together. Alex’s heart beat double time, practically in his throat, as he tried to relax into the warm hold Michael had on his fingers. 

    He stared at the sky, but he didn’t see the stars anymore. He was too hyper aware of the dry, brittle grass poking into the back of his hand and the way there seemed to be sweat collecting in his palm from the heat between them and the way the tips of his fingers were numb with cold, and how tightly and perfectly their fingers seemed to fit around each other… There wasn’t any part of his brain that wasn’t thinking about how much he wanted the rest of their bodies to fit together as well as their hands did. Then Michael started shifting around. 

    “What are you doing?” Alex asked, looked over at him in concern. He tried to move his hand, but Michael’s grip tightened slightly so he let it rest back where it was. Michael was digging around in his jacket pocket and flapping his arm about as he tried to dislodge his hand from the too-small opening. 

    “Lemme borrow your lighter,” Michael asked, still distracted by getting his hand out of his pocket. Alex furrowed his brow, but slipped his hand into the jean pocket with the lighter and then held it out for Michael to take. When he finally freed his hand, Alex watched him put a rolled joint between his lips and then take the lighter from him. He lit the end and inhaled deeply before passing it over to Alex. Alex did the same and they both laid and slowly let out their breaths at the same time. Immediately, Alex’s head felt lighter. 

    “Wanna shotgun one?” Alex asked on his next turn with the joint. Michael rolled onto his elbow, letting go of his hand in the process, and looked down at him with a shiteating grin. 

    “If you wanted me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask,” he snarked. Before Alex could squirm with embarrassment or deny that’s what his aim was, Michael plucked the joint from Alex’s fingers, took a deep inhale, and swooped down to seal his lips over Alex’s. Alex gasped at the unexpected contact, filling his mouth and lungs with smoke and causing him to cough reflexively. When he felt Michael’s weight shift, his body tensing to back away, he brought his hand to the back of Michael’s neck, keeping him in place as he breathed the smoke out through his nose. Michael froze and Alex squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to all the Gods he didn’t believe in as he tentatively started moving his lips. At first, it was just the drag of his own lips against Michael’s, slightly dry from the pot smoke and desert air, but then… then it was like Michael melted into him. His body relaxed back to partially rest his weight over Alex’s, his lips pressing harder and his tongue swiping invitingly over Alex’s. Alex surged into it, desperate to keep kissing him, to stop thinking for a while and just let things happen. His brain had other ideas. 

    First, he had to figure out what to do with his hands. The one on the back of Michael’s neck was nice, but the one lying on the ground between them… did he put it on his arm? On his chest? Lower? Much lower? As they kissed, he experimentally put it on Michael’s chest, fascinated by how he could feel his heart beating even through his shirt. In response, he felt Michael’s hand curling around his waist over his clothes. Dimly, Alex wondered what had happened to the joint, but he found he didn’t really care as long as Michael kept kissing him. Alex started to move his hand up Michael’s neck. He wanted to touch his curls again, tangle his fingers in them and maybe tug a little as they kissed, but Michael pulled away. 

“I’m sorry,” he panted, eyes wide and imploring as they looked down into Alex’s. Alex felt shock jolt through his system, making his fingers tingle as he stared up into Michael’s face. He weakly worked his mouth, trying to find the words to respond. ‘Why?’, ‘It’s okay’, and ‘Don’t be’ came to mind, but he didn’t know which one to actually say. “I just mean… you didn’t ask for all that.”

“I didn’t mind,” Alex finally answered in a quiet voice. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and took it as a good sign that Michael hadn’t moved off him. Slowly, he raised his head as far as he could and pressed an opened mouth kiss onto Michael’s lower lip. He pulled back to do it again, and Michael’s eyes fluttered closed. The hand at Alex’s waist tightened briefly and that was all the warning Alex got before Michael’s mouth was pushing against his. This time Alex let himself sink into the feeling. He let his hands roam wherever they wanted to, let his mouth move against Michael’s, tongues touching and fleeing, let Michael shift and press a leg between his which felt better than it had any right to with so many layers of clothes between them. 

Alex let out an unmanly yelp against Michael’s mouth when his cold fingers found their way under his layers of jacket, hoodie, shirt, undershirt and touched the bare skin of his stomach. Gooseflesh immediately erupted over his chest and back and he felt his nipples tighten at the shock of the cold. Michael was snickering into his shoulder as he continued to move his hand over Alex’s stomach and Alex continued to whine and flinch away from his touch. 

“Stop it! Oh my God your hands are so fucking cold! Quit, quit, quit,” Alex yowled, making a grab for Michael’s hand and finding himself in a short grappling match. It ended up with him pinning Michael against the cold earth with his wrists beside his head as Alex straddled his waist. He bared his teeth at him in a fiendish grin. 

“I win,” he said simply. Michael laughed again, body relaxed under Alex’s. 

“Did you?” Michael asked, moving his hips in a way that suggested he was settling in, but definitely brushed his half chub against Alex in a way he couldn’t miss. Alex felt a flash of panic as he realized he didn’t know how to flirt like that, how to be casual and cool and sexy in the face of someone else actually desiring him. He let go of Michael’s hands and rolled off to sit next to him. He hoped the firelight was dim enough that Michael didn’t see the blush on his cheeks as he grabbed for the abandoned whiskey bottle and uncorked it to grab a sip. Michael sat up and watched him before taking the bottle and slugging down his own drink. 

“That wasn’t a demand, ya know?” Michael said, voice subdued as he watched the fire burning down. 

“I know,” Alex replied, feeling his cheeks heat up more. He pulled his knees up towards his chest and hugged them as he stared awkwardly at the fire, wishing he could go back to five minutes ago when they were pressed against each other and their mouths were all that mattered. From the corner of his eye, he could see Michael turn to look at him and he kept his eyes trained forward with every ounce of his being. 

“You wanna head back in? It’s getting really cold,” Michael asked. He was giving Alex an out and Alex didn’t know if he felt grateful for it or annoyed. 

“There’s a cabin not too far from here. Let’s go there. We can build another fire inside and just sleep there. Neither of us should be driving right now,” Alex offered, noting exactly how spinny the world was when he closed his eyes. 

“You’re probably right. Is this like… a place you’ve been before? Is it abandoned or something?” Michael asked, sounding nervous and wary. 

“No, it’s not abandoned. Kyle’s dad owns it,” Alex explained. 

“VALENTI’S DAD?!” Michael exclaimed, laughing and shaking his head. “No way are we staying there. Holy shit, I can just imagine how bad that would be if we got found.”

“No, no, no. Sheriff Valenti and my dad are old friends. Mr. Valenti loves me. He’s given me, like, blanket permission to use the cabin whenever I need to. It’s fine,” Alex said, distracted by Michael’s mini-freak out enough to turn and hold his shoulders while he explained. “We won’t get in trouble. It’ll be fine. Sheriff Valenti is the exact opposite of my dad.”

Michael sat and looked at him, as if he could see the future and gauge whether the risk was worth the reward. 

“Besides, we’d really be fucked if he caught us driving home this fucked up. He’d be happier knowing we didn’t try to operate a motor vehicle while under the influence. Seriously, it’ll be fine.”

“Man, okay. You sure it’d be fine?” Michael asked again, still looking like a rabbit ready to bolt. 

“Dude, it’s fine. Let’s douse this with some sand and we’ll roll down there,” Alex said, standing up and holding his hand out to Michael. 

“Thought we shouldn’t be driving?” Michael asked sarcastically. 

“I mean, if you want to walk a mile in this cold, that’s fine, but I think you can be reasonably responsible to drive a mile in the middle of the night down a dirt road one mile per hour about idle. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine. We’ll walk it,” Alex offered. Michael had grabbed his arm and was poised to get pulled up, but Alex wanted to know his decision first. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. We’ll take the truck,” he said and then Alex stepped back and pulled him up to his feet. 

“Cool, then let’s throw some sand on this fire! It’s fucking cold,” Alex shouted, before going over to the bucket of sand that was always kept on the side of the fire pit and picking it up. He started slowly pouring the sand over the remaining flames while Michael went and grabbed a second bucket and took the other side of the fire to do the same. When it was dark, Michael went ahead to turn on the truck lights while Alex stirred the fire to see if any hot spots were left. By the time he was satisfied, the high beams were streaming over the edge of the fire pit and Michael was revving the engine to get it to warm up. Alex climbed out of the fire pit and got back into the truck, then slowly gave Michael directions on how to get to the cabin. When they pulled up in front of the cabin, Michael looked at it even more warily than he had the fire pit. 

“This isn’t your murder cabin, is it? We’re not going to get stabbed by some dude in a shitty sports mask if we make out some more, are we?” he asked as he followed Alex up to the porch. Alex snorted and started feeling around the top of the door frame for the extra cabin key. When he found it, he opened the door quickly and ushered them both in. He flipped one of the light switches and the living room and kitchen lights came on, giving the rustic cabin a warm, yellow glow. He looked at the fireplace and grimaced. Unlike the firepit, the cabin was not ready for a fire to be lit. Sighing, he went back outside and grabbed a handful of logs off the porch pile and shuffled them inside. 

Michael was walking around the inside rooms, looking at the walls and knickknacks scattered around. 

“Hey, where do you guys sleep?” Michael called out. Alex turned from where he was stacking logs in the fireplace to see Michael standing in the kitchen with his hands on his hips twisting around as if another doorway would suddenly appear. 

“There’s another building that’s a bunk house,” Alex explained, turning back to the fire. 

“Are we going to sleep in there?” Michael asked, his voice coming closer. Alex could feel the vibration in the floor as he got closer and then the warmth of him standing behind him. Alex grabbed a rolled piece of fire starter from the box they kept nearby. He pushed it into the middle of the logs and grabbed a punk to light with his lighter. He pushed it against the fire starter and blew a little, waiting until he saw the fire starter catch before withdrawing the punk and throwing it on top of the logs. When that was finished, he turned to consider his options. He didn’t really want to run both fireplaces in the cabin. He’d have to clean them both out in the morning and that seemed like far too much work. 

“Let’s go grab a couple mattresses off the bunks and drag them in here. We can push them together and cover them with blankets and stuff…if that’s cool with you?” Alex asked, looking up at Michael who’d been watching him work with the fire. 

    “That’s fine. I’ve got a couple sleeping bags in the truck I can bring in. We can use them as extra padding or extra cover,” he offered. Alex nodded and they smiled at each other. It was oddly wholesome, like they were just having a sleepover and nothing else. 

    They went out to the bunk house and Alex used the key to unlock the door. They grabbed a couple of the twin mattresses off the closest bunks and hauled them on their shoulders over to the main cabin. They put them on the floor next to one another and then while Michael went to his truck for the sleeping bags, Alex went back to the bunk house for pillows and some extra blankets. By the time they’d made their nest, the fire had warmed up the room to something almost near comfortable. Alex shrugged off his coat and hoodie, throwing them onto the couch, and then toed off his shoes before stepping onto the thin, cheap camp mattresses. 

    “You’re going to sleep in your jeans?” Michael asked incredulously. Alex looked down at himself and then at Michael. He had planned on it, but not if Michael wasn’t. He was already unbuttoning them as he gave his retort. 

    “What if I get cold?” he asked, trying to balance on one leg and work the skinny leg of his jeans off his foot with the other. 

    “I promise, I’ll keep you warm. I’ve been told I run hot,” Michael joked, stripping down to his boxers and nothing else. Alex tried not to get caught staring at him, but it was so much skin and he hadn’t mentally prepared himself for it. When Michael turned to pick up one of his fallen socks from when he’d chucked his clothes onto the couch, Alex got too distracted and ended up toppling over onto the mattress with only one leg free from his jeans. Michael looked over at him and grinned like he knew what had caught his attention. He reached over and grabbed Alex’s foot, swinging him around so he could work the other jean leg down around Alex’s foot. 

    “These are really not conducive to getting naked quickly,” Michael commented as he tugged and pulled at the denim to get them to slide down over Alex’s calf and heel. 

    “I wasn’t really expecting to need to get naked quickly tonight,” Alex snapped, bending his knee to pull it out of the jean leg. 

    “Didn’t have plans to be naked at midnight with someone?” Michael teased, tossing the jeans aside when they’d finally gotten them all the way off. Alex snorted indelicately and watched Michael drop to his hands and knees on the mattress beside him. He pulled his pillow over from the other side of the mattress until it touched Alex’s. 

    “Not really. I was just hoping to get a kiss,” Alex said distractedly while watching Michael curiously as he started arranging the covers to his liking. Michael looked up at the wall clock.

    “We were probably making out at midnight. I think you got your wish,” he commented before dropping onto his side next to Alex. Alex felt a spasm of shock go through him. He hadn’t realized it was so late, that they’d missed the turning of the clock from one year to the next. He turned onto his side and faced Michael, looking him over thoughtfully. 

    “Happy New Year,” he said, smiling and running his hand down Michael’s arm affectionately. Michael spared a glance at his arm and then leaned in, pressing his mouth to Alex’s in a sweet, open kiss that made something in Alex draw tight with need. 

    “Happy New Year,” Michael breathed against his lips when they parted for breath. This time Alex felt bold, felt like it had to be more than a fluke of the fire and whiskey if they’d kissed twice over so many hours. He slipped his hand around Michael’s back and pulled their bodies closer together while sweeping his tongue across Michael’s to beckon him to kiss him deeper. Now there were fewer layers, less guessing, and more to explore for Alex’s hands as they kissed. He couldn’t get enough of the swell of Michael’s shoulder blades or the sharp curve of his hip bone, or the way his stomach felt as it bumped against his when they drew in deep breaths before diving back into each other. He was drowning in it, drowning in Michael touching him back, exploring his body too, and when he ran his hand under the leg of Alex’s boxers and grabbed his ass to grind their bodies together? Alex saw nirvana. It was the best thing he’d felt outside of his own hand. 

    “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Michael breathed, kissing over Alex’s jaw to his ear. Alex nodded, but he was too caught up in how hot and hard Michael’s dick felt through his boxers as it slid along the inside of his hip and wondering if he could get his hand on him, if he could put his mouth on him…

    “You ever do this before?” Alex managed to gasp before slipping his fingers under the waistband of Michael’s underwear. 

    “Yeah,” Michael replied with a embarrassed, proud grin, “but not like with a…”

    “A guy?” Alex supplied as Michael trailed off. They both let out a burst of embarrassed, hysterical giggles.

    “Yeah, a guy. But also, not with someone I like as much as I like you,” he finished, bringing Alex’s face back to his so he could see the sincerity in his words. Alex felt like he’d been given a birthday present and kicked in the gut at the same time. He smiled slowly at Michael’s words and leaned in to kiss him, softly, sweetly, and with all the emotion he could muster but couldn’t put into sentences. 

    “I like you, too,” he managed after a few more kisses. 

    “I would certainly hope so,” Michael joked, bringing his hand between them to gently squeeze the line of Alex’s prick through the thin jersey material of his boxers. Alex glanced down and could see the dark spot at the tip of his cock. He looked at Michael’s underwear and was relieved to see a similar stain starting on his own underwear. 

    “What do you want to do tonight?” Alex asked breathily as he ran a finger lightly up the length of Michael’s hard on. His hips twitched in response to the stimulation and Alex felt a hunger for more rise in him at the motion. 

    “I… I don’t know? M-maybe, hand jobs?” Michael stuttered, his eyes drifting closed as Alex moved forward to kiss his neck and chest while his hand continued to softly pet his cock. Alex watched in fascination as his hand framed Michael’s covered dick while he stroked over the fabric. He wanted more to do more, wanted to see him, taste him, make him feel good. 

    “I think I want to try giving you a blow job,” Alex said almost absentmindedly. He heard Michael’s sharp, quiet gasp and his eyes came up to meet his. 

    “You want to?” Michael asked, eyes pleading that he say ‘yes’, but voice making it clear that Alex could say ‘no’ without any repercussions. 

    “Yeah, is that okay?” Alex asked, trying to convey the same thing with his eyes as he waited for Michael’s verdict. 

    “I mean, yeah, of course. I… have you ever done this before?” Michael asked hesitantly. 

    “No, but I mean… I’ve watched porn. I’ve done my research. How hard can it be?” Alex asked, starting to scoot his body down so he could more easily access Michael’s dick. 

    “Oh, just thinking about it makes it very hard,” Michael replied cheekily. Alex shot him an amused, appreciative grin at the joke. 

    “Okay, I’m going to…” Alex started, reaching for the waistband of Michael’s underwear. Michael’s hands met his and together they pushed and maneuvered his underwear off and then he laid on his back, bared in all his glory to Alex’s gaze. Alex tried not to stare, but Michael’s was the first real live cock he’d seen in front of him, hard, turned on, and for him to do what he wanted with. He catalogued all the differences between them. Michael was thicker than he was, uncut, and he seemed wider at the tip. Alex grasped him, running his fingers over the soft, velvety foreskin before taking a firmer grip and jacking him slowly. It was such a different sensation than he got from jacking his own cock, more fluid, and he loved watching the head of Michael’s cock disappear and reappear as his hand moved on him. He heard Michael softly exhale ‘Fuck’ above him as he kept moving his hand slowly up and down the shaft of his cock. The precum that beaded the tip was clear and shiny. Without overthinking it, Alex licked a broad stripe across the sticky head. The bitter, tangy taste took him by surprise, but he found he wanted more of it. Pulling back Michael’s foreskin he pressed his tongue over the slit of Michael’s cock before lowering his mouth to seal around the head and suck gently. 

    “Shit, I don’t know if I’m going to make it to the main event,” Michael hissed above him as Alex sucked on the head of his cock and moved his hand in tempo. Alex looked up through his eyelashes at him, not stopping what he was doing, and could see the strain on his face as he watched Alex’s mouth and hand on him. It made a flood of arousal wash through him to see how turned on Michael was getting, how so little was pushing him close to cumming already. 

    “Hey, switch sides,” Michael gasped, clutching at Alex’s shoulder. Alex popped off and gave him a confused look for a moment. “Like, bring your bottom half up here. 69!”

    Alex scrambled to comply. He practically tore off his underwear and both of them rolled onto their sides to face each other. He took Michael in hand again and looked down between them to see Michael do the same. He did it confidently, like he’d done this before even though Alex knew he hadn’t, but it was so typically Michael to always act like he knew what he was doing. He’d at least been blown before so, Alex surmised, he had to know more than Alex. Michael glanced down and their eyes met and for a fleeting second, Alex could see in some microexpression that Michael was nervous too. It made him feel better, made him want to make Michael feel the way he’d felt earlier, so he closed his eyes and wrapped his lips around Michael again. 

    This time he felt more confident. He smoothed his tongue over the hard flesh in his mouth and pushed his lips further down Michael’s shaft until he felt him teasing the edges of the back of his throat and he knew if he kept pushing he’d gag. So he took what he could and moved his hand over what he couldn’t. He’d gotten caught up in a rhythm of sorts to what he was doing when he felt the first touch of Michael’s tongue against his dick. It was barely there, a warm pressure and then gone. When Michael came back with his whole mouth, Alex pulled back off Michael with a gasp. That was a completely different feeling, one that made his toes curl and the muscles around his spine tense with pleasure. When Michael added his own bit of suction, Alex felt sure he would blow. 

    “Shit, shit, shit,” he panted, leaning his head against Michael’s hip for a moment. 

    “Right?” he heard Michael say and without looking, he knew the bastard was smirking at him. 

    “So can we just agree that if each of us is embarrassingly quick, this was just a warm-up round?” Alex panted out, finally opening his eyes to glance down towards Michael’s face. It was a mistake, of course, because his lips were red and spit slick, and Alex’s own cock was only inches away from them, and Michael had just had his mouth on him and if possible, Alex felt himself get the tiniest bit harder in Michael’s hand at the sight.

    “Yep,” Michael agreed succinctly, before diving back in. Alex had to concentrate not to buck his hips at the sudden sensation of Michael’s mouth on him, but he managed it. Trying to get his head back in the game, he drew Michael back into his mouth and regained his earlier tempo. A deep, throaty moan from Michael almost sent him spiraling over the edge as the vibrations ran the length of him. He echoed the sentiment and felt fine tremors run along Michael’s thighs. Slowing down, Alex decided to try to push his limit and see how much he could get of Michael in him. He moved his head down lower, trying to relax through the feeling of something blocking his throat. He pulled back and tried again. 

    “Shit, Alex, what are you-- Oh my god,” Michael was gasping above him, hand reaching down to cradle the back of Alex’s head. He didn’t push or put any pressure on him, just tangled his fingers in Alex’s dark locks and held on as Alex continued to slowly work him deeper. Michael tried to pleasure Alex at the same time, but it felt more like he just held him in his mouth and moaned as Alex moved over him. He didn’t mind. It felt powerful to have him so distracted, to have him whimpering and see his muscles twitching with how bad he wanted to move and thrust as Alex swirled his tongue around him and hollowed out his cheeks.

    A clench of fingers in Alex’s hair and quickly frantic “Fuck, I’m gunna --”  was all the warning Alex got before his mouth was flooded with Michael’s release. It wasn’t altogether pleasant, but he swallowed quickly in hopes the aftertaste wouldn’t be as bad. He backed off and looked down at Michael’s face. His cheeks were red from exertion, his mouth open and panting, and his eyes closed in something between pain and bliss. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked down at Alex, a lazy grin on his face. 

    “That was awesome,” he drawled, before sitting up and moving so he could capture Alex’s mouth in an overenthusiastic, sloppy kiss. Alex laughed at him, kissing him back and pulling him close, running his hands over all his new favorite places on Michael’s body. Michael’s hand reached between them and he grasped Alex’s cock. 

    “Is this okay?” he asked between kisses, hand moving purposefully over Alex. Alex nodded, pulling Michael into another kiss as he let himself get worked over. When he could no longer kiss because all his attention was on the rushing feeling through his body as he got pulled closer and closer to cumming, Michael started talking. 

    “You look so hot like this,” he murmured against Alex’s neck. “You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”

    “Fuck, Michael,” Alex gasped, hips starting to make small, aborted thrusts to follow Michael’s tight grip on him. 

    “You looked so hot with my cock in your mouth, so focused, like you loved doing it, like you were made for it,” Michael breathed into his ear. Alex could only whimper, his body drawing tight before he started shooting, cum hitting his chest and stomach, dripping over Michael’s knuckles. 

    “Christ, that’s a lot of jizz,” Michael said, before laughing lightly as he grabbed someone’s underwear and wiped off his hand and Alex’s torso. “What a load of --”

    “Shhh,” Alex said, turning and covering Michael’s mouth with his before he could make another terrible joke. Michael hummed contentedly as Alex kissed it, slow and languidly as he came down from his high. When Alex could muster up the energy, he reached down and grabbed one of the blankets to throw it over them. Despite there being two mattresses, they were sharing one, knees tangled together, arms wrapped around each other, chests touching. 

    “So what does this mean tomorrow?” Michael asked quietly when they’d begun to drowse and could no longer keep kissing. Alex opened an eye and looked over at him, having noted the tension in his voice. 

    “What do you mean?” he asked, raising his head and propping it on a hand so he could look down at Michael. 

    “Like… are we together? Boyfriends? Friends with benefits? Is this like… a drunk tumble for the holiday?” Michael asked, swallowing thickly as he pushed out the last option. Alex frowned down at him, wondering where this was coming from, why he’d need to ask. Did he want it to be a drunk tumble?

    “I… I figured it meant we were dating? Like… like boyfriends. But if you don’t want that I--” Alex never got to figure out what concession he’d make to keep getting to kiss Michael. 

    “No! No, boyfriends is good. I-I want to be your boyfriend. I just wanted to make sure you wanted that too,” he finished, focusing on Alex’s shoulder as he ran his fingers lightly over the curve to his arm. 

    “So boyfriends,” Alex said decisively, laying back down, arm extended out under his pillow. He couldn’t help the smile that stretched over his mouth or the excitement that crept into his voice as he said, as calmly as possible, “I’m your boyfriend.”

    “You bet you are,” Michael pronounced, meeting his eyes finally and swooping in to kiss him through his own smile. Their teeth may have clacked together because they couldn’t seem to stop grinning, but it didn’t hurt and no one seemed to care. 

    The night passed quietly and slowly. They fell asleep against each other only minutes before dawn started to lighten the sky, the fire burned low in the fireplace behind them, their bodies spent from discovering each other over and over. It was the happiest Alex had ever felt, the safest and warmest as he laid with his back against Michael’s chest, feeling him breathe deeply as he slept. 

    “Boyfriends,” he whispered into the dark room, still smiling as he forced himself to close his eyes and lightly squeeze the arms that wrapped around him. 

[axolot-of-ideas]

So! after 4 days of sleep deprieved editing and writing. and a computer crash! CONTENT. and if you see grammar errors, no you do not <3

block lore goes brrrrr

Bad flicked through the open tabs on his communicator, lost in thought. They've had an shortage on iron for a while and he decided to try and streamline their iron production for a bit. He had bits and pieces of what he needed and enough practice with admin magic to bridge the gap of what he needed. He ran over all the materials mentally again before a hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Hey Bad- I'm heading off-world now."

"Hmm- Oh yeah-," Bad mumbled trying to acknowledge the sheep hybrid as best he could, "Umm- is Drake heading with you?"

"Bad... Drake left yesterday-" Whisper said softly, "Are you sure you'll be okay? and when did you sleep last?-" Concern was intertwined in every word out of their lips.

"I'll be fine, Wisp- Go say hi to your friends. I can handle myself. And I'll rest after this." Bad said gesturing to the materials on the table in front of him, "I'll be fine, i promise." Sleepless lies dripped off his slurring words.

"Mkay-" Whisper said doubtfully believing him. In a flash of magic, they were gone.

<Whispered_Sleep left the world>

Bad sighed, as the tiredness hit him. When had he last slept? When was the last time he relaxed and let his body reset that wasn't a respawn?

He couldn't stop now. He couldn't be a burden. He had to be productive and contribute. Or Whisper and Drake might just leave and not find a reason to come back....

Shaking the thoughts from his head he mined down through their mineshaft until his pickaxe struck bedrock. He muttered something in a language he barely remembered as he hit the unbreakable rock.

~~

He watched entranced with the miners as they lead him down the long underground tunnels. He just turned 16, old enough to contribute to the village, so the workers have taken to showing him around their jobs. He's taken a kin to most of the jobs but building and mining have always interested him the most. With a knack to technology and magic to boot, he landed himself a jack of all trades job. He mostly wandered about the sites and helping out where needed. He loved it. He could contribute to and help the place he lived now. He wasn't a burden anymore, he was a helper. He was Of Good Idelas, helper of his town and part of the village.

~~

Bad collected the ashes from the bedrock, It pulsed with something different then normal.

Grains of Infinity, his communicator called it.

Gathering the rest of the materials was easy enough. Crafting each part and tugging against the world’s magic with his own admin magic he felt each part meld to each other.

It ached against his tired form, it twisted through unpracticed shaking hands. Steeling himself harder against the brunt of the new magic. It sparked uncomfortably, it was unlike the ones he was familiar with.

He felt a surge shoot through his body before he was blown back from the crafting table.

Bad coughed as he rolled from the bed he laid in. Ignoring the aches of the respawn and his dazed head, he raced back to where he was working.

A small crater where he once stood, a grave just as close. He picked up the finished generator at the seared crafting table, wincing at the hot newly formed metal.

The final piece of the machine he was building- He plopped it next to the sag mill and alloy smelter and slowly started connecting the power to them. Choosing to finish his job before getting his things from his grave.

He ignored the smell of burnt flesh and magic permeating the room. He ignored the thoughts swarming in his head. His memories were always harsh after he died.

~~

The young man shot awake from his floor ridden cot to the sounds of shouts. He was a soldier now. Forced to the main kingdom for a war he never agreed to. Scrambling for his uniform he tried to ignore the memories of his village pushing him into the carriage just weeks before. He was a burden to them, not helping enough anymore. They abandoned him to the rich wolves looking for fresh blood to force to war. He was never good at fighting yet here he stood a sword getting shoved into his hands.

“-ot Of Idelas!” he heard his name be called from the general, shaking him from his thoughts. He wasn’t part of his village anymore, He wasn’t a 16 year old jack of all trades the townspeople all took a liking to anymore. He was an 18 year old solider fed into battle for being useless. The people part of the castle cared not for you. They cared for the swords you could swing, the hits you could take. And the blood you could shed.

He was just a townsperson Of Idelas. Another face in a war and he was abandoned for not being enough.

~~

Bad groaned as he struggled to rewire the system again. He swore that the answer was right infront of him. But between the respawn and his shaking hands, he couldn’t manage to do it.

Raking his hand through his already messy hair, Bad stood up from his spot in front of the machines and generators. Glancing towards the window, he glared at the sun streaking towards the floor; A reminder of the time he never noticed passed. Turning towards the mess he created earlier, he jumped into the small crater and looked towards his grave.

Eyes wide and frozen to the spot, memories slammed into him like waves. His breath caught in against the silent sobs in his throat. His heartbeat grew heavier and harder in his chest, an all too real reminder of his time left.

Bad crumpled to floor.

~~

His eyes shot open as he took his first breath in months. He awoke in a small crater, a creeper explosion if the plant remains were anything to go by. He shakily pushed himself up, trying to grasp onto the remains of his dream.

He was dead. He was supposed to be dead. He knew that, through all the haze in his head, He knew for a fact he was supposed to be dead.

Looking at the small destroyed grave stone, he glanced at his name. 

“-f Bad Id-”

His name was Bad, and he was supposed to be dead. 

He walked towards an abandoned house as he gripped what remained of him.

A destroyed mask, the small purple flower that laid in front of his grave and a decaying body.

~~

Bad awoke to a small crater and a gravestone. Shakily pushing himself up, he gathered his items and began to fill in the hole. Lost in thought, Bad tried not to focus on the force of life weighing on him.

He raced through his still panicking thoughts.

His name is Bad.

He was alive.

He was in a magical world.

He had two people on this world. Drake and Wisp.

He loved them

His name was Bad.

He came from a world of stone with Drake and Wisp.

He knew magic, technology, and how to survive.

He was working on producing more iron.

His name is Bad.

He was at home.

He was alive.

He was breathing.

He is alive.

He is breathing.

He just respawned.

His name is Bad.

He couldn’t remember his past or why he named himself.

Maybe it’s because that’s all he remembers from his life. 

Maybe because that’s what he found written on his gravestone.

Maybe it’s because he only views himself as that.

Or maybe it’s because he learned what being called Bad meant in the language he once spoke, and thats all he thought of himself as.

His name was Bad and he was dead.

He is dying again.

His name was Bad

And He is Dead.

His connection to this world was fading

His name was Bad. 

And soon he would have to leave the people he loved.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

handmaid - 26

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, mention of weapons and gunshots 

A/N:  will i ever write a chapter without a musical reference? no as i literally cannot help myself.

NEXT CHAPTER

The night was like a warm blanket tonight yet the world somehow seemed wider, brighter as she laid against his chest, hearing his heart softly beating against his ribcage. The sound itself sent her in a spiral of her own mind, the sound itself proved he was alive, he was real and he was there. Laying down next to him was just the right thing to do despite it being at the same time the wrongest of all wrong things. Sure, this was the man Gwen had been promised to ever since she was born but at the same time whenever she was next to him he seemed like a completely different person than the mythical mob boss her mind had fabricated over the years. When she was next to him he was her lover and at the end of the day that was what overwhelmed her overall perception. 

     - What are you thinking about? - Sebastian slightly raised his head with precaution as to not disturb her. - You’re very quiet.  

     - Just basking in the feeling. - she looked up to him without really moving the rest of her body, hand remaining in its imaginary circle drawing. - We should probably return to doing what we were doing.

     - I think there’s more boxes in the garage. - he sat up, arms wrapped around her figure so she didn’t fall off his lap and landed on the ground. If it was up to him, he would remain in that position for another hour with his nose buried in her hair smelling the scent of her fragrance mixed with her shampoo. - Maybe there’s something there. 

    - You don’t need to do this for me. - she pushed her hair to the side, cocking her head slightly as her hand searched the ground for her jumper which was colder than she would like due to the winter weather just outside. - I know you probably have your own business to take care of. 

    - I’m a good multitasker, my angel. - he kissed her naked shoulder before she slide her jumper on, shivering at the contact of her warm skin with the cold fabric. Y/N gave him a playful smile followed by a roll of the eyes before getting up, picking up his garments in the process and throwing them at him. 

Smiling like a fool who just won the lottery, and in a certain way he sort of had, he got dressed up in the wrinkled clothes and wrapped his arm around her natural waist before leading her out of his office and into the life to the garage. If there was a room in the house that was always, if not ever since its construction, in chaos, it was the garage. Whatever he didn’t want in his home anymore or anything for which he didn’t have space, he would send it down to the garage which meant the room was filled to the brim with boxes and boxes along with some record books and more contracts, most likely belonging to his father as Sebastian prided himself in keeping an electronic copy of all his contracts, just in case. Y/N couldn’t help herself but sneeze at the amount of dust that had gathered over the years as she grabbed one of the boxes. Surely he had enough money to hire someone to clean it, however it seemed to always escape his mind.

Sebastian took the other side of the box created walls while Y/N started to go through the first box which weirdly was filled with clothes, children’s clothes. She cocked an eyebrow in confusion, but continued to go through the box’s contents, carefully putting the clothing off the box by her side until she reached a silver picture frame of a woman holding a baby whose gaze was somewhere else. She smiled at the warm nature of the photo which looked to have been snapped unknowingly. Her fingers traced the contours of the photo as she wondered who the two individuals were until she felt Sebastian’s hand on her shoulder. 

   - That’s my mother. - he pointed at the woman in the photo. - And that’s me. 

   - Why is this photo here? - she asked, turning her head to stare at him. Y/N knew Sebastian clearly had a soft spot for his mother as he spoke of her like any kid spoke of their parents, something that didn’t seem to occur whenever he mentioned his father whose relationship seemed to be more apprentice-master than father and son. 

   - In all honesty, I didn’t even remember it was down here. My father got rid of most stuff related to my mother after the divorce. - his hand left her shoulder as he took a seat next to her. 

   - You’ve never spoke to me about your mother. At least not a lot. - it was in her nature to be curious, she found the most she knew about people, the best she could connect and help them out. Sebastian normally would’ve taken curiosity at harsh value but whenever she asked him something, he couldn’t help but feel wrapped around her kind nature. 

   - Well, they got divorced when I was 6 or 7. Bad divorce, my mother didn’t have enough money to get a legal team so my father got everything, including me. One visit a year ... she ended up dying when I was 14.

   - I’m so sorry, Seb. - she wrapped her arms around him, kissing his temple, trying to console him the best way she could. Sebastian however had closed that wound a long time ago and instead looked inside the box she was looking at, recognising most of the items as childhood belongings. With a curious look in her eyes, his hand rummaged through the box’s belongings taking an old teared by time stuffed bunny which gained Y/N’s attention. - What’s that?

   - Oreo. - he said nonchalantly. 

   - Oreo? - she giggled. - It has a name? You don’t mean to tell me that the mob boss had a stuffed animal named Oreo. 

   - Mob bosses aren’t born mob bosses. - he put the stuffed animal back in the box. - I thought one of my kids might want it someday but if they’re anything like Gwen, I think they won’t want something this old.

   - Right. - she swallowed her worries which kept telling her that she would never be the one to bore him a child. Mr. Williams words rang inside her mind like terrifying echoes. Mistress. Mistresses don’t get happy endings. - Well, you have good taste, Oreo is a great name. 

   - Good taste ... - his eyes seemed to rewind to a past time, leaving Y/N to look at him weirdly as he jumped on his feet to walk to a little shelf filled with books which turned to be photo albums. Looking through several pages in second-like intervals, he finally stopped in the middle of the album, a smile on his face as his memories proved right. Quickly moving towards the young handmaiden, placing the book in her lap. Her eyes glued to the photo which was of a round table filled with mostly men and little to no women, however, a specific woman stood out in the middle of everyone, a kind smile contrasting with the tight lipped smirks of the rest of the crowd. Around her neck a golden necklace just like the one which was wrapped around the young handmaiden’s neck. - I knew I remembered the name Robin. 

   - What happened to her? - Sebastian sadly couldn’t answer this question as he was rather young and most of the times forbidden to even be close to any of his father’s parties or dinners. Y/N flipped through the pages noticing she showed up in a few more pictures before completely disappearing. - She seems to stop appearing. 

   - Whoever she was, she was no mere worker. My father had a rather elitist taste when it came to who got to attend his dinners and parties. - the theory that her parents didn’t want her screamed at her again. At that point, it just sounded like the most plausible theory. Noticing this shift his attitude, Sebastian closed the photo album, putting it away from her. - You don’t need to keep going, angel. You turned out just fine without them. 

   - I know. - she forced a smile, trying to see if she could fool Sebastian but he was much too familiar with her characteristics to be easily fooled. Sighing, Sebastian took her hands in his, slowly yet surely getting her on her feet.

   - I think that’s enough detective work for today. - he leaned down, pecking her lips two times, a smile on his face. Y/N nodded, thinking it would be best if she didn’t dig in the past and together they returned to the lift which took them back to the penthouse. The lift doors slowly open and Y/N noticed her suitcase standing slightly to the side of the lift. She didn’t think much of it knowing Sebastian to be a man who had man for everything so he had probably gotten someone to grab it earlier than mentioned. Even with that, she felt a somber heavy vibe in the air as she located her suitcase, something that seemed to push her down, like a weight. - Your suitcase is here.

   - Oh ... I guess I should just unpack. - his words took her from the glued, almost hypnotic glare at her own bag. Sebastian shrugged, letting her do her own thing, only offering his help to help her move the suitcase into her bedroom to which she declined. 

Her intuition was telling her to be careful and as such, she closed the door behind her immediately opening her suitcase. There was nothing odd about it, mostly filled with the clothes she had brought to the Forrest along with other objects and personal belongings. Still there was a  heavy weight which seemed to grow heavier and heavier as she folded her clothes and put them back in her wardrobe which hit a climax as she noticed a piece of white like fabric right at the bottom of her suitcase. She took a step back however her hand leaned forward, her fingers lightly tracing the fabric as if the fabric itself were a bomb. 

The fabric itself didn’t feel worn out and as she raised it into the air so she could inspect it better. It was an old fabric which at his prime was white but had started to grow slightly yellowish with the passage of time, the material of cashmere itself however still had the same comfort of a new one, almost as if it had never been worn. However, the most notable feature of the blanket was the cursive embroidery spelling Ella next to the silhouette of a robin. Without much thought to it, she brought the blanket up to her nose, inhaling what was reminiscent of fresh rosemaries on a hot summer day spent in a garden. Then out of the sudden, just as her nose sensed the scent of the blanket, a loud gunshot sound seemed to reverberate from the back of her skull to the front. She let out a scared scream, dropping the blanket on the floor as if the fabric was burning her hands. Her eyes scanned the room, looking paranoiacally for where the gunshot could’ve come for but there was nothing in her bedroom, there was no one in her bedroom. That was until Sebastian broke into her bedroom, black revolver set in the air to which she immediately put her hands up, noticing there were few tears rolling down her cheeks and meeting at her chin. Sebastian lowered his gun, after inspecting her bedroom for any threats.

   - I heard a gunshot. - her breathe came rather harshly through her mouth, almost as if she had been holding in her breathe. 

   - There was no gunshot, angel. - his hands cupped her face, kissing the top of her forehead as she leaned into his embrace. - Your mind’s playing tricks on you. 

   - No, I heard it. - she heard it, she could still hear it ringing in her ears like a never ending sound. Sebastian’s lips tightened as he embraced her tighter, letting go of his revolver on top of her bed. - I heard it. 

  - I know, angel. I know. - he spoke very lowly, whisper-like even. - You’re tired, you need some rest.

  - I swear I heard it. - she looked around, her eyes convincing her that there was no real danger but her mind telling her to keep her guard up, specially when the blanket on the ground caught her attention once more like a cursed amulet. Like a child, she hid from it on Sebastian’s shoulders, the contrasting cedar wood scent almost erasing the soft and fresh rosemary from her mind. She had heard it, she knew she had heard it. - Maybe you’re right, I just might be tired. 

  - C’mon, I can make you a cheese toastie. - he rubbed her arm soothingly, a inviting smile on his reddish pink lips which just always looked so inviting. - It’s gonna be alright, angel. 

  -  Well, I’m surprised you can use a sandwich maker. - Y/N pushed the worries to the back of the brain, that part you only see when you’re trying to fall asleep or too lost in your own mind to visit those darkest parts which you hope disappear with time. 

   - I’m not completely incompetent in the kitchen. - she looked up at him, a seemingly calm smile masking all her worries. - I never set it on fire.

   - What an amazing astonishment. - she giggled, a hand coming to stand in front of her lips. 

   - C’mon angel, let’s get some food in you.

tag list: @lilya-petrichor​ @xoxohannahlee​ @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater​ @nikkipea​ @madisonpillstrom​ @cevans98​ @thelostallycat​ @sideeffectsofyou​ @anxiousdreamersworld​ @captainchrisstan​ @lookiamtrying​ @sarge-barnes-sir​ @stuffforreferences @thebadassbitchqueen @sebastianstansqueen@nsfwsebbie @strangerliaa @emzd34

[englacial]

A Warm Goodbye or A Message for the Future

I haven’t been active here in more than a year which is mostly by accident but also quite purposeful. I had intended to remain in the RP community but as is evident by my many returns, disappearances, and moments of unreliability, this is a chapter of my life that has come to an end. I say this with an abundance of love for what writing here has given me and also with renewed knowledge of what that progression has looked like for me. This community has been amazing and it has also been devastating for me at times. I have also played a role in that devastation and wasn’t always the best version of myself (and I’m still not). 

COVID certainly threw my life into turmoil and unearthed a lot.

In December of last year I went through a mental health crisis that landed me in patient for a brief period and also lead me to the deepest and most accurate understanding of my mental health I’ve ever contended with. Through the process of finding a new therapist experienced with dissociative disorders, I was diagnosed with DID and my whole life suddenly made sense. 

The ups and downs, the identity confusion, the loss of time and deep misunderstandings of situations I was faced with suddenly made sense in their entirety. Many gaps have been filled simply by working on this in therapy and it has forced me to reflect on my time in the RP community and how I’ve interacted with fellow writers, both good and bad. It’s also made it incredibly difficult to let go of this account and writing because for me, it was often the only opportunity I had to express myself as me. Roleplaying was an excuse to be a different person, an easy cover for what was actually occurring in our life. I haven’t always known how to do that nor did I fully grasp why OCs felt more like me than me (surprise! they’re me). There were times when my self-expression was really self-injurious and that is painful but necessary for me to realize and acknowledge. Trauma changes the ecosystem of the human body in upsetting and ugly ways. More than anything, I was escaping the recognition that in refusing to heal, I was often doing harm to myself and others.

Fundamentally, I was seeking human connection where I had been denied it and we were playing out parts and trauma we were forced to keep hidden. For me, DID is about multiple traumas I have faced and the way my body chose to cope with it. It means a lot for what my childhood looked like and the incredible survival tools necessary for me to grow into an adult.

When I first started roleplaying on tumblr I was just 13 years old. I’m now 24 and have so much still to learn. I knew I was different growing up. I knew I had experienced pain. I knew I had difficulties expressing myself. I didn’t know I had DID or why there was so much confusion crowding my experiences online and in, truly, the only space I was able to fall into away from the ongoing turmoil in my life. I went by many different names, played many different characters, and made many different friends but this was difficult and I was not always kind. Frequently there were dissociative barriers that presented as amnesia and compartmentalized selves that in DID are called alters. The consistency with which I was forgetting myself, my actions, and people I’d met was a major detriment and it also enabled adults in the community to take advantage of and use me. The RP community was the stage for which many people with more life experience than myself, hurt me as a child. As I remained in the community, I began growing into a very dysfunctional adult and a part of that was to hide from my past in the community and parts of myself I didn’t recognize or accept as being me (collective). It is very difficult to contend with actions you don’t remember and I was not ready to take accountability for what I did as a scared and hurt child and what I was running from as an equally scared and hurt adult.

Mental health has always been important to me. I have talked at length about being a survivor of CSA, trafficking, and other forms of abuse and neglect. I have talked about my struggles with PTSD and depression. Despite this I was still not healing. Acknowledgement of mental health only does so much if the process of actually healing is not accessible to you.

My biggest takeaway from the long term, trauma informed therapy I have started is that I really didn’t know what healing looked like until I not only had an accurate assessment of what the problem was but accepted it and stopped hiding from it. This is difficult with DID. It is designed to operate in the background. Not knowing precisely your own experience, not having all of your memories is a way to conceal pain, not confront it. Working with myself as a system has been the most fundamental building block in actually healing, in actually accepting my trauma, in accepting how my trauma lead me to being dysfunctional in my relationships and in how I interacted with the people I cared about. Before I started doing this, it was easy to distance myself from my own actions. I did not remember them, I believed it was another person (because often it was, though this does not distance the actions from myself), and I thought I could just move away from it because it was not representative of me. That’s just not true. System accountability demands that I confront in myself the ways that not holding myself accountable lead to harm caused. In the RP community, I have been antagonistic of others. I have concealed my identity when confronted with actions of my past that I did not remember. As a child I lied about my age to the appeasement of adults in my circle at the time who were grooming me and as a result people connected to me were hurt when I moved away from them as someone else entirely. So much happened in this community and with people I met that it was foundational in how I learned to cope (for better or worse) and how I carried myself going forward. The accounts I had here were more real than life to me. That for me was a dysfunction. I was hurt as much as I caused hurt and this carried over when people recognized me but I didn’t recognize them or I was pressed for information and suddenly realized I was multiple people. It happened so many times here that I don’t blame anyone for feeling distanced from me, hating me, feeling hurt by me. My sense of self was fragmented and so was my sense of my actions. As it comes together more clearly, I understand now that as much as I have faced harassment in this community and my share of hatred and vitriol, I contributed to it as well.

In order to truly say goodbye, I feel I must also directly hold myself accountable for harm caused by my actions while I shared space here.

I made friends who were hurt in the crossfire of my search for self, whose trust I broke and whose boundaries I did not respect. I don’t think I can ever directly apologize to these people for what transpired between us but I do understand with specificity what actions of mine lead to the dissolution of our friendship and the hurt that they felt as a result. Those things weren’t ok. Being aware of the circumstances that lead to them does not excuse them and I am sorry. For many years I was a steamroller of uncertainty and of cyclical harm.

What I want and what I want for others is happiness.

Happiness to me is getting to experience the full breadth of human emotion while living under a stable community that is providing all of the basic necessities such as food, water, shelter, and materials to create goods and explore creative talents while simultaneously getting to share all of these things with everyone else inside the system. Being connected to others while having your needs met, is the only form of life that makes sense and for two full decades of my life, I did not have this. Many others don’t either.

Systematic abuse and denial of resources is something that follows people within their muscle memory patterns, nervous system, and within neurological pathways inside of their brain. People with dissociative amnesia are often among the most exploited because they were never given the tools to continue to build memory recall. When they are given all of these tools, we find that overtime they will continue to get better at recalling their lives and experiences, people they have met, and food they have eaten, joys they’ve shared. The brain is a muscle that retains everything that happens to it. It is incredibly absorbent and elastic. If something happens to it, it will remember. For people who have been systematically harmed, especially over extended periods of time, this can cause extremely difficult issues with memory recall. Eventually, these memories can return but it means removing people from systems of harm not by force but by replacing them with healthy and bustling systems that can offer them the love, tools, support, and nourishment for their body that they need.

Systemic malnourishment especially through resource denial under capitalism is a major contributor to this problem. Chronic dehydration’s link to memory problems, to name one example, is well documented. The issue with this even when people have access to all of that information is that they don’t have the reflexive memory abilities to continue to nourish themselves and be well. More and more these people and communities impacted by this kind of harm will seek refuge in accessibility (positive). If the tools are right in front of them surrounded by a multitude of people and supportive communities, they will have a much easier time remembering. Grounding is incredibly important even once outside of a system of harm because recall ability is a learned skill. People who have experienced repeated and/or prolonged abuse and harm (including systematic abuse like racism, homophobia, transphobia, et al.) have a much more difficult time learning and retaining this ability which contributes to the formation of dissociative disorders like DID.

The memories are still there, but it’s extremely difficult to begin to unravel that mystery when they are among the most likely to forget to remember. Recollecting memories is not only difficult for them, it is something their body has reflexively protected them against so that they can continue to survive in ongoing systems of harm.

When they continue to reproduce systems of harm, it is because they have been systematically gatekept from their needs and the healthy communities that can meet those needs from birth.

In order to help people suffering from dissociative barriers in terms of DID/OSDD, it is of utmost importance to continue to care for them as a collective so that they can then go on to care for themselves and give back to communities that they may have unknowingly harmed (this includes caring for yourself). It’s important to look inside of these communities and the conditions they’ve been living in with love and support. Sometimes the conditions are bad because they are incapable of caring for themselves after previous caretakers have abandoned them. 

Many people with dissociative disorders come from families who were absent for the majority of their lives even if they were living under the same roof. Sometimes these families will have noticed their child’s behavior, questioned where it came from and then find the answers are unexpected and daunting to take on. When faced with the question of whether or not their own child is safe to continue loving as a result, they will often continue to recreate systems of harm or are told by healthcare professionals to do things with their children that are not healthy for them which can on its own become traumatic.

The environments that dissociative disorders result from are very difficult to navigate. If you suspect you or someone you know is dealing with a dissociative disorder, it is important to keep in mind the circumstances endured that might have contributed. 

We cannot always be the protectors, we cannot always shield people from harm, we cannot always stop them from causing harm themselves, but an increased awareness and understanding looking in can help considerably. 

People with dissociative disorders are at high risk of being repeatedly groomed and harmed because of the nature of the disorders. They deserve the protection and security to fully form and emote as a human being without being harmed again, and when they themselves cause harm it is important to understand why this is happening and it is necessary when they realize that something is harmful that those behaviors and beliefs are replaced with new ones that are healthy, constructive, and more reflective of what they want. With dissociative and amnesiac barriers, this can become complicated but it is mandatory for system growth and healing.

Preventing harm starts in recognizing where it lives inside of ourselves.

To finish this post, I would like to share some poems that myself and others in my system wrote regarding our experience with DID:

Each time it happened I became another person But they always found me I tried my best to explain I’m still me but I need to be safe And no one listened I tried to show don’t tell I tried to scream it out loud Then I tried to forget it completely They always found me The caretaker inside of me was a flame I was forced to keep lit Sometimes kindness could not touch his flame The child hungered for a hand to hold but was held back from exploration No one told me I was we I had to dissect myself over and over in a lab that I created Now that I love myself Who is here to rejoice? -Beck

In my dreams I see a giant machine That I pilot I step inside my circuits Firing As a connection blooms to life I feel each part creak and crack As they move away and step forward The joints protest with disuse but Life bursts to turn on Twinkling lights of Motherboard parts that Illuminate metal I become like the moving backdrop to the stars a Galaxy swirling into A robot

Suddenly I feel afraid Am I just stitched together scraps that someone rescued from the crash? Am I the real deal? Or are my thoughts Synthetic projections onto a reality of my past that I’m just parts and not You Not Whole But wait I love the parts I Love the robot I see them woven together like A junkyard dragon that Soars overhead as a beacon of glittering silver held together by Intricate threads closer to a Kite Than heavy metal Something else entirely The machine cannot be confined to this earth It transcends infinitely It is life sometimes more than living -Aspen

I remember when I was small and I was running Through flowers Through mazes I remember when I was small and my palms would catch hold of blades of grass to brace my fall I remember being so small the ground would swallow me up Puddles like looking glasses That I dip into and Sink down to the bottom The boats crossing overhead While I swim I remember when the world was small and I was big Looking down at towns moving below Hiding in the ceiling as The room moves -Hannah

I have danced on the graves of relationships cast aside Pretending they were temples and not places of pain I am not the same ghost who haunts there Though some would see it in my face and hear it in my Disembodied voice Telling them I’m So over it... While the tears still sting I don’t visit their headstones anymore but the remnants of offerings I’ve made with Sweat/Blood Still linger like the bitter taste of Wine sipped in your honor or that I pour out at the soil marking where you left or where we stumbled A place you tried to bury me, too I don’t leave you to rest in peace I leave so I can -Jana

I see the revolving door of Our mind Many stepping in to walk through Sometimes more than one and It’s great I talk to them They’re my friends They go to work They wave and smile at me But I don’t step on Something inside of me holds me in place Afraid of the Spinning wheel Often I step on and just get Spun right out or I say the wrong things on the other side I don’t have the best reputation Some would say “She lies,” or “She’s so aggressive!” They see my teeth bared in anger and My arms folded over my chest to Conceal the soft spot under my armor where a spear might pierce They see me like a beast whose eyes glow red They do not know that the Wolf isn’t just a part of me and that I’m the monster they’ve seen There are others who have set fire to my path Concealing the tracks that reveal Villages I’ve been to Living peacefully before the Wolf leaps out and disrupts them Many people got too close or They hurt too personally and I took the blame for the abandonment and pain looking at a legacy where A scared kid devastated other scared kids I cleaned up after them and I Built my defenses to Hide them

She is like the Moon A part of her is always hidden

I bound these words into myself like A spirit possessed to make everyone else the Ghost So many people caught in the crossfire of Escaping abuse All of it is ugly I was built to chase things off The Wolf Creeping around the concrete walls as The Woman in the Maze Defending its center with Medusa’s untrained gaze A specter of someone loved and Incapable of telling them while Slipping further and further away from material safety The hurt doesn’t excuse the hurt Every move I make opens Old wounds that others have healed or forgotten but I’m still carrying If the women I’ve loved were all one person they too would Be like the moon Parts hidden or Omitted Because it’s easy to forget how They hurt me because I was a girl who loved girls -Jana

Some have said I was the first to look out over the edge and into the expanse of unknowns below without fear And I ache when they’re not right Being unafraid of dying is different than being unafraid of Death I know I’ve imagined myself there Not even as a last resort Thinking maybe this will be fun to try I’ve seen myself with my toes curling over ledges for purchase Tightrope walking the line between here and jumping Romanticizing the strength it would take to Let myself fall or Climb down the rope To meet Death again Her face kind enough for me to feel regret for a split second before Rebirth I’m not afraid of Death But the truth is I was never gazing over a ledge more than The bowl of the toilet Vomiting Closer to death on the bathroom floor Naked and feeble Than I was in imagined leaps of faith See, I still fear dying and no... I wouldn’t be the first Even in our family Death has our list pulled up and Our numbers on speed dial I think she’s watched me on my hands and knees mopping up blood and just Tapped her watch “Are we done with this? I have somewhere to be.” But that voice wasn’t her nor the tapping it was A mother sick of waiting for me to get ready for school or a counselor unflinching when I say I’ve watched friends die Until eventually there was just never enough time for dying and though I visited the ledge frequently in my mind and explored the chasm down in search I forgot about my body Nothing left to harm if I am In between here and there Then it just became what sacrifices I could make How I could fantasize about martyrdom and Sail forward into the pitch As someone else’s hero when Still I was just Killing myself What an unexpected turn for The Hero and yet I see it all the time These visions of divine masculinity Achilles in Hades All point towards her again Death’s hands firmly grasping his as he Dies for his friends like a valiant flame extinguished and Everyone weeps His devastation saving them... That was what I stacked myself up against Thinking the only service I could give to those I love was My life in its entirety Which is why I’m not The Hero I’m the Leader, the Counselor, the Friend, the Lover I’m pulling myself away from steps taken towards a drop because Unity is not forged by Taking a leave of absence but by Seeing pain in others and Not thinking you have to live for them Only wanting to survive with them Envisioning futures where you thrive with or without them knowing that The way you believed solidarity was Shared suffering and not Shared community in times of suffering Was a cowardice you will live to outgrow Now strength looks like pulling weeds for a garden Packing up boxes Reminding yourself to stretch or Focusing on your breathing as it guides you down into A hollow part of your body An energy tightening there and fanning out slowly as Intention Replacing the visions of a ledge with Floating Swimming out into a peaceful place inside of you and Breathing in again Calm and of course I wouldn’t deceive you The ledge is still a place I go to and Look down like scrying into Death’s vastness and I cry too It was never funny It was never beautiful Those are lies told to me and you The bones on the bathroom floor were me and even when I rattled No one answered -Tristan

When we love we love together I have never been a singular Inside me there are waves rippling on the shore Formative memories distorted and abstracted with each crash of foam against ground up trash I hear a knocking on the wall of our beach house as if a ghost hides inside When things happen I don’t understand I ask about the real children in the closets like me that I can’t touch Are they scared inside too? I see your eyes go glossy when you remember yours I want to ask about what about where and whom I want to know you’re like me I’m sorry I didn’t know that it was painful -Tristan

I want to tell you that you don’t have to be afraid But there are places you are no longer allowed This is so I can heal and not because I am protecting you I want to show my thoughtfulness The things I see in you The joy That joy hibernates inside me too The winter brings us closer together Generational trauma sprawled on a frigid map yet so cramped for a bedroom that gives me glimpses of the past Sitting cross legged on green carpet while I play games I pretend are me All my heroes have no gender No voice No face Please see me It is the greatest love I’ve ever known -Beck

I want all of our friends old and new to know: we are safe, loved, and cared for. Thank you for the memories and the systems of love you introduced to our life. We love and thank you. You met us without knowing and we felt seen here and this helped us to accept ourselves as a system. -Tristan (yes, really)

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What’s your fannish ID? On Tumblr and Pinterest I'm DrewCas68 - boring but descriptive, made up of part of my name an year of birth. Stop laughing, you'll be as old as me one day. I curate bits and bobs that I like on Pinterest on a board called "Aww balls, Daredevil" which was kind of what I said when I realised how far gone I was on the program. On A03 I'm Meretseger68. Meretseger is an ancient Egyptian goddess known as She Who Loves Silence, the deity inhabiting the pyramid shaped rock watching over the Valley of the Kings. (Yeah, I didn't know that it wouldn't be appropriate now but I've had it for a few years and can't give up the name now).

What types of fanworks do you create? I started on A03 with a couple of little JohnLock stories, just as a bit of writing practice / a break from a novel I've been wrestling with for years. I'd been posting the odd drawing on Tumblr just on the offchance of someone liking them. I only became more active as I got drawn into Daredevil and found that Charlie Cox/Matt Murdock/Daredevil was an excellent reference as I wanted to expand my artistic range. I should say, whatever I do I am very slow. If I have four hours of paintbrush to paper it is likely that there will have been another three or four hours worrying about it before, during, or after. I'm hoping to take part in upcoming Daredevil events. This seems to be a friendly fandom, even to someone very new to it, so I hope to make something that you will like. I might even go back to writing (and maybe, finally, get that book finished).

What are your favourite types of fanworks, when you're not creating? I love all kinds of artwork, the creativity out there in fandom is amazing. I don't care whether it's someone in full Old Master mode or the genius who produces a cartoon that just sums things up in a few strokes. I've been binging on some authors on A03 while I find my feet inside the Daredevil tags. Again, there seems to be so much range and potential, something for all moods.

What about your creating process? My creative process is mostly worry and procrastination. Honestly, if I could just sit down and just do I think I would be much happier about it. Instead I can make a cat look focussed and can be distracted by anything. I create in the gaps left between part time work (6pm to midnight), working on my house (first phase nearly finished), sleep, and talking to my cat. And eating. I always forget about that. I've been living on my own for a year now and still not got the hang of that. I've had commissions for portraits of musicians and I tend to do them while listening to their music. This was great for the various David Bowie and Prince paintings that I've done but took a little getting used to when I did a Jimi Hendrix a couple of years ago (kids, ask your parents). As I started Daredevil art to force myself to try different techniques I've tended to let Amazon Music play to itself in the background but find that I have added Matthew and the Atlas to all my mixes recently when I need something calming. I absolutely cannot watch anything while I'm trying to draw/paint/write. I even have to put my phone away because I can't be trusted until I reach that point when everything starts to come together and I forget the outside.

Do you interact a lot with other fans? My experience of Tumblr up to finding Daredevil was mostly just liking and reblogging. Actual interaction has been a new thing for me. No idea if I'm doing it right but I'd like to keep trying.

Is there any particular piece you'd like to showcase for this post? I've had years of being scared of trying watercolour. I'm hoping this isn't a one off, but it makes me think that it might be worth working on technique. https://drewcas68.tumblr.com/post/645478237010591744/the-devil-made-from-blood-and-faith-thanks-to

Is there anything else you want to tell us about yourself? Yes, I am old. No, I have no idea what all the buttons do. I love the idea of trying digital art but I think I'll stick to acoustic for now.

Where can your fanworks be found? A03: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretseger68  - currently only a few linked JohnLock shorts and an early, unfinished, version of the book that will never get finished. Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drewcas68 - my artwork pops up between reblogs of smarter people and is tagged #myart Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/DrewCas68/aww-balls-daredevil/

Thank you, @drewcas68 !

banner by @context-is-for-kingpins !

[ID on a white background, four black triangles that look like spotlights from above. Each illuminates one of the Defenders silhouetted in white: Jessica, Luke, Danny, Matt. A hand on the left is holding a pen writing the words Content Creator Spotlight. There is a little Punisher skull on the pen. End ID]

[frostsinth]

Lost Time - Pt. 2

- Part 1 - MasterList -

Apologies to everyone waiting for this update! I forgot I had mostly finished it and got side tracked with the Raffle winners. But here it is! I hope it was worth the wait.

Check out my MasterList above for other ramblings, and feel free to BuyMeACoffee while you’re there. If you’d like to commission a story or art piece, DM me for details.

I appreciate the comments, reblogs, and asks you guys always send! They make my day and give me life! Thanks for being so great! (Tag request: @decadentsoulbiscuitgoth)

I gasped, my heart racing, my head throbbing. I felt my hands moving of their own accord, searching for something to grab onto. Trying to anchor myself in the spinning void. There was a distant sound, a familiar sound, but I couldn’t place it. I was consumed by the sensation of falling, tumbling. Without an up or down to orient myself. Images flashed past me, blurred and indistinct at first. None lingered long enough for me to focus, and seemed to be wiping past me like trees out the window of a moving carriage. I opened my mouth, tried to scream. Tried to make a sound of any kind. I couldn’t tell if anything came out.

There! A light, a gap amid the strange assault. It spun and drifted, but it seemed to be moving with me. I reached toward it, felt my fingers scrape the edge. Then they passed through it, like an incorporeal cloud. Sparks zapped across my skin, leaving behind tingling skin. But the light shifted, pulsing. Growing larger and coming towards me. Before I could react I was engulfed, and had to close my eyes against the searing light or else be blinded. I instinctively moved my hands to shield my face, but couldn’t tell if I was really moving them at all.

“She can’t have gone far, My Queen,” Came a purring, rasping voice, distant. It sounded like smoke and tasted like sulfur. My heart skittered at the sound of it. “We’ll find her.”

“See that you do.” Another voice, female. Cold, angry.

I blinked, searching through the fading light. But all I could see were outlines and shadows. Blurs at the edges of my vision. A huge form, hulking and glowing as if on fire, though everything was bathed in that unnaturally blinding light. Another, smaller, more slender, more delicate. I sensed the second turn, sensed its eyes settling on me. My breath stopped, my heart raced. I pushed myself back, scrambled to get away. I sensed the figures retreating, as if sucked into a singular distant point; shrinking and swirling as they disappeared like draining water. Then I realized they had not moved. I had. Jerked back from a tether around my middle which bent me in two. I could see my limbs trailing behind me. Could see the tips of my long blonde hair, snapping and cracking like whips as I was yanked away. Tossed back into the swirling mass of images and sounds. A loud ringing was filling my ears, and I tried to scream again.

I woke in a cold sweat, choking on my heart in my throat. I sat up sharply, looking this way and that, my eyes wild. I quickly swiveled my feet out from the furs, moving to stand. I wasn’t sure why, I couldn’t piece together the jumbles of in-cohesive thoughts in my mind. I just suddenly felt this strange urgency. This deep set fear. I needed to move. I needed to run, and keep running. And when I thought I had run enough, I needed to run some more. I pushed off the bed to climb to my feet in the same fluid motion as I had swung my legs free.

I cried out as my bad ankle gave out beneath me, and fell to the stone floor. My rough descent had me jarring my shoulder painfully, but in my confused state, I merely wriggled to try and get my feet under me again. I was shaking so hard my palms slid, unable to find purchase. A growling grunt had me jumping again, and the ground shook just before a large form suddenly crouched down beside me.

“Anha wet, Shikobakin,” Came a deep, soothing voice, “Shie’ka natwe.”

I jerked my head up as a big hand came to rest between my shoulder-blades. As my blue eyes settled on the dark green face with broad features and copper eyes, it all started to come rushing back to me. Well, at least the previous day; waking in the forest. Twisting my ankle. Being rescued by Njord and carried to his home. But the hollow echo of a life forgotten weighed heavily down upon me as I strained to push beyond the dense fog that shrouded everything beyond yesterday.  I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding, then gasped at the air as if I had just emerged from beneath the surface of a lake. Each following breath came out ragged, then sucked into my lungs painfully. The big hand at my back rubbed soothingly up and down. As I came to my senses, I shifted, sitting back on my bottom. Stretching my legs out in front of me and wincing in pain as my bad ankle was jarred but hardly noticing it besides. I was still shaking, and I brought my clasped hands to my chest, hugging them to myself in an effort to still the motion.

Njord shifted, dropping one knee to the ground and leaning his elbow across the other. He considered me quietly from the side of his eye, his hand still at my back. I glanced over at him, shaking my head. Wishing to explain my behavior, or reassure him I was fine. My mouth flapped open and closed uselessly a few times, like a fish out of water. Unable to form the lies he wouldn’t understand.

“Netka non fa’alsita,” He murmured, “Anha wet.”

I craned my neck back, looking up at him, still quivering. I felt clammy and cold, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over me. But I latched onto the sound of his voice, shaking my head again and bringing my shaking hands to my face. I laid my palms flat against my eyes, attempting to push away whatever dream or memory had so unsettled me. It was in vain; my shoulders shook even more and I felt tears stinging my eyes as my throat began to burn. It was even more unsettling as I had only the fear. I had no memory of what had caused it, which only frightened me even more. I longed to let it sink away with the rest of my life buried in the heavy fog.

I started as I suddenly found myself hoisted delicately from the ground. A moment later, I was enveloped in big, strong arms. Each nearly as thick as I was wide. My hands dropped in time to catch a glint of his copper eyes before Njord buried me in his chest. Creating a safe cocoon of dark green muscle and flesh. He held me firmly, all but forcing my tremors to cease, but also as gently as if I were made of glass. I didn’t bother to try to resist; for one thing, I doubted I could wriggle myself loose from his clutches. For another, I sincerely didn’t want to.

There was no explicable reason why; I didn’t know this man. Hell, I was pretty sure I didn’t even know what he was. And yet I didn’t care. I turned into his broad chest, ensconcing myself in his embrace. I drew in long, deep breaths of his musky scent, and even reached my arms up to wrap around his thick neck.

I felt his posture change as I did, and felt a bolt of electricity shoot down my spine unrelated to the lingering fear. Neither of us chose to acknowledge it though; the feeling we shared in that moment. One that needed no words. He grounded me, like an anchor in a storm, and I clung to him almost desperately for fear of being swept away. There was no space to consider anything else. I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my grip around him. And slowly, my trembling eased. Then stopped altogether.

I took one last long, deep breath against his skin, then let it out. I started to lean back from his touch, and almost as soon as I did, I felt his arms loosening. I turned my gaze up to his face, and he side eyed me, half turned towards the back of the cave. But the corner of his mouth turned up, and his thick lips curled around his huge tusks.

“Yukna vat.” He said softly, and one big hand came up. With just his thumb, he pushed the long strands of my hair back from my face.

“I’m sorry...” I breathed, even though I knew he couldn’t understand me. 

I shook my head, looking away from him. There was not even a hint of the memory of what had set me off, but I still felt that lingering urge to bolt. To run far and run fast. It left me on edge, and I jumped at the sound of a branch snapping beyond the entrance of the cave. My heart faltered and my breathing skipped.

Njord paid it no mind, and his thumb traced distractedly down the edge of my hairline. “Netka non fa’alsita.” He told me, his deep voice echoing ever so faintly around the cave.

I peered up at him through my pale lashes, frowning slightly. He had said that before. Just after he had first come to my side. I saw him chew his lip thoughtfully, tilting his big head to the side. Seeming to appraise my questioning look.

“Netka non fa’alsita.” He said again, then lifted his hand, tapping the side of his head. He pointed to the bed, and laid his cheek over his knuckles. Closing his eyes. Even giving a few comically loud snores for effect. I felt a smile coming unbidden to my lips as I watched. When his copper eyes opened again, he tapped his temple, then made a deeply unhappy face. “...Netka non fa’alsita.”

I glanced over at the bed. “Neh..tukuh non fall see tah,” I echoed, working my lips around the foreign words.

He gave a grunt that came from somewhere deep in his chest. “NeTKa non fa’ALsita.” He repeated, emphasizing the strange sounds that he seemed to form in his throat rather than his mouth.

“Netka non fa’alsita.” I tried again, and managed a shy semblance of similarity to his.

He nodded approvingly, then made the sour face, reaching out to tap my temple lightly before pointing to the bed. “Netka non fa’alsita, Shikobakin.”

“Nightmare...“ I translated, and took note of the curve of my palms cupped in my lap to avoid minding the shiver that rippled over my skin at his touch.

His big fingers came under my chin, scooping it gently until I met his eye again. Unabashed by our close proximity to each other. Unashamed to brush his skin against mine and meld my warmth with his. I wondered briefly if it was a part of his own personality or a social construct of his species.

“Nit...Niightmaar.”

My smile returned as I recognized his near perfect attempt to mimic me. “You’re better at mine than I am at yours.” I complimented him.

He tilted his head, looking down over his broad cheek at me. Frowning. I wracked my brain for a moment, then nodded my head and smiled.

“Good.” I told him, then exaggerated my smile and nodded again. “Good.”

He considered this, then tipped his own chin at me. “Guh-d.” At my smile, he gave another deep rooted snort. “Ars’tok.” He grinned, showing all of his teeth, and I looked at him in surprise. It changed the shape of his face, and while the teeth themselves were large, set into the exaggerated smile made him an almost laughable sight. “Guh-d. Ars’tok.”

“Ars...TOkKK.” I almost spit at him, trying to make the deep throated accent as he did. It was less like his, however, and sounded more like I was choking on something.

A great booming sound emerged from him at my attempt, blasting into me with powerful reverberation and echoing around the cave. At first I jumped, but so accompanied was the roaring by his honest grin, that I quickly realized I was not in danger. After another belated moment, I realized he was in fact laughing, and felt my face flush.

“Easy for you to mock!” I scoffed, crossing my arms. “You’re apparently a natural at Common.”

His loud laughter subsided into quiet chuckles at my voice, and he lifted up one hand to gently cuff my jaw with his knuckles. He said something in his own tongue that I didn’t catch, but the amusement in his tone was plain. His thumb tapped my chin, and I heard him speak the name he had given me. He said it with a tenderness that surprised me, and made my heart flutter again.

I realized I was still settled in his lap, his big legs as sturdy as any chair. My face flushed for an entirely different reason. I twisted in place, trying to hide the new shade settling across my features and hoping he wouldn’t notice. I could see his head cock slightly out of the corner of my eye, considering my sudden shift.

I reached down and ran my hands over my swollen ankle, using it as an excuse. I winced, for it was still hot to the touch and extremely tender. And perhaps it was my imagination, but it looked more swollen than the day before to me. 

“...Di’chin yiya?” He asked, and I recalled the words from the previous evening.

I wasn’t given time to answer, and gave a soft squeak as he scooped me up into his arms. Again, I reached for something to hold onto, feeling perilously close to falling despite the fact that his arms all but completely engulfed me as he tucked me back to his chest. My own arms ended up back around his neck, and I felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled softly again. If possible, my cheeks began to burn hotter at that. I pretended to be concerned with where we were going, rather than the proximity of his bare chest and thick neck to my face. Not that there were many options.

He swept aside the canvass covering at the entrance with one hand, easily balancing me in the other, then walked over to set me beside the firepit again. He gathered up some more smoked meat, dropping to a cross-legged seat next to me so heavily the ground shook.

“Tikke.” He told me, holding out the fish meat. As I gingerly took it, he pointed to it again. “Tikke. Tikke.”

A wry smile twisted one side of my mouth at the eagerness in his voice. I gestured with the fish, to show him I understood what he meant. I hesitated. The word was not hard, or at least, didn’t seem to be. Yet my previous humiliation was still quite fresh in my mind.

Njord shoved my shoulder gently with his bent fingers. “Tikke!” He pressed, pointing to the meat.

I opted for a shy glance at him out the corner of my eye. “... Tick-key?”

His grin chewed up half his face, at least what I could see of the good side he always kept facing me, and pushed his copper eyes into his heavy brow. He nodded eagerly. “Ars’tok…” Somehow, he found more room for his smile to grow a few molars. “Guh-d.”

I returned his smile, wondering if he was humoring me. I took a bite, chewing it thoughtfully, glancing around. I started slightly as his hand came up, shoving me lightly again. When I turned back to him, he pointed back at the fish. Then gave a grunt, tapping my shoulder before pointing at it again.

My lips split with my fresh smile, and I almost laughed. “Fish.” I told him, holding up the meat.

His brow screwed up, and he moved his lips for a moment before speaking. “Fii-ssh.”

I nodded. “Good.” I held it up again. “Fish.”

“Fisshh. Fii… Fishh.” He repeated, then seemed pleased with himself. I saw him looking around himself as I took another bite of the meat. He picked up a nearby rock, showing it to me. “Wutbat.” He told me.

I did laugh now, and shook my head. He grunted, frowning, and holding up the rock again. He repeated the word, showing me the rock and pointing as well.

“Wutbat.” I echoed, more confidently and trying unsuccessfully to hide my amusement. 

He grunted again and nodded, then tried to pass me the rock. I scrambled to move the remainder of my breakfast to the other hand to take it from him. In his fist it had looked small, but my hand dropped slightly under its weight. He pointed to it, then to me. Gesturing and waving with his hand. My smile never faltered; I could hardly believe my own enjoyment of his eagerness.

“Rock.” I told him.

His eyes lit up. “Rock.” He repeated, without any issues. His long arm reached out, plucking up another and turning it around in his hands. “Rock. Roockk.”

I tossed mine off to the side, wiping my hand on my pants to get off the worst of the dirt. I saw his copper eyes looking around again, and quickly finished off the meat before he could find something else to shove into my hands. He noticed I was finished and stood, walking over to the cave entrance and scooping up his broadsword.

“Oh, please don’t drop that on me,” I begged, still grinning, “It’ll crush me.”

Njord gave one of his deep snorts, tilting his head to the side. His face appeared quizzical, heavy brow lightly scrunched over his broad nose but eyes bright. I wondered if he had a concept of what I had said, or was merely trying to decipher the tone. He shrugged his big shoulders then showed me the sword, twisting it this way and that in his hand. As easily as if it were merely a branch, rather than a few dozen pounds of cold hard iron.

“Sword.” I told him quickly, before he could prompt me. He grinned back at me, and made a few attempts before getting the word right.

“Tu’kegee.” He returned, and spun the sword deftly as if striking down an imaginary opponent.

Hearing the deep sound he produced in his throat to say the word, I shook my head. “Not this again.” I almost groaned.

His grin returned, and he displayed a few more practiced strikes with the blade. “Tu’kegee.” He repeated, then again as he spun and swung the heavy sword at the air behind him.

I was a little awestruck by his movements, and watched quietly. He seemed to enjoy having me as an audience, and executed a few more maneuvers. His big muscles moved with powerful grace, his shoulders exposed without the armor from the previous day. I felt a strange tickling in my chest as I watched, and my fingertips tingled. He repeated the word after each stroke and blow, and after a final, powerful downward sweep which had him using both hands, he settled his copper eyes on me once more. Jerking his square chin at me.

I sighed, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Tuckeggee.” I mumbled, not even bothering to try the throaty sound.

He grinned, digging the end of his sword into the ground and dropping to one knee beside me. “Ars’tok, Shikobakin.”

My breath caught in my throat as I looked up at him, his face only a few inches from mine. I saw him stiffen slightly as well, his smile slowly shrinking as some unknown thoughts drifted through the depths of his copper eyes. He watched me for a second, his eyes moving back and forth between mine. I swallowed, forcing a small smile onto my face.

“I’m not trying that one again.” I murmured. With him so close, I certainly didn’t have to speak loudly.

He studied my face, his lips tweaking slightly as he seemed to attempt to decipher my tone. A few strands of his dark brown hair fell around his eyes, and I had an itch to push them back out of his face. I barely managed to resist. A sonorous grunt came from his chest, soft despite the strength of it. It seemed a good match to my own soft words, as if an answer in and of itself. But he didn’t move, lingering with our breath intermingling in the air between us. After a few breaths like this, his big hand came up, skimming his fingertips along my jaw. I wondered if he had felt that strange tingling to touch me, as I did. I couldn’t explain it, but couldn’t help leaning into his grazing fingers slightly; almost imperceptibly.

There was a distant snap of a branch that broke the moment, and both of us shifted. Pulling away. The sound of the snap was followed by a different, softer sound. It was too strange to place, and I was far too distracted to analyze it.

Another grunt, deeper and louder this time, and he shook his head. Dropping his hand away and standing. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then jerked his head towards the forest. Words of his own language came flowing out from between his thick lips, and I watched them form in a daze as he gathered up his armor and strapped it to each shoulder. I found I liked the way the straps sinched to his chest, and had to slap my cheek lightly to stop myself from staring. He turned at the noise, raising the brow on his good side. I gave him a sheepish smile. No use trying to explain to him that I found him very distracting… I wouldn’t even know how to begin.

He grunted again, coming back over with some grumbling words I couldn’t distinguish. Even if I had the vocabulary to understand them. But short of a discussion about fish, rocks, and bad dreams (and a very brief discussion at that), it was not likely to be a very lively conversation.

The strange sound was louder, pulling my attention back to it. It was a skittering, scritching sound. Filling the air. Like something scurrying around through the leaves. No… many somethings. It seemed more familiar now, and set me on edge. I looked around, one hand reaching for Njord almost nervously. He seemed wary as well, and I found his hand reaching out at the same time as mine. The hairs on the back of my neck shot up, just before hissing, chittering snarls filled the forest around us...

...

To be continued...

[stereostevie]

“I sacrificed the quality of my life to help people experience something that had been unreachable before then,” Grammy winner says in rare interview

In the late Nineties, the story of popular music became the story of Ms. Lauryn Hill. She first rose to fame as an actress and a member of the Fugees, whose second and final album, 1996’s The Score, remains one of that decade’s biggest albums. Then, at just 22 years old, Hill took a huge leap and decided to go solo. Released in 1998, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill filled clubs, radio stations, and MTV with her smooth voice and biting rhymes. Hill herself became as big as her music, appreciated in the fashion world and sought after by movie executives for roles she would eventually decline.

Miseducation took home five Grammy Awards and led to a huge tour. But by the early 2000s, Ms. Hill left behind the fame and the industry almost entirely. She has never released another studio album; her last full-length release was MTV Unplugged No. 2.0 from 2002, where she performed new songs in an acoustic style to a largely tepid reception.

The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill lives on. More than 20 years after its release, it is still regarded as one of the best albums ever made, landing at Number 10 on Rolling Stone’s voter-based 500 Greatest Albums of All Time List this past fall. Many of her songs continue to permeate culture, like the single “Ex-Factor,” which has been sampled or interpolated on major hits by Drake and Cardi B. Beyond that, the album’s impact on multiple generations of musicians is unmistakeable. Everyone from Rihanna to St. Vincent has cited Hill as having heavily influenced their own music.  

The years that followed Miseducation have been complicated. After the album’s release, some of Hill’s collaborators filed a lawsuit claiming she did not properly credit them for their contributions; that suit was settled out of court three years later on undisclosed terms. In 2012, she was charged with tax fraud, and went on to serve three months in prison. More recently, she has found herself back on the road more frequently, sporadically releasing music but mostly basking in the collective love and power of Miseducation through special performances of the album.

For the latest episode of Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums podcast, Ms. Hill granted a rare interview on the making of Miseducation as well as what happened after. Over e-mail, she spoke candidly about protecting her family and the little support she had after her first album cycle ended. Excerpts from the interview can be heard in the podcast episode, available on Amazon Music, along with tales from several of the musicians who were part of those sessions, like “Commissioner Gordon” Williams, Lenesha Randolph, and Vada Nobles. Ms. Hill’s written responses are here in full.

When you began recording Miseducation, you were 22 and already experiencing immense success with the Fugees. What were you hoping to prove with this album? As far as proving myself goes, I think that’s a larger and more involved story best told at a later time, but I will say that the success of the Fugees absolutely set up The Miseducation to be as big and as well received as it was. When I decided that I wanted to try a solo project I was met with incredible resistance and discouragement from a number of places that should have been supportive, so that had a motivating factor, but it was less about proving myself and more about creating something I wanted to see and hear exist in the world. There were ideas, notions and concepts that I wanted to exist, I set off in a particular direction and kept going. Initially, I intended to work with other producers and artists but found that what I wanted to say and hear may have been too idiosyncratic at the time to just explain it and have someone else try to make it. It had to be made in a more custom manner. The team of people who would ultimately be involved, we all witnessed as it took form. It was unique and exciting.

You’ve said you found yourself especially creative during your pregnancy. How did that experience shape you as a songwriter?

It’s a wild thing to say but I was left alone during my pregnancies for the most part. It was like all of the people with all of their demands had to check themselves when I was pregnant. The resulting peace may have contributed to that sense of feeling more creative. I was pregnant with my first child during the making of The Miseducation and the situation was complicated, so I was motivated to find more stability and safety for myself and for my child, that definitely pushed me to disregard what appeared as limitations. If I struggled to fight for myself, I had someone else to fight for. This also introduced my first son’s father, Rohan Marley, into the picture, who at that time, was a protective presence. If there were people or forces attempting to prevent me from creating, he played a role in helping to keep that at bay.

During those times especially, I always wanted to be a motivator of positive change. It’s in all of my lyrics, that desire to see my community get out of its own way, identify and confront internal and external obstacles, and experience the heights of Love and self-Love that provoke transformation. I sang from that place and chose to share the joy and ecstasy of it, as well as the disappointments, entanglements and life lessons that I had learned at that point. I basically started out as a young sage lol.

When you look back on it now, is Miseducation the album you intended it to be? I’ve always been pretty critical of myself artistically, so of course there are things I hear that could have been done differently, but the LOVE in the album, the passion, its intention is, to me, undeniable. I think my intention was simply to make something that made my foremothers and forefathers in music and social and political struggle know that someone received what they’d sacrificed to give us, and to let my peers know that we could walk in that truth, proudly and confidently. At that time, I felt like it was a duty or responsibility to do so. I saw the economic and educational gaps in black communities and although I was super young myself, I used that platform to help bridge those gaps and introduce concepts and information that “we” needed even if “we” didn’t know “we” wanted it yet. Of course I’m referring to the proverbial “we.” These things had an enormous value to me and I cherished them from a very young age.

I also think the album stood apart from the types and cliches that were supposed to be acceptable at that time. I challenged the norm and introduced a new standard. I believe The Miseducation did that and I believe I still do this — defy convention when the convention is questionable. I had to move faster and with greater intention though than the dysfunctional norms that were well-established and fully funded then. I was apparently perceived by some as making trouble and being disruptive rather than appreciated for introducing solutions and options to people who hadn’t had them, for exposing beauty where oppression once reigned, and demonstrating how well these different cultural paradigms could work together. The warp speed I had to move at in order to defy the norm put me and my family under a hyper-accelerated, hyper-tense, and unfortunately under-appreciated pace. I sacrificed the quality of my life to help people experience something that had been unreachable before then. When I saw people struggle to appreciate what that took, I had to pull back and make sure I and my family were safe and good. I’m still doing that.

This album permeated culture in a way that few albums have before it existed and made you a massive star. How were you handling the public gaze at the time? There were definitely things I enjoyed about stardom, but there were definitely things I didn’t enjoy. I think most people appreciate being recognized and appreciated for their work and sacrifice. That, to me, is a given, but living a real life is essential for anyone trying to stay connected to reality and continue making things that truly affect people. This becomes increasingly harder to do in the “space” people try to place “stars” in.

The pedestal, to me, is as much about containment and control as it is adulation. Finding balance, clarity and sobriety can be very hard for some to maintain. For example, being yes’d to death isn’t good, and people fear stardom can only result in this, but if the actual answer is yes, being told no just to not appear a yes-man is silly. Never being told no if the answer is no by people afraid to disappoint will obviously also distort the mirror in which we view ourselves. On the other hand, a person with a vision can be way ahead, so people may say no with conviction and resist what they fear only to find out later that they were absolutely wrong.

The idea of artist as public property, I also always had a problem with that. I agreed to share my art, I’m not agreeing necessarily to share myself. The entitlement that people often feel, like they somehow own you, or own a piece of you, can be incredibly dangerous. I chafe under any kind of control like that and resist expectations that suggest I should somehow dumb-down and be predictable to make people feel comfortable rather than authentically express myself. I also resist unrealistic expectations placed on me by people who would never place those same requirements on themselves. I can be as diplomatic and as patient as I possibly can be. I can’t, however, sell myself short through constant self-deprecation and shrinking.

“The entitlement that people often feel, like they somehow own you, or own a piece of you, can be incredibly dangerous.”

Is there a version of “Lauryn Hill” that you feel people expected of you, and how did that compare to how you saw yourself? Absolutely, which I touched upon in the answers before this one. Life is life, to be lived, experienced and enjoyed with all of its dynamism and color. If you do something well that people enjoy, often they want the same experience over and over. A real person can be stifled and their growth completely stunted trying to do this without balance. It’s not a fair thing to ask of anyone. We all have to grow, we all have to express ourselves with as much fullness and integrity as we can manage. The celebrity is often treated like a sacrifice, the fatted calf, then boxed in and harshly judged for very normal and natural responses to abnormal circumstances.

I saw someone lambasted once for discussing episodes of anxiety before going on stage, as if anxiety was only a condition of the non-famous. It was absurd, like someone with a record out can’t get a common cold. Someone in love with the art doesn’t not experience fear or anxiety, they just do their best to transcend it or work beyond it so that the art or the passion can be made manifest. Some days are better than others. For some people it gets easier, for some it doesn’t. The unfairness, the harshness was excessive to me. I didn’t like how I was being treated at a certain point. I just wasn’t being treated well and definitely not in accordance with someone who’d contributed what I had. I had a ton of jealousy and competitiveness to contend with. That can exhaust or frustrate your efforts to make anything besides primal scream music, 😊.

Provoking that kind of aggravation was probably intentional. You have to find reasons to still do it, when you’re exposed to the ugly.  People often think it’s ok to project whatever they want to on someone they perceive as having “it all” or “having so/too much.” Hero worship can be an excuse for not taking care of your own sh#t. The flip side of that adulation can turn severely ugly, aggressive, and hostile if people make another person responsible for their sense of self-worth. You can either take that abuse or say no to it. After subjecting myself to it for years, I started to say no, and then no turned into hell no, then hell no turned into f#ck no…you get my point. 😊

If you could talk to yourself at 22 now, what would you say? I’d share the things I do now with my 22-year-old self. If I had known what I know now, things would probably have unfolded differently. I would have continued to invest in people but I would have made sure I had people with the love, strength, and integrity around me to really keep their eye on the prize and my well-being. The world is full of seduction and if they can’t seduce you, they go after the people you love or depend on in some way. I would have with greater understanding tried to do more to insulate myself and my loved ones from that kind of attack.

Looking back on that period of your life, do you have any regrets?

I have some periods of woe, some periods of sorrow and great pain, yes, but regret is tough because I ended up with a clarity I might not have been able to achieve any other way. I would have done a few things differently though if I could go back. I would have done my best to shield myself so that I could better shield my children.  I would have rejected the manipulation, unfair force and pressure put on me much earlier. I would have benefitted from having more awareness about the dangers of fame. I would have been more communicative with everyone truly involved with The Miseducation and fought hard for the importance of candid expression. I would have demanded what I needed and removed people antagonistic to that sooner than I did.

You have released music since Miseducation and have continued to play live. Do you ever foresee releasing another full-length studio album? The wild thing is no one from my label has ever called me and asked how can we help you make another album, EVER…EVER. Did I say ever? Ever! With The Miseducation, there was no precedent. I was, for the most part, free to explore, experiment and express. After The Miseducation, there were scores of tentacled obstructionists, politics, repressing agendas, unrealistic expectations, and saboteurs EVERYWHERE. People had included me in their own narratives of THEIR successes as it pertained to my album, and if this contradicted my experience, I was considered an enemy.

Artist suppression is definitely a thing. I won’t go too much into it here, but where there should have been overwhelming support, there wasn’t any. I began touring because I needed the creative outlet and to support myself and my family. People were more interested in breaking me or using me to battery-power whatever they had going on than to support my creativity. I create at the speed and flow of my inspiration, which doesn’t always work in a traditional system. I have always had to custom build what I’ve needed in order to get things done. The lack of respect and willingness to understand what that is, or what I need to be productive and healthy, doesn’t really sit well with me. When no one takes the time to understand, but only takes the time to count the money the fruit of this process produces, things can easily turn bad. Mistreatment, abuse, and neglect happen. I wrote an album about systemic racism and how it represses and stunts growth and harms (all of my albums have probably addressed systemic racism to some degree), before this was something this generation openly talked about. I was called crazy. Now…over a decade later, we hear this as part of the mainstream chorus. Ok, so chalk some of it up to leadership and how that works — I was clearly ahead, but you also have to acknowledge the blatant denial that went down with that. The public abuse and ostracizing while suppressing and copying what I had done, (I protested) with still no real acknowledgement that all of that even happened, is a lot.

“I wrote an album about systemic racism… before this was something this generation openly talked about. I was called crazy.”

I continue to tour and share with audiences all over the world, but I also full-time work on the trauma, stifling, and stunting that came with all of that and how my family and I were affected. In many ways, we’re living now, making up for years where we couldn’t be as free as we should have been able to. I had to break through a ton of unjust resistance, greed, fear and just plain human ugliness. Little else can rival freedom for me. If being a superstar means living a repressed life where people will only work with you or invest in your work if they can manipulate and control you, then I’m not sure how important music gets made without some tragic set of events following. I don’t subscribe to that.

Lastly, I appreciate the people who were moved by this body of work, which really represented a lifetime — up to that point — of love, experience, wisdom, family and community investment in me, the summation of my experience from relationships, my dreams, inspirations, aspirations and God’s ever-present grace and Love in my life through the lens of my 20-something but wise-sage existence, lol. I dreamed big, I didn’t think of limits, I really only thought of the creative possibilities and addressing the needs as I saw them at that time. I also had the support of a community of talented artists, thinkers, and doers, friends and family around me. Their primary efforts (THEN) seemed to be to help clear a path and to help protect. However, when you effectively create something powerful enough to move the bulls#t out of the way, all kinds of forces and energies may not like that. They may seek to corrupt and discourage, to disrupt and distract, to divide, and sabotage…but we bore witness to the fact that this happened — a young, black woman through hip-hop culture, a legacy of soul, Spirit and an appreciation for education and educating others communicated love and timeless and necessary messages to the world.

The music business can be an industry of entanglements, where a small number of people are expected to be responsible for a very large number of people. It’s hard to find fairness in a situation like that. Now, I look for as much equity and fairness as possible. I appreciate being loved for my contributions to music, but it’s important to be loved for who you are as a person just as much, and that can be a delicate but extremely important balance to achieve. Experiencing that is important to me.

[snoohobbies9741]

It was mid-August and my doctor had prescribed me some weed for medicinal reasons. I decided that for my first time, I needed to do it in the fresh, outside air. I left my place late at night and went to a nearby park in my town, on a night where it was especially frigid. Yet it seemed my body was cold from the inside, almost like my body was warning me, instilling fear in me. I should've listened, should've turned back. I tried some and at first I didn’t feel anything. I took more and more, against the advice of others. Then I felt it. The bodily dissociation, the contemplation of reality that is so cliche for stoners. I felt this urge to just relax. I slid further into my plastic chair, somehow feeling comfortable. The chair seemed to form to the contours of my body where anyone else would've cursed at how uncomfortable it was. Its surface, normally scratchy, felt silk smooth. I was content and at ease. But then a thought creeped up, slithering from the recesses of my brain: “It’s gonna happen again. You’re falling asleep because of the drugs. JUST. LIKE. LAST. TIME.”  I panicked. Those thoughts that quietly whispered “danger, danger” now rushed to the forefront, screaming and screaming like a fucking banshee. Emotion filled me as did fear. I started profusely sweating, suddenly aware of every facet of my body. My eyes felt the strain from me widening them as much as possible, fighting to stay awake. My legs were straining to keep my body up after I was walking back and forth, while simultaneously shaking my arms and hands like a crack addict feeling ants on his arms. I ended up sobbing in my friend’s arms that night, begging him not to let me fall asleep again, not like before. I slept with a pulsometer on my finger, a device measuring the amount of oxygen in my body to ensure I didn’t have excess CO2. All in all, the worst night I ever had.

     These feelings and panic attacks are from last year,  where I went through the most traumatic thing in my life. Because of some medical conditions involving excess co2 in my body, I fell asleep and doctors kept me sedated for a week in the hospital. This was a highly alarming development. Carbon dioxide in a high enough capacity is toxic for our bodies, which is why we have to expel it. Too much could cause the body to go into a coma. I wasn't at that point, but I wasn't that far behind. My lungs were barely working, since they were ravaged by pneumonia while simultaneously struggling to expel the CO2 in my body. In order to give my lungs a rest, the doctors put me on ECMO, a machine that would allow my lungs to rest and recover. But this isn't some wonder machine. While it solves one problem, too much reliance on it can create other problems. Once you are put on it,  you have a 50% chance of coming out the other end,  the other 50% being death. I was hooked up to numerous instruments which is why I was sedated so as not to take the chance of me messing up the fragile instruments. While sedated, I was partially lucid and could hear people, but I had no idea what was going on. I could hear my parents and doctors occasionally, only hearing parts of conversations, nothing very helpful though. 

It was like the guy in the song "One" by Metallica. He was a veteran and he had been gravely injured by a bomb where because of it, he was effectively quadriplegic while also unable to see or speak. I could hear and think but I couldn't move, talk, or even open my eyes. I had terrifying dreams, nightmares that I couldn't wake up from. I remember mentally screaming, clawing my way out, however futile. As a way to comfort me, my mom put in earbuds and played two of my favorite songs. But they were on loop. For two or three days. I reached a new level of insanity.

Eventually, I woke up and although it was traumatic and all that, I tried to suppress it. I had bigger fish to fry, needed to get better and such. I couldn't let this setback, this moment of weakness, define me. Screw it. This was normal behavior for me; it was habitual for a kid who was born with numerous disabilities and surgeries that outnumbered them. It was my norm.

Fast forward a year, and I'm making tremendous progress. I'm in college and I'm passing my classes. But my trauma is still in the back of my brain, "What if you fall asleep like that again? What if you don't wake up again?" But I ignore it the best I can. 

I've been told that I needed to let the trauma run its course, to learn to live with it. I’ve been told to just avoid weed, and that I was simply acting paranoid, nothing to worry about. I’ve been chastised for using marijuana, and have been asked what was I thinking. I've been told that the weed opened my mind and was trying to show me something that I needed to face. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted this trauma to leave me alone, to let me live a somewhat normal life, not that I had one to begin with as a disabled person.

Eventually, I got past it. Or started to. Mostly what that means for me, is that I acknowledged my trauma and my pain. I stopped viewing it as a moment of weakness. I stopped feeling guilty for putting my family and friends through something so emotionally traumatizing, especially for my younger siblings and my parents. I started realizing the good things that came from it. I gained a best friend, one that I wouldn’t have had, had I not gone through what I did. I’m more prepared to face college and to learn the lessons that are beyond the textbooks, something I know the person from two years ago would’ve had a much harder time learning. I unintentionally gained a gap year, though not an ideal one. I also gained  a new outlook on life, one that appreciates each day a little more. I realized the fragility of life but not in a way that I was fixated on it. For after all, something is not beautiful because it lasts forever. It’s fragility gives it meaning. 

Going through trauma does not necessarily make us weaker or stronger. It simply forces us to change. It’s up to us to decide what direction we go. As a wise friend once told me, the path to recovery is not linear. It’s a journey, sometimes with a one step forward, two steps back scenario. You’re going to fail some days. You’re going to struggle and anyone who convinces themselves otherwise, like myself, has not chosen to face reality yet. Your situation doesn’t have to be as severe as mine, or it could be infinitely worse. Every one of us carries different burdens and goes through different experiences. What matters is what we choose to do when we get those setbacks, those times where we just want to lay in our bed and cry until we fall asleep. Those times where we drag ourselves to the gym and hit the punching bag until our knuckles bleed. Those times where we screamed and screamed at the world. Do we stay angry? We can. I did. And I used that anger to move on, to not let this dictate how my life will be run. I’ve come farther because of it. Use whatever you want to motivate you. As long as you’re moving, you’re growing, conquering that trauma little by little. It will take time, sure. But time heals all wounds.

“A smooth sea has never made a skillful sailor”- Unknown

[minyoongleschimjoongles]

Preordained: Introductions

When Zara Met Taehyung

Pairing(s):Poly!BTSxOC, Sub!BTSxOC, 

Warnings: Implied sexual situations, Mentions of sexual situations, implications of Dom/sub relationships.

Notes: This is a Soulmate fic, and the character is a named OC but you can certainly put yourself in her shoes.

Everyone was born with a single Red String around their wrist that attached them to their Soulmate. Nobody could ever see the Strings all the time, but sometimes you could catch a glimpse of your own String, if you weren’t really paying attention to your peripheral vision. Everyone had just one single String.

Zara Underhill, freak by nature, had counted seven different strands around her own wrist. Seven people on the planet that were made perfectly for her, and she for them. The thought was unheard of.

Not that Zara has ever cared about finding her Soulmates; she was always more interested in where her family was going to move next. Her parents met in Hawaii when her Air Force father was stationed at Hickam Air Force Base. The Strings around their wrists were pulled taught the second they first touched one another, and became visible to their eyes only. Zara came not long after that.

When she was four months old, her father was transferred, taking his new family along to Shaw AFB in Sumpter, South Carolina. After that there was a small stint at the Incirlik Base in Turkey, then Fairchild AFB in Washington, then Chièvres Air Base in Belgium for four years, until finally, they settled in Osan Air Base in South Korea In Zara’s 14th year.

By the time Zara was 20, she was fluent in English, Flemish and Korean (though her accent was quite thick sometimes), and she could hold her own in a conversation in Dutch and Japanese.

Now, at 22, she’d finally become bored of her gap-year that had turned into gap-years, and had enrolled herself into college with a double major in Fine Arts and Social Sciences. Moving off-base to dorm at Seoul National University was easy when you were used to packing up your entire life every few years.

Her roommate, Park Ji-yoo, was a friend from the public high school Zara went to when she decided school on base was too boring for her. The two had hit it off especially well in 3rd year when they discovered the same rebellious habit of sneaking off to parties, drinking alcohol, and sometimes sleeping with cute boys. But where Ji-yoo leaned towards submission, Zara was firmly rooted in the dominant position. There was something thrilling about having the most popular boy in school on his knees and begging that Got her going.

Once in college, Zara’s rebellion calmed, and she began focusing mainly on her studies, though Ji-yoo seems to have made it her personal goal to sleep her way through as many boys as she could whilst still maintaining decent grades. More power to her, Zara always thought. Good sex and good grades was something to be proud of.

Later in life, Zara would say that Park Ji-yoo was the best thing that ever happened to her, because if it weren’t for Ji-yoo’s goal, Zara probably wouldn’t have ever met Kim Taehyung.

Well, no, the String around her wrist that connected to his own assured her that one day they would have met, but Zara liked to attribute it to Ji-yoo, if only to tease the two of them. After all, Taehyung was one of Ji-yoo’s sexual conquests. The first night Ji-yoo brought Taehyung home, he’d lingered a little awkwardly in the small common area between rooms when he’s noticed Zara sitting at her desk, studying with her door open.

“Uh...hey,” he greeted, rubbing the back of his neck. Zara arched a brow and grinned.

“Hi,” her grin widened when Ji-yoo’s slender hand reached out of her door and yanked Taehyung out of sight, though not before Zara got out a teasing, “Bye!”

The noises that had come out of Ji-yoo’s room that night had been downright pornographic. Zara just put in her headphones and continued studying.

The next time she saw him, about a month later, she was just walking in from a painting class, and he was coming out of Zara and Ji-yoo’s shower with his shirt sticking to his damp skin and his hair dripping wet.

“Hi,” she greeted, moving past him to put her oil paint kit away, “where’s Ji-yoo?”

“Class, I think? She said something about a test, but she let me use the shower.”

“Oh, okay,” Zara sat down at her desk. Taehyung took this as his cue to leave.

“Bye,” he said, smiling slightly when she waved at him over her shoulder.

The next time after that, Zara realized that Tae was faking it with Ji-yoo. No, he wasn’t faking orgasms or pleasure, but he was definitely faking a dominant nature for Ji-yoo’s sake, and as a result was probably not enjoying himself as much as he could be.

When Ji-yoo kicked him out that night, Taehyung lingered between her room and Zara’s, letting out a low, frustrated sigh. He turned when he heard Zara’s desk chair rattle and saw the girl sitting on the desk, one small foot on the edge of the chair.

“Sit,” she said.

Tae shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“No, I really should get going,” despite his words, he stepped a little closer. “Ji-yoo doesn’t like when I stay too long. You know, after we hook up...”

“Well, I’m not Ji-yoo, I’m Zara, and this is my dorm room too. So sit down.”

The change in Taehyung’s posture was immediate. Zara watched as his back straightened, his lips parted and his cheeks flushed. He was wide eyed when he stepped fully into Zara’s room, shut the door, and sank into the desk chair.

A moment or two of silence ticked by, with Tae looking up at Zara expectantly and Zara looking back down at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He was just beginning to fidget when Zara pulled out a sketchbook.

“Stay still,” she said, “I’m going to draw you.”

“Why?” Tae wondered. Zara’s eyes flicked up to his face a few times as she put pencil to paper.

“Because you’re beautiful. People draw beautiful things all the time.”

Taehyung blushed again, but his jitters had been successfully calmed for the moment.

“So tell me why you’re pretending to like being in charge.”

Tae startled, “What? I don’t know what you mean?”

Zara’s green eyes flicked up to him again. “Taehyung, I’ve faked it enough myself to know what it looks and sounds like when someone’s not into it.”

“Ah,” this was not a conversation he’d foreseen himself having with his hook-up’s roommate, but here he was. There was something about Zara that told him she wouldn’t judge him on anything he had to say. “I’ve always been the one in control. I don’t know anything else.”

“You should tell Ji-yoo how you feel.” Zara said, sketching out the curve of Taehyung’s nose, smudging it slightly with her pinky to create shadow. “You’ll never know what you like until you try it, and you’ll never know if Jo-yoo is willing until you talk to her about it.”

Tae nodded, then committed himself to his role of live model. He couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering around Zara’s dorm room, curious to see the differences between roommates.

Ji-yoo’s bed wasn’t lofted, and she had a real rug rolled across the floor. Her desk had been covered in makeup and tangled jewelry and scattered papers, and Tae could tell she did most of her studying either in bed or out of the dorm. The walls had been bare with the acception of a few temporary hooks that she’d used to hang scarves, hats and towels.

Zara did get her bed lofted, and underneath it she had several extra storage drawers, since SNU didn’t provide much in the way of storage. She’d also rolled a rug out across the floor, and Tae could feel the plushness of it under his bare feet. Her bed was covered in a heavy white comforter, several piles of fuzzy blankets stacked at the end of it. He could tell just from the sheer amount that Zara appreciated the comforts of softness.

Her walls were covered in artwork and photographs. There were several of a man in a US Military uniform, and a few of Zara with Ji-yoo. Zara seemed to have an affinity for dying her hair, judging by the fact that in one picture it was blonde, another orange, and currently it was a flattering mix of lavender and charcoal gray.

Her desk seemed to be a bit of controlled chaos; paint and pencils and textbooks and sketch pads scattered across its surface, wet canvas leaning against the wall, her computer opened beside her right hip with a reference photo of a Monet painting filling up the screen. An open notebook revealed lecture notes in what was clearly English.

“Where are you from?” Tae asked quietly, his eyes coming to rest back on Zara again. Zara’s lips twitched into a smile that had him feeling like he’d said something wrong.

“That’s kind of a difficult question to answer there, Baby Boy.” Her eyes caught the shiver that ran up his spine, and quirked an eyebrow. “Do you mean where was I born, or where I moved to, or where I liked before Korea, or....”

“Okay, okay,” Tae laughed. “I used the wrong wording, I get it. Wherever you’re from, your Korean is excellent.”

“I’m from all over.” Zara said, still smiling. “I was born in Hawaii, but I’m a- ah...what’s the Korean word for it...? Oh well, I’m what’s called a Military Brat.” The English flowed off her tongue as easily as the Korean did, and Tae sat a little straighter in the chair.

“Mirtary Braut.”

Zara grinned. “Almost. Mil-i-ta-ry Brat.”

“Military Brat.”

“Good! Very good, Tae!”

Taehyung grinned at the praise, pleased.

“What’s Military Brat?”

“It’s a term used to describe the children of Military personnel.”

“Isn’t that mean?”

“Nah, it’s more like a term of endearment.”

“Ah, I see!”

The two of them continued to chat as she sketched him, conversation going well into the night. Finally, 2 A.M. hit, and Tae yawned loudly. Zara took in Tae’s tired eyes and sighed, setting aside the mostly completed sketch.

Pulling out her phone to look at the time, she said, “I hate to cut the bonding short, but you need to get some sleep.”

“But the sketch-“ Tae cut off as Zara snapped his photo.

“There, now don’t worry about the sketch. Worry about getting back to your dorm in one piece.”

Tae snorted a little and hauled himself to his feet, yawning again. “It was really nice talking to you, Zara Underhill. And thanks, you know, for the advice earlier.”

“Anytime, Kim Taehyung.”

Tae grinned at her and left the dorm with a wave.

The next time Zara saw Kim Taehyung, Ji-yoo was breaking things off with him, very publicly, in the courtyard.

“I just don’t think we want the same things,” Ji-yoo was saying, and Tae was nodding his head up and down.

“You’re right, our wants and needs are very different, but thank you for the opportunity.”

Zara has to stifle a laugh. It sounded like they were terminating a business agreement. Who knows, maybe they were.

“I do look forward to seeing you in the future, as friends. Have a nice rest of your day, Taehyung.”

Zara approached Taehyung, shifting the grip on her backpack.

“I think you just got fired, man.”

Tae snorted and nodded.

“More like a mutually beneficial parting of ways. Taking charge of me was a little much for Ji-yoo.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Zara admitted. “She’s never been the Pitcher type, if you know what I mean. That’s always been my area of expertise.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you didn’t tell me this before we had the sex talk...”

“Well, as the great American masterpiece High School Musical 2 once said, ‘You gotta find your own way.’ You never would have known it wouldn’t work out if you hadn’t had the talk.”

Tae laughed and turned to look at Zara head on.

“Would it be horribly inappropriate to ask you for a hug?”

“Absolutely not,” Zara opened her arms wide. “Come here, Baby Boy.”

Kim Taehyung wrapped his arms around Zara Underhill.

And the universe snapped into place.

There was a sharp tug on their wrists, and they pulled away to look down. A single Red String was visible around their left wrists, connecting one to the other. There was a gentle pulse that revealed Zara’s six other strings just long enough for him to count, and he licked his lips in surprise.

“Seven,” he said quietly. “You have Seven Soulmates.”

“Yes.”

“And I have one.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s you, my ex’s roommate.”

“Looks like it.”

“Is that horribly inappropriate?”

“Only slightly.”

There was a pause, and then Tae spoke up quietly, “At least I know you’re the Pitcher,” and was pleased to hear Zara laugh.

[crewhonk]

Of The Line (7)

REBLOG THIS CHAPTER TO STAY ON THE TAG LIST!!!!

Summary: The team take to Sokovia, and everything begins to unravel for YN

Warnings: fluff, everything that comes with fights, minor character death, YN and Steve make plans for a future they may never have, Gio and YN are badass, Pietro is a darling flirt

Words: 3K (she lied like a liar)

Songs: Seven Nation Army-- white stripes, Survivor (2we remix), what’s up danger-- blackway, m.A.A.d city-- Kendrick Lamar

AN: PLEASE, PLEASE COMMENT AND LIKE AND REBLOG OUR WORK! We’re getting a little discouraged due to the recent lack of notes on this series!

Till The End Masterlist / Of The Line Masterlist

________________________________________

The water dripped from the ceiling onto the stone floors of the basement, and YN’s skin erupted with goosebumps at the chill of the dungeon. Her, Giovanna and Bruce were walking down the stairs looking for Natasha desperately— the plan was simple. Help her dad find Natasha, make sure they got to safety and then return to the mainland to help the team fight Ultron. 

“Natasha!” YN shouted into the empty room. Giovanna mimicked her call and it was only when her dad called for Nat that she responded.

“Guys?” She called out and they all sprinted towards the sound. Natasha was locked into an actual cell, bars and all, and YN and Giovanna rushed to them, clutching them in their hands and helping Natasha to her feet. She seemed tired but overall relatively healthy. 

“You okay?” Giovanna almost sobbed, reaching through a gap in the bars and pulling her closer. YN did so too, needing her other best friend close after all the worry of her being kidnapped. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She whispered, voice raspy.

“The team's in the city, it's about to light up,” YN informed her and Natasha clenched her jaw, rolled her shoulders and nodded. “Civilians are being evacuated as we speak and Dad’s gonna take you out of here to safety.”

“Job's not finished.” 

“You guys could help with the evacuation, but dad can't be in a fight near civilians. And you've done plenty. Your fight is over.” YN reassured and Natasha dropped her head in relief. 

“I’m so tired. Did you find a key anywhere?”

“Yeah, I did.” Bruce piped up and YN and Giovanna squealed and ran when he held up a gun the size of his torso. He blasted the lock away and YN bumped his shoulder. 

“I knew you were just as crazy as I was.”

“Where do you think you got it from?”

____________________

The sky was falling. Literally, rocks were falling on them and dust was in their eyes and YN needed an inhaler because she just couldn’t breathe. Giovanna had summoned her suit and was protecting the other three as well as she could, but it didn’t stop a few rocks from striking any of them in the head or shoulder. 

“We gotta move.” She grunted as a rather large slab of cement broke over her shoulders. 

YN turned to her dad whose eyes were darting around anxiously. “You’re not gonna turn green?” She asked. She could feel her own skin start filling with gamma ad=nd the muscles in her body begin to grow— she didn’t know how he did it. They came upon a cavern int their search for a flight of stairs, and they ran put to the edge of a hole to see if there was any way out. 

“I've got a compelling reason not to lose my cool.” He looked down at his baby girl and she smiled fondly. 

"I adore you.” She whispered, cupping his cheek and ignoring the way her heart was beating in her throat. “But I need the other guy.”

And with that, she shoved her own father over the edge and turned her eyes away from the hole, not needing to see her fathers body hit the ground. That didn’t, however, brace her for the sound of him landing and then a dull, confused roar echoing in their ears. 

There was the sound of two dustbin lid-sized feet hitting the ground and YN turned to see The Big Guy grinning down at her. She smiled despite herself— whenever Big Guy decided to show his face to her, he was almost as threatening to her as a golden retriever was. 

“Hey, bud.” She forced a smile on her face and he smiled back, not realizing that YN’s was very much fake. 

“Let’s go be heroes.” She said, taking Giovanna’s free hand (the other was already holding on to Natasha) and blasted off through the glass ceiling. 

______________

Natasha was dropped off as soon as they hit the flying city— not having much will or practice to be hanging from Giovanna as she flew one hundred kilometres an hour through the air. Giovanna took YN to one of the back streets— a place of the town that seemed to be mostly populated by the robot minions, and dropped YN on the ground. 

“Do we know how to shut them down?” YN asked, pulled a gun from her thigh holster and shooting an incoming droid in the neck, blowing it apart. “Like that, I guess.” She hummed. 

“Steve said we had to take out all of them so He didn’t get away,” Giovanna grunted as she blasted through ten more robots.

“He does realise only like, three of us can fly, right?” YN jumped off of a wrecked car and onto the back of a flying robot, tearing its head off with her bare hands. She crashed back to the ground and held her bleeding fingers to her chest. 

“Yeah, but he also realizes we’re too stubborn to let that stop us.” Giovanna replied, motioning for her to turn her comm systems to the main channel. YN did and was immediately greeted with a grunt from Steve. Giovanna laughed loudly at the expression on YN’s face. 

“Happy you could join the party.” Steve gasped. There was the sound of crunching metal and then him huffing out another breath of air. 

“You really do have skewed versions of what a party is, don’t you?” Natasha replied.��

“Awe, family reunion! This is cute.” YN cooed playfully, reloading her pistol and firing three more times. There was a crash of a door and an arrow barely skimmed the tip of YN’s nose and plunged into the eye socket of a robot crawling its way towards her. Her head whipped around to see Clint join them from a building to their left. 

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing, will you?” YN shouted, heart racing fast in her chest. Clint shrugged and knocked another arrow. 

“I never miss, you know that.” He smiled.

“You did that one time—“ Giovanna teased above them, landing on a car a few feet away and firing at a hoard of droids. 

“Yeah it was one time, and I was blackout drunk. Can we not bring that up? Nat okay?”

“Natasha is stubborn and more of a fighter than any of us will ever be,” YN replied, half sarcastic. 

“She’s still fighting isn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Just as she spoke, thirty more droids flew down on them, firing their blasters and Giovanna covered YN’s body just in time to shield her from a small incoming missile. They were both thrown back against an already partially crushed car, and YN swore she could feel her ribs crack at the impact. 

“Christ.” YN gasped once the air filled her lungs again. She shrunk down as Giovanna soared up once more, and when she went to grab more ammunition, her hand clasped on her empty belt. 

“Uh— guys, I’m out already,” YN said into her comms to no avail— the team was already overwhelmed themselves. “Okay, fine, I’ll do this myself.” She whined and pulled her Widow batons from her thighs and turned them on— the thrum of electricity making the hair on her arms stand on end. 

“Well,” Giovanna grunted as she was thrown hard into the ground, creating a 5 foot 3 crater around her body. “I’m officially overwhelmed.”

Just as YN was about to attack one of the droids with a fancy stick, one of the building doors crashed open and they were surrounded by an odd red mist. It wrapped around their limbs gently, protecting them as it also tore the robots limb from limb— arms and legs and torsos flying every which way. 

YN turned to see Wanda storm out, her eyes glowing red and a determined snarl on her face. She manipulated the red mist easily, and YN was filled with an immediate sense of relief as she stood and watched the forty-some robots die in front of their eyes. 

“Have I ever told you that it’s great to meet you?” YN asked as she walked closer. The girl, instead of smirking and saying something that would probably come out of her brother's mouth, frowned and stood in front of her sheepishly. 

“I am sorry I got into your head like that. That was not fair play.” And YN’s heart swelled at her words. She threw her arm around the teenage girl's shoulder and gave her a comforting one-armed hug. 

“It’s all good. There’s no room for fair play when you feel like your life is in danger.” YN smiled softly and Wanda held her chin higher than she was. 

“Sorry to interrupt the sap fest,” Giovanna sighed as she stumbled over to the pair. “But this isn’t a movie, we don’t have time to have ‘feeling talks’ right now. Let’s go play dirty, yeah?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Clint joined them, then— pressing one finger to his ear and calling the team. “All clear on the East side of the city.”

“We are not clear!” Steve sounded like he was in pain, and there was a grunt from him. YN looked frantically to Giovanna who seemed to understand and reached out her hand, ready to take off to drop YN off to help Steve. “We are very not clear!”

“On our way, Cap.” YN rushed and gripped Giovanna’s arm just in time for her to be scooped up into someone’s arms. She looked up and saw Pietro smiling down at her, his silver hair haloed by the hot sun above him and a twinkle in his eyes that suggested they were not in any sort of battle at all. 

“Climb on, Monkey.” He said to Wanda and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Let’s go save your Captain.” And then he sped off. 

____________________

She was dropped off on the opposite end of the city too quickly, and Pietro let her down slowly, making sure she got her footing right before letting her go. YN smiled briefly at him before running and sliding on her knees to stick her head in a bush and throw up at the G’s they had seemed to pull in his haste to move quickly. 

“We are never doing that again— wait, have you gotten shot already?” YN panted as she looked disbelievingly at Pietro's bleeding arm. She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet, using the torn piece fo fabric to wipe the corners of YN’s mouth. 

“You will get used to it.” He winked, and he looked down at his shoulder— the wound no more than a mere scratch now. “And it didn’t hurt that much. Not as much as your punch.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Maximoff.” YN smiled and scoped the edge of the city for Steve and Natasha. 

“I have a few places in mind.” He murmured before running off and leaving YN a breathless, red mess in the middle of the street. Wanda walked up beside her and nudged her. 

“I have never seen someone give Piet a run for his money in the flirting department. They always turn bright red and blubber words until he loses interest.” She smiled and watched the blue blur that was her brother run back and forth across the plaza in front of them. YN could only huff out a self-satisfied breath and begin jogging to the nearest crashing commotion. 

________________

“Captain! Steve!” YN coughed through the dust where her tracker said he was. He could hear cries of pain and worried voices of the locals muttering not far and she yelped when he came hurtling out of the smoke— not seeing her and not stopping quite in time. He caught her forearms as she was sent spiralling backwards and pulled her to him, making sure she was free of wounds before letting her go. He let out a surprised huff when she curled her arms around his neck and buried her face in the spot behind his ear. 

“I’m happy you’re alive.” She whispered before pulling back. He was grateful his face was so dirty that she was unable to see his blush on his face. God, she made him feel like he was fourteen again trying to even get close to making eye contact with Marriette O’Connell in ninth grade. 

“I’m happy you’re alive, too.” He replied, seemingly awestruck. Instead of saying just how happy he was to see her, there was a scream from the distance and he pulled away, speaking once more into his comms. 

“Guys, we’re leading the civilians to the town hall. Try to meet us there.” She took Wanda’s hand and pulled her along after Steve who was stumbling through the debris of fallen buildings. 

Giovanna, Natasha and Clint were there already, and Natasha raised her eyebrows at the sight of Wanda wearing her favourite red jacket. 

“That’s my jacket.” She commented and Wanda shifted nervously. 

“She’s with us,” Steve replied.

“Still doesn’t explain the jacket.”

“There are still civilians hiding in the buildings.” Wanda was not looking at any of them, but at the buildings around them, her eyes glowing that familiar red. 

“The airs getting thin,” YN panted, leaning against one of the pillars holding the building up. “If we go much higher, we’re going to start dropping like flies.”

“Okay,” Steve said, anxiety in his voice at YN’s expression of discomfort. He looked at Wanda. “Get them here, Barton, cover her six.”

“And what do we do?” Giovanna asked. 

“We fight robots.” He replied, and YN nodded breathlessly as Natasha handed her a few magazines of ammunition. 

“Thank you.” She whispered and steeled herself before pushing off the pillar, stumbling a little and catching herself. 

“Fight robots?” Pietro appeared seemingly out of thin air, handing Steve a disconnected metal arm and walking over to YN. He looked her up and down as if looking for any injury since she left him and nodded once he found she was just slightly breathless from the altitude. 

“Take it easy, Sweet Girl.” He hummed and brushed her cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. Her eyelids fluttered slightly and she straightened up to her full height. 

“No promises.” She replied, forcing a charming smile on her face. He mirrored it and patted her shoulder twice. 

“That is my girl.” He swaggered back to Steve whose jaw was clenched and whose eyes were filled with nothing but loathing. “We fight robots today, yeah?” He asked before jetting off once more. Steve bristled in his wake and without sparing YN a single glance, took off into the battle once more. 

_______________________

The battle went about the same— fists through metal breastplates and broken knuckles and tired grunts. YN, Natasha and Steve all held down the east side of the town hall without too much struggle and when there was a slight reprieve from the crashing of vibranium, YN and Natasha leaned against a car, trying their best to catch their breath. 

The altitude was taking its toll on the girls, and they were dizzy and short of breath to the point that fighting for more than thirty seconds rendered them almost useless. 

Natasha was joined shortly by Steve who looked out over the tops of the clouds and sighed. “The next wave's gonna hit any minute. What have you got, Stark?”

“Well, nothing great. Maybe a way to blow up the city. That'll keep it from impacting the surface if you guys can get clear.” Tony sounded anxious— this was nothing more than a plan to abandon their work, and if Tony of all people was planning on cutting something like this short than there may have been no other solution. YN walked over to Steve and Natasha took his other side, joining him. 

“I asked for a solution, not an escape plan,” Steve replied, voice short. YN put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, making him look at her. Immediately, the tension left his shoulders when he saw her wide, sad eyes. 

“This is the solution, Stevie. We both know this rock isn’t going to come down pretty— the less damage Tony can do, the better.” She murmured and he shook his head stubbornly, making YN roll her eyes. 

“Cap, these people are going nowhere. If Stark finds a way to blow this rock—“ Natasha started but Steve cut her off with a hard glare. 

“Not 'til everyone's safe.”

Natasha could have snarled out of frustration. “Everyone up here versus everyone down there? There's no math there!” She half-shouted, and YN peeked around Steve’s shoulder, nodding her head and telling Natasha that it was time for her to give the pair some alone time. Natasha glowered at Steve before turning and stomping away.

“I'm not leaving this rock with one civilian on it.” He said to YN, voice softer and lacking the Captain gusto. YN sighed, and threw all caution to the wind, taking off her glove and shucking off his own before wrapping her hand around his, intertwining their fingers and making his breath stutter in his chest. 

“She didn’t say we should leave it, Steve.” She whispered loud enough for him to hear over the wind. He blinked, and a flash of fear crossed his face. 

“No, YN. I can’t— you’re so young you have such a life to live.” He said, turning to her. She smiled sadly and shook her head. Her free hand reached up to wipe away some blood dripping from a gash on his cheekbone. 

Without looking away from him, she smiled and her eyes filled with tears, they flickered down to his lips once before going back to his crystal blue ones. “There are worse ways to go. Where else am I gonna get a view like this?” She sighed and despite his heartbreaking in his chest, he felt his stomach flip. 

“There’s so much you have to see.” His voice cracked and she let a few tears trail their paths through the dirt on her face. 

“Tell me about them.” 

“The Alps.” He replied immediately. “Not the Swiss ones, the French ones. In the summer. It gets so hot there but the breeze coming off the mountains is the most refreshing thing. I’d show you everywhere me and Bucky went and I would tell you stories about the things we did. You would have liked Bucky— you both have the exact same temperament and nerdiness about you.” He tried to crack a smile but it just came off as a painful grimace. 

She choked out a half-laugh and stepped closer. “I think I would like to take you to Peru. The mountains there are gorgeous and we could have lunch at Machu Picchu. Take a picnic or something and feed the Alpacas even though you’re really not supposed to. Dad took me there when I was ten— we saved a lot of lives there.”

He hummed and his free hand cupped the side of her neck, tracing over the line of her jaw and hovering over a bruise swelling there. 

“You picked a place, and I picked a place. Where’s one place you haven’t been to, yet?” He whispered. 

“I haven’t been to Athens, yet. Gio went last year alone because I that pneumonia.” She said, and he chuckled. 

“You’re like a baby when you’re sick. But yeah, I haven’t been to Athens. Maybe we can make our own memories and stories.”

“I would like that,” YN whispered, more tears falling from her eyes. He ducked his head and just as his nose was about to touch her own, there was crackling over their comm system ad a deep voice echoed in their ears. 

“How about I give you the chance to actually do those things and keep it out of everyone's head?” Nick Fury’s voice echoed and Steve jumped away just in time to watch as the largest airbase they had ever seen fly into sight. 

“Fury, you son of a bitch.” Steve cursed, half annoyed that his moment with YN was interrupted but relieved neither of them was going to die. Pietro popped up beside the two of them and Steve made to take a side step further away from YN, remembering how much she had been flirting with the boy only half an hour before. 

“Oooh! You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Fury joked and YN could have cried at the right of flying lifeboats coming to land on the edge of the city. 

“This is SHIELD?” Pietro wondered in awe. 

“This is what SHIELD's supposed to be.” YN and Steve echoed, in equal amazement. 

“This is not so bad.”

"Let's load 'em up.”

______________________

Evacuating the city was easy enough— the citizens all wanted to get the hell out so it was only a matter of dividing the people into groups of 200 and then making sure nobody was trampled. They were all called tot he cathedral in the centre of the city soon after, and fighting the robots all together in order to protect the drill was epic in its own mind, despite neither Tony, YN or Giovanna had time or breath to make witty, sarcastic comments as they worked with the rest of the team to deplete Ultron’s bodies. 

Then, Giovanna, Vision, Thor, and Tony all put their full blast onto Ultron before Bruce had punted him no less than a mile away. 

“We gotta move out. Even I can tell the air is getting thin. You guys get to the boats, I'll sweep for stragglers, be right behind you.” Steve gasped as he watched anyone who could fly take off after the robots. YN nodded. 

“I’ll stay with you, then.” She said and he looked at her. His expression was one of annoyance, protectiveness and amusement. 

“You will get your ass onto one of those lifeboats or else—“

“Or else what?”

“Just to it, Banner,” Steve commanded and YN rolled her eyes, turning and going to walk away before facing him once more. She pulled him into a hug, and kissed the side of his neck adoringly, and he flushed red and buried his face into the side of her head. 

“Come back safe, Steve,” YN whispered into his ear and he allowed the shiver he would have repressed under any other circumstance to shake his spine. 

“I will always come back to you, YN.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

_____________________

“Dad!” YN shouted as she hopped out of the back of the racer Clint and Natasha had found. He was in a park, tearing the slide in two when she found him, and he looked at her and growled, throwing the plastic the ground and stepping on it so it lay flat against the gravel.  

She put his extra clothes on a bench she passed and walked over to her dad, hands out. He looked at her, and Big Guy seemed to recognize her. He stepped forward and YN smiled encouragingly. 

“You did amazing things, today Dad. You were a hero. How about you shrink down for a bit and when we get home I’ll make some cheesecake? We can eat the whole thing in the lab if you want.” YN started talking and she could see the green fling from Hulks skin. 

“And you can even wear your cartoon T-Shirts and I won’t even tease you about it? Maybe I can wear one and we can match, okay?” YN continued, and just as she held out her hand to wrap around one of his fingers, there was the sound of gunfire, a splitting pain at the spot just above her kidney and then black.

______________________

YN woke up the sound of steady beeping— slow, but steady. The room she was in was filled with sunlight— she could see it through her closed eyelids, and someone was playing the most recent Tame Impala album. There was the smell of flowers, floating around, but the scent wasn’t strong enough to cover up the equally strong scent of cleaner and antiseptic. 

She grunted and lolled her head to the side to find a freshly showered, tired-looking Giovanna. 

“You look like shit.” YN’s voice was raspy and Giovanna’s head shot up so fast YN was surprised she didn’t sway in her seat. 

“You’re alive!” She whisper-shouted, voice thick with emotion. Giovanna immediately stood from her pouty chair she was sitting in by the open window and motioned for YN to move over so she could sit by her hips, facing her. There was a hint of dread in her face, and YN’s monitor picked up. 

“What happened.” YN deadpanned and Giovanna dropped her gaze nervously. “Who died?”

“YN I’m so sorry—“ Giovanna whispered, and YN’s heart monitor beeped louder. She tried to push herself onto her elbows, but she had been out so long her muscles were weak with exhaustion.

“Who. Died.”

“Pietro. He died saving Clint and this kid.” Giovanna’s voice was barely audible but YN heard it as if the girl had screamed the words. 

“No. No, no, no, no, no— he can’t— he couldn’t. No.” YN found herself finding it harder and harder to breathe, and it looked like Giovanna was biting her tongue to stop more bad news from spilling out. 

“I’m so sorry, YN— Dios mío.” She whispered as she pressed an oxygen mask to YN’s face. She waited thirty seconds before pulling it away.

“Something else happened.” YN gasped, pressing the oxygen to her face again, and Giovanna started crying. She leaned over YN’s body and pressed her face to her chest.

“YN, please— I don’t—“ Giovanna whimpered and YN lay frozen, making no move to comfort her like she would have normally— the dread in her body seemed to paralyze her bones. 

“What, Gio?”

“Your dad— he’s. He’s missing. There hasn’t been any contact with him for a week. We had to keep you sedated so your gunshots and ribs would heal faster, but we couldn’t— YN no, you can’t get up—“

“I need to find him. Only I can find him. He must be— he has to be so scared and only I can find him and calm him down.” YN rushed, pulling censors off of her chest and arms and tearing out IV’s.

“YN no, he’s gone. There’s no trace of him on the planet.” Giovanna rushed around and pushed YN back, making her weakened body tumble back onto the bed. 

“Dad’s gone?” YN whimpered, and Giovanna’s heart broke as how small her best friend looked. Instead of replying, Giovanna pulled YN to her and let the girl cry big, heaving sobs into her stomach for hours. Only until YN’s voice disappeared and she swayed in her seat was Giovanna able to push her back to the bed and pull the blankets around her chin. 

“I’m so sorry, Bubs.”

______________________

It was another two weeks later YN was released on all basis— her wound had healed perfectly, and while it still shattered her that both Pietro and her father had disappeared from her life, YN continued to repress the fears that her dream had surfaced. Giovanna wouldn’t leave her. Steve wouldn’t leave her. She could place the rest of her bets on them— she had lost the bet on her father, but two-thirds were still pretty good odds, right?

Outside of the compound, Steve and Tony were walking. 

“I will miss you, Tony.” Steve clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and Tony nodded, looking out to the window where YN and Giovanna had their arms wrapped around the other, watching from YN’s physical therapy session. Tony wouldn’t be gone long, and the girls would be able to visit him anytime they wished— it was Steve and Natasha he wouldn’t be seeing for a while— they both had work to do. 

"Yeah? Well, it's time for me to tap out. Maybe I should take a page out of Barton's book and build Pepper and Giovanna a farm, hope nobody blows it up.” Tony turned back to Steve and smiled wistfully. Steve raised his eyebrows.

“The simple life,” Steve commented, and Tony huffed a laugh. 

“You'll get there one day,” Tony replied, jutting his chin in the direction of the compound. Steve followed the motion and his eyes set on YN who had yet to let the sadness in her eyes leave since she woke up. 

“I don't know, family, stability. The guy who wanted all that went in the ice seventy-five years ago. I think someone else came out.” Steve sighed, turning away from the woman of his dreams and back to Tony who rolled his eyes and scoffed. 

“I see the way you look at my niece, Rogers.” Tony’s voice was hard. “It’s okay to not want all that domestic life with nobody else but one person.”

Steve was quiet and he dared a brief glance put to YN and Giovanna who were starting to turn back into the gym— YN using crutches and Giovanna hovering closely. 

“She’s good. She’s too good for someone like me— I’ve done things that would make her horrified to even know me.” He sighed. “She’s so young, too— and I don’t want her to have to settle early enough for what I want in life.”

Tony rubbed his eyes but remained patient. 

“Rogers, you are the best man I’ve ever met besides myself. And she truly doesn’t want anyone else but the man who is too stubborn to admit that you are both perfect for each other. Fuck the rules, Steve. Be a little selfish.”

Steve chuckled despite the irritation growing in his chest. “There are rules for a reason, Tony. Maybe it’s just best for everyone if they’re followed.” 

Tony began to climb into his car, and he poked his head out to lower his glasses and glared at Steve. “Everyone but the two people who it doesn’t, right?”

“I’ll keep in touch, Tony.”

“Take care of my girls, Rogers! Or you’ll have me to answer to!” Tony yelled as he pressed his foot to the gas pedal, and Steve only shook his head and watched Tony drive off until he turned the bend and disappeared from sight.

____________________

Taglist (must reblog at least three chapters, send an ask to be added): buckybarneshairpullingkink / staringmoony / through-the-crevices / highladyofasgard / @i-am-always-famished / @filia-sapientiae / @somekryptonitewriting / @fashionlive15 / @godlymissbalor / @fanfictionjunkie1112 / @nerdy-bookworm-1998 / @songforhema / @army-crawl-andersen / @buckybarneshairpullingkink / @shynara51 / @deathofmissjackson / @a–1–1–3 / @liffydaze / @shymarvelfannanni / @freakpotterfan / @callie-bear15 / @sunflower-borhap-boys / @criedwolfwritings/ @vxidnik / @captainomad / @lazinessisalliknow / jjlevin / @gwlaxygirl / liaswhorable / @notyourtypicalrose / @madlymadzzz

[curtisandlewis]

Recently, I read 2K to 10K by Rachel Aaron and 5,000 Words Per Hour by Chris Fox. To paraphrase, these books claim that by using their techniques to get into a flow state you could conceivably have word counts of up to 10,000 in a single day. Guess what? I believe them. The flow state they both described is what I used to feel every single time I sat down to write. I could get 5,000 words in a single session and have the time of my life while doing it.

After 2015, anxiety and OCD got in the way of me getting into that flow state and I figure it’s worth the try to get back to it. I had already planned for March to be the month I write most of the fanfiction I post here throughout the year. So, what better time than to follow the techniques while I do each phase of writing and document the process all right here in this post. 

Zero Draft: A draft that isn’t structured enough to be a full first draft. I write it very fast and it’s the best way to get the story out. I write this using only Google Docs on my Ipad.

I know it’s only been two days but this turned out to be a real success. The process I followed was to meditate in the morning and spend the first ten minutes thinking about the fic and letting the scene play out like it would in a movie. This is how I applied their technique of visualization. I then give myself 5 or 10 minutes to prepare for my writing session. 

I play music by Troye Sivan because that matches the mood of the scene the best for me. 

The next thing I do is my own creation. I open a separate document (usually create a new note in Google Keep) and manifest what I want my writing session to be. I believe in the power of your thoughts to dictate your behavior and ultimate success if that’s not your thing feel free to skip that step. 

The last thing I do before actually opening my writing document is open Google Sheets on my Ipad and fill out my Word Sprint Tracker. Tracking your progress is essential in both these books. It’s been pretty fun watching my word count speed go up with each session. 

I have three apps open on my Ipad: Google Docs, Google Keep, and Google Sheets. Docs and Keep are in a split screen so I can write while seeing my outline or I can look at my manifesting note when my motivation starts to get down (I also put random ideas on there if I don’t want them cluttering my document)

The next step has helped me the most HANDS DOWN. I take five or so minutes and describe the scene. What is it about, what are the emotions I want to convey, what does it mean to the characters, and ultimately what is the freaking point!

That five minutes has increased my word count from 125 in a half-hour session to a solid 500 in every session and no more staring at the screen hating life because the words will just not come.

Start Date: 3/1 End Date: 3/2  Word Count: 2,076

First Draft: The typical first draft. All the gaps have been filled in and I’ve decided where I want the story to go. I will be writing on my laptop for this draft using only the writing program Scrivener. 

First, my process

Review outline 

Have a split-screen view of Google docs (Zero Draft) and Scrivener.

Copy zero draft to Scrivener by typing word for word

I love typing up the document over again. The zero draft serves as a map for when I get stuck and I’m free to expand or cut as I go. As for the laptop, I have pros and cons. 

PROS

I have my desktop free to play music, videos, or serve as a mood board for inspiration as I write. 

The screen is bigger than my Ipad and the keyboard is a lot easier to type on

CONS

It may be portable but it’s still heavy-ish. I can’t exactly wake up and start typing away.

The battery life doesn’t last very long so I have to keep it plugged in most of the time.

I’m leaning towards using the desktop for projects that are 20K+ words but shorter than that I think the laptop would be fine. I really enjoyed working at night with the lights turned off and my diffuser running. It created a nice mood, especially when writing the romantic/ sexy parts. I don’t think I would have the same experience writing on my desktop. Also, I’m totally hyped it only took me two days to write the first draft!

Start Date: 3/4 End Date: 3/7 (A total of 2 working days) Word Count: 2,501

Second Draft-Developmental Edit: For this draft and all the way up to posting I will be working only on my desktop. Since I use my desktop for everything not related to writing I thought it would be good to limit it to revision. It’s the idea if you use your bed for activities other than sleep than you’ll have a hard time sleeping. During revision, I can take my time and not have to worry about word count. Also if I inevitably get distracted by the internet it’s not as disastrous as if I was drafting. This is the first edit and I’ll be trying out a new process for this referencing 2k to 10k. 

Update the small outline I made before writing

Read the fic in Scrivener and make a comment for each thing I want to change (it’s similar to comment feature in google docs) this will be my to-do list (mentioned in 2K to 10K)  

Open my second writing program Liquid Story Binder and start with the biggest problem on my to-do list

I’ll take the section of text that I want to change from scrivener and copy it to Liquid Story Binder where I will make the change and paste it back into Scrivener. Focusing on a small section of text at a time helps with my anxiety.  

It only took about an hour or so to do this so I can’t say how I feel yet about using the desktop. I do think it was helpful having Liquid Story Binder to focus on a specific text, especially when working on pacing.

Start Date: 3/8 End Date: 3/8 Word Count: 2,553  

Grammar Edit: This phase is pretty much how it sounds. Same as before I copy and paste small sections of text into the Hemingway editor and make the changes there. 

This may be my least favorite phase of the writing process. It’s very tedious and I don’t like being reminded how much I abuse the word “just.” As for working only on the desktop, I feel the extra screen real estate helps a lot.

Here’s the resulting document

Start Date:3/8 End Date:3/8 Word Count: 2,628  

 Last full Developmental Edit: Working only in Scrivener I’ll read the whole story from beginning to end, make my to-do list and make all the changes directly in Scrivener.

This serves mostly as another read. Usually, if something is giving me anxiety I’ll take this time to see if I can change it while still being true to the characters and the story I want to tell. This time I just took twenty minutes and read through it, marking up a couple of more typos.

Start Date: 3/9 End Date: 3/9 Word Count: 2,647

Prepare for posting: This is the most tedious part of the process. 

Write the summary

Hopefully, I can name the damn fic at that point

Add all the general information about the fic (Pairings, Warnings, notes, etc...)

 Read the fic and list Somethings to Look Foward To

All the tags...      

Start Date: 3/13 End Date: 3/13  

Last line edit: I read through again going line by line fixing any typos or grammatical errors and really paying attention to how the words flow. 

Working on the desktop probably works the best for this phase. I’m depressed and had to force myself to finish this fic. I’m not writing anymore in March or April. Luckily this experiment was only for one fic and I do have a better understanding of what process works for me. However, I won’t be able to test it out until May.

Start Date: 3/13 End Date: 3/13 Word Count: 2,392

Post!

[aenwoedbeannaa]

A Treasure Worth Dying For | Geralt x Yennefer | Part II

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Warning(s): Implied smut, ok a little smut.

Word Count: 1,089

Summary: I’m just gonna say it - there is a startling lack of Geralt x Yen fics out there. This is a collection of oneshots set during the book, Time of Contempt, along with some time-jumping backwards. It mostly follows the plotlines of the book, but with scenes more fleshed out, with some of the flashbacks being my own stories of the two to fill in long gaps in their story. That being said spoilers for The Last Wish, Time of Contempt as well as Season 1 of the Netflix show.

Part I

________________________________________________________________

this moment feels like an echo / we’ve done this dance a thousand times.

                                                                All Time Low // Dark Side of Your Room

________________________________________________________________

“Yennefer...” the Witcher said, quietly but edged with the kind of painful desperation that only love can create.

He was inside her, moving unhurriedly despite the intensity of the situation. It felt like an eternity since they had been together like this, and neither of them wanted to let the moment pass too quickly.

Geralt looked into her violet eyes as he thrust into her the way that she liked. The sorceress seemed surprised that he remembered exactly how to make her completely melt beneath him – but how could he forget? He’d known from the first moment that they had loved each other that he would never feel the same way about anyone else.

She moaned softly, not taking her eyes from his.

“Yen,” he breathed, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing in her scent.

Her hand tangled in his long hair, clutching him to her as he inevitably began quickening his pace. “I remember the first time you called me that,” she breathed into his ear.

He remembered, too.

* * *

“Yennefer…” Geralt rasped, barely able to control himself as he pushed in and out of her, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Yen.”

“Yen,” said the sorceress, as if trying out how it sounded, “No one has ever called me that.”

Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks and she arched up into him, wanting every inch of her to be touching him.

Silence stretches for only a fraction of a moment, punctured only by soft pants and moans and the occasional sound of rubble settling around them – though they were not paying attention to that.

“Say it again,” she commanded, though it sounded more like a plea.

“Yen.”

She came undone and he followed quickly after, leaving them both breathing heavily and utterly exhausted.

* * *

“Geralt,” Yen nearly screamed his name as his pace continued to increase, shaking the bed beneath them. There were no thoughts going through her head that were not of Geralt.

“Yen,” the Witcher echoed, equally desperate, as he slipped a hand between them, wanting to watch her writhe beneath him, lost in pleasure.

There was silence for a moment, save for sharp breaths and escaped moans, and then she wailed, lost in her release, Geralt following immediately behind her.

For a while, the two of them just lay next to each other in silence. Geralt did not know what to say, or if there was even anything to say. There didn’t seem to be enough words in the Common Tongue or Elder Speech to express what he was feeling, to express the way he felt complete now that she was here next to him, leaving his sheets smelling of lilac and gooseberries.

Finally, though, he spoke. “Forgive me, Yen. Please forgive me.”

Her expression was serious as she rolled over, snuggling into his chest, “I already have.”

The Witcher did not respond, instead wrapping his arms around her, holding her close as if she were going to disappear and slip through his fingertips. He did not deserve her forgiveness after all of the things he had done and failed to do, but he would take it. He needed it. He needed her.

He would never leave her – not ever again – the way he had left her that morning.

* * *

The Witcher woke early, during the blurry half-light of the false dawn. The sky momentarily moonless but still lit by the moon and sunless but still lit by sun—both full and empty at the same time—unbalanced[KM1] . The Witcher felt much the same way.

That scent. Lilac and gooseberries. It filled his head in the most pleasant way, but then it is too much, and it makes his head ache. No, not really—the thoughts racing through his head were probably what is causing that problem. He wants to breathe in that scent forever.

He looked over at her, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. One of Jaskier’s saying came to his mind—true beauty is terrifying, or something along those lines.

Truth be told, he was not terrified of her beauty. He was terrified of the feeling in his chest, like suddenly his heart and lungs didn’t quite fit anymore. He was terrified of the flutter in his stomach, a most unusual sensation he had only felt a few times before, and never so intensely. Jaskier probably had a line for that too, about love and beauty and how they are the same thing and how they are terrifying and gods was he terrified, so terrified he couldn’t breathe right and--

It took all of his willpower to force his heart to slow, to force his breathing to fill his lungs naturally.

She thinks I’ve condemned myself to her. But it is worse—I've condemned her to me.

He knew that he was not good enough for her; could never be good enough for her. He wasn’t particularly suited to anyone. His job was far too dangerous, his life was far to chaotic. How could he drag someone into that?

Now he’s messed with fate not once, but twice. Two people now tied to him, and for the worse. The child in Cintra, who must be a toddler by now, and now Yennefer... Yen.

At once, he knew what he must do. He could not stay—not when he’d condemned her to him; condemned her to a life of being forever bound to a Witcher who would surely one day make a wrong move and die. There was a reason Vessimir told them it was best not to love or be loved.

He could not allow himself to need anyone, and he certainly couldn’t allow anyone to need him.

So, he gathered his clothing as quietly as possible, slipping into the discarded pieces with deliberate silence. He would not be able to leave if she woke up and looked at him with those violet eyes.

Still, he shot one more glance at Yennefer of Vengerberg before he slipped silently from the room, leaving her in the middle of the ruined house, alone.

* * *

In the morning, when the Witcher once again awoke early, during false dawn, he simply looked over at her sleeping form.

Instead of running, instead of leaving her there alone, he only smiled and pulled her closer, letting sleep wash over him like the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

* * *

To be continued.

Taglist: @divaroze @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @lazilyscentedwerewolf @alienmilyyyy @curlyhairedandconfused @stretchkingblog97 @jesseswartzwelder​

[tender-history]

On Research: Worldbuilding and Culture

Hullo, in this post I’m going to talk about how I research and do world-building for my stories!

I’m doing this through the following ways:

1) using chapter 1 of my historical Taegi fic  to illustrate what I did to research the era and the culture for that period,

2) providing the templates and tools I used in the hopes that it can help some of you all writers if you ever want to write your own research-intensive stories or original fiction that requires world-building!

While I’m using my BTS Taegi fic as a means to explain my process, this post is for any sort of writing project - original or fanfiction. If you follow me for fic, though, there will be chapter 1 spoilers for it. So if you haven’t read that yet, be-warned that there be spoilers below!

> How I do my research/world-building:

 If your idea for the actual story is agnostic of time-period or setting, identifying that is possibly the first step. My initial idea for this story was to have it take place during a war (the Imjin War between Japan and in 1590s was the first choice) but finding the spooky landscape to set it against while also maintaining the drama and tension of a battlefield was going to dilute the characters and their inner conflicts.

So I went back to reading about Korean history in broad terms (Google Books is your friend) , trying to locate a time-period to set my story in. I finally chose this time-period because it was very interesting to me in multiple ways.

- it’s still a way away from the big social reforms in Korea in the 1800s that would push it into the Modern Period of history

- it was a time period when common people and peasants began to lose trust in the king and the upper-class bureaucracy, leading to peasant rebellions and some villages stockpiling their own grains

- it is a time when global influences were beginning to creep into Korean society, including Christianity. In fact, just a few years from this, a major wave of persecution would be unleashed against Catholics in Korea.

- I chose this time-period also because I wanted the level of organization of society that’s in this fic. It’s been established already, which means the characters are at a point of history where things are more or less stable in terms of what is expected of them as a member of this society. I needed that stability to create a quieter sort of period mystery.

 To research for this story (or any other), once I pick the time period, I start looking for answers to my biggest questions: 

1) how did they live: this includes food, travel, interests, societal hierarchy and organization, family structure, music, religions, and mythology. Basically, anything that they shared as a cultural group. In doing this, I had to separate royalty from common folk, because so much history is written about the royals and there’s so less about the folk. I looked up everything from the food that the common people ate to the issues they faced (winter and the gap between rice and barley cultivation was a huge aspect; so huge, in fact, that the popularity of kimchi can be attributed to needing a protein source in the winter that wouldn’t go bad). I looked up clothes and fabrics and the layout of villages. I looked for traditional crafts. And when I did, I found myself going down rabbit holes about caste professions (the shaman, for example, is of low caste in Joseon society, which was surprising to me considering so many period fics I’ve read has depicted them in a different fashion.)

I know that this feels very disorganized and random, but that’s because I have been doing world-building—both fantasy and historical—for a long time, and my process is built basis what I’ve historically realized works for me. But to make this post more useful, I’ve figured out a template that helps to look into culture. I used to use this to build original fantasy worlds, and I think it is useful.

And here is a graphic where someone has analyzed Japanese culture through this lens:

Most cultures share elements of commonality. You can use this graphic above to figure out how to research. For example, the culture of Joseon Korea as I have tried to research for this fic comprises of:

1) Language (written and spoken - so Korean; Hangul, + Chinese characters);

2) Religion (shamanism + neo-confucianism)

3) Government (caste system + agrarian bureaucracy + royalty) etc.

You can fill in the blanks this way for any time period and thus get a better understanding of the culture you’re writing about.

 Additionally, I’ve spoken about the cultural iceberg on twitter before, but I find it very useful when I’m researching to pick up on each element in it and look up information pertaining to them.

This is how I use the iceberg:

> the top portion is usually the things that we’ve picked up on, through Run episodes or general Bangtan stuff. Like, we know hanbok is Korean traditional dress. We know the kind of food they eat. We know the music scene in SK, and that the major festivals are seollal and choseok.

> the bottom portion is where you gain deeper intercultural understanding. Notions of modesty, for example. We know that gender roles in Korea are more entrenched than they are in the west. In this fic, men are the ones mostly occupying spheres of influence, but women have their own spheres—we’ll get to that in a while. If you see, there’s an aspect called ‘nature of friendship’. This is where the concept of hyung-line/maknae-line/same-age friends all fit into this culture. It’s less visible than the top half, but you can still gain knowledge of it. Similarly, ‘attitude towards elders’ or ‘concepts of beauty’ are both aspects of culture. These are keywords you can use to learn more about culture. Again, you can also use this in original writing projects to build your fantasy world. I know I do :)

 Now that I know how my characters live, I come to the second stage of planning/world-building:

2) where in society are my characters: since I’m writing a mystery, I need someone who wants to solve it. I need detectives. I read up on everything I could about the Joseon lawmaking process, going through scholars and bureaucrats and ministers before I found a smaller, quieter force: the podocheong. I also need medics, people in charge of administration, senior officials, and so forth. For each of this, I tried to look into how my character could have entered that role, what that role comprises of, and where it puts them in that society. Seokjin, because he is a senior official, would require to have taken a test to enter into that force. His family would have to be of a particular class status to even enable him to take it. Knowing this, I looked up everything I could about the gwageo because I found it so fascinating! There were whole coaching centers dedicated to just teaching children of upper-class bureaucrats so they could pass the gwageo! If you belonged to an upper-class yangban family, and you didn’t pass the gwageo for four generations, your titles could be stripped from you. This is another nugget of information that I thought would be an interesting premise for a character being a in a particular conundrum—you’ll see that later in the story.

For Taehyung, being an artist in that age would have come with interesting baggage. Calligraphers and painters were usually higher-class folk. Peasants simply did not have the time or the materials to pursue art. But there are outliers—inkstick craftsmen, for example, are among what was considered the ‘vulgar common caste’ but they were the ones who made ink and color pigments.

 This just helps me create a richer world than I would have without putting in this research. It also makes your world seem more cohesive, lived-in, and deep.

So now that I know how they live and who they are, we come to:

 3) what are my external/internal conflicts: my characters behave the way they do because of the culture and the customs of the time period. My external conflict—the murders—have to be set against a background of this, and informed by this. So I chose to make Yoongi a sort of disgraced scholar because it allows him to operate outside of his station: he needs to talk to Taehyung, or villagers for example who are all beneath his station, and he wouldn’t be able to do that to the same effect if he is a regular scholar like Jin is. The culture simply won’t allow him to. That also leads to friction between yoonjin, and secrets once they start appearing. His current station helps him integrate better into Tae’s world, while removing him from the world he’s working for. It also serves for his internal conflict, fears and grief.

 Now if I were to extend this example to a more contemporary story: say your characters are in modern Seoul. Your external/internal conflicts can still be tied into the culture. Expectation on children to look after their aging parents OR the character’s family values vs. individual outlook OR Korea’s culture of students studying late into the night vs. the slowing job industry etc.  For a Jinkook fake-dating AU, say, consider what are the troubles that Jin and Jungkook, who have 5 years between them, individually face. 27 year old Jin’s place in society, social spheres and worries will be very different from just-out-of-college Jungkook’s.

 Why does any of this matter? 

I just think putting in some effort to understand culture makes for richer characters, a richer world, and better writing. Not to mention it lets you learn about a new culture, which I think is fascinating, especially if you spend so much of your time thinking/talking about 7 Korean boys.

 So to summarize— I guess this is how I research/worldbuild:

 1) Find out when and where

2) Find out who, and how that character is affected by the customs/culture of that era/setting

3) tie my external/internal conflicts back to the era/setting so that the world feels truly lived in and alive.

For truly good world-building, make sure that your conflicts are caused by limitations imposed on a character due to their cultural setting, or because whatever is happening is outside of their comfort zone. Human beings don’t live in a vacuum. The society and the values that we grow up in affects everything we do, every decision we make. Even rebelling against that culture is an aspect influenced by that culture. Your world (fantasy or otherwise) will feel way less flat if it follows the rules of actual cultures world over. 

*mic-drop*

If you found this post useful as a resource for writing/world-building, please consider a small ko-fi donation!

 [PS: Clarifying that I will not be taking ko-fi for the fic itself - only for the original content that I provide here, on this blog, which can be used for fanfiction or original world-building.]