#sick of my mother turning into a cruel version of herself every time she goes

[theblabarmy]

fuck. im going to girls camp in 2 days. i fucking hate this. i fucking hate mormonism and i fucking hate being around those people

[wolvesandpetals]

Playing House: Part 2: Loki x Sylvie Fanfiction (Rated: T, Humor/Romance).

Part 1 here. Masterlist of Sylki fanfictions here. This chapter mostly fills in the gaps and acts as a backstory, providing some answers. Sylki hijinks in next chapter!

---

Sylvie wakes up the next morning with the sunrays lighting up the room through the windows. It's so different from the life she has always known- hiding in the shadows, endlessly on the run.

She has spent her entire life waking up in unfamiliar places. Yet, this feels different. This feels familiar, almost mundane. Even though some unknown dangerous entity has trapped them here, it feels... safe.

[[MORE]]

And she swears it has nothing to do with the fact that his arm is wrapped around her waist, and how it makes her feel protected. Nothing at all.

This is what her dreams were made of- a home, a person to wake up next to every day, a sense of serenity instead of the ever present death and despair. And now she has it all.

She shifts a little, earning groans of protest from him, and it makes her smile. The warmth radiating from his body makes her long to stay like this forever. Slowly and reluctantly, she pulls his arm off her body and places it on his chest, her smile widening as she watches him sleep. "Loki?"

He groans. "Please, mother. Can you awaken Thor first?"

She touches his shoulder gently. "Loki, it's morning."

"No, mother, princes do not wake up so early", he mumbles in his sleep.

She just cannot bring herself to force him awake. Not when he looks so happy.

---

His morning starts at 10 am. He picks up the newspaper that the delivery boy left on the porch. Apparently, it's 2021, there's a new president, and a new iPhone, whatever that is.

She makes breakfast. It's just milk and cereals, but it's the first meal they have both had at a kitchen table with someone akin to a loved one in a long, long time, and it feels good.

He picks up his phone, hoping to learn how to properly operate it, and goes through his contacts list. There are a lot of people that he does not remember meeting, mixed with people that he never wishes to meet again, but one name in particular makes him pause. "Thor's number is programmed in my phone."

Sylvie looks up in confusion, clueless why this is significant. "Alright?"

"I didn't know he even had a number." Loki explains. Maybe it's recent? Maybe that is the reason he did not know, and it's not because they have been at odds lately?

"Maybe it's not Thor?" Sylvie suggests. It is a different reality, after all. Everything may be just an illusion.

Loki takes in a deep breath, bracing himself for what he knows he has to do. There is only one way to find out.

---

There are exactly four rings before he hears the familiar voice on the other side of the line. "Hello, brother."

"Hello, brother." He clears his throat, trying to push down the emotions swelling in his chest. In reality, he last saw Thor the day he was captured by the TVA. Yet, it feels like a lifetime ago. "How have you been?"

"I've been well", Thor answers. There's noisy chatter in the background, like a restaurant or a bar, and what sounds like old 60s music. "How are you?"

"I am well too." Loki lies. "It is so good to speak to you. Umm, how are the Avengers?"

There's a brief pause on the other end. "The Avengers? You are enquiring about my friends? Are you not going to ask about mother and father?"

Loki forgets how to breathe. "M-mother and father?"

"Yes?" Loki can picture Thor rolling his eyes as he speaks. "Our mother and father? The people who have loved and adored us our entire lives? Rings a bell?"

The last time Loki met his parents, they were furious and disappointed with him for his betrayal of Asgard. Then New York happened, and he is sure those emotions were heightened.

The rest of it, he has only watched on the projector screen at the TVA and not experienced himself, but he heard his parents express how much he means to them, right before watching them die. After spending the last few months angry at them, and craving power that makes him superior to Thor, he realised in that one moment that none of it mattered. All he wanted was the life he once knew, the life back at Asgard, the one he can never return to.

It's a truly cunning being that has trapped him in a reality where these cruel events may not have happened. Trap a man in hell, and he will burn it to the ground, trying to find his way out. Trap him in his heaven, and he is forever imprisoned. This is an eternal prison indeed, because why would he ever want to leave?

"Mother and father?" Loki repeats, still in disbelief, and a little optimistic. "They are not dead?"

"What kind of sick question is that, brother?" There's the familiar irritation in Thor's voice. "Why would you even ask that?"

"I'm... I'm sorry. I just feel a little... disoriented."

"Is everything alright with you?" Thor pauses, hesitating before he asks the next question. "Are you having marital troubles? Is Sylvie alright?"

"You know Sylvie?"

"Of course I know your wife." There's genuine concern now. "You are scaring me, brother. Is this a trick?"

"No, no." Loki shakes his head for emphasis, even though Thor cannot see it. "Not a trick, brother. I am just happy to hear your voice."

The line goes dead. There's a flash of thunder, a loud bang in the backyard, and then a thunderous voice. "Loki?"

Loki rushes to the backyard. Sylvie follows him, ready to fight the intruder, if necessary. She finds a blonde man in 60s clothes, wielding the hammer that she knows too well.

Sylvie goes pale. She hasn't seen her brother in ages, and this isn't her brother. She has never met this man, never played with him, never turned him into a toad, and definitely never missed him. Yet, her heart aches at the sight of this stranger who is another version of him.

"Oh, hi, Sylvie." Thor smiles warmly at her, before it turns apologetic. He tugs at an ear. "Sorry about your flowerpots." He glances at the mess he has made- again- vowing to land on the street next time. He spots Loki standing in the background and gives him a slight nod. "Brother."

"Brother." Loki takes a step forward, resisting the urge to rush to his brother and embrace him tightly. Not long back, they were on opposite sides of the battle. All he wanted back then was to be equal to Thor.

All he wants now is to be brothers again.

"Thor?" Sylvie says his name carefully, like it's a word that can break this spell. "Is that really you?"

Thor feels the panic coming back. "Alright, what is the matter with you two? Are you on drugs?"

"Me? Drugs?" Loki scoffs indignantly. "You are the one who looks like you just spent a week at Woodstock."

Thor takes a brief moment to glance down at his outfit- courtesy of StarJerk- before returning his undivided attention to the couple that is acting extremely strange.

"Prove that you are not on drugs." He places the hammer on the ground, next to Loki's feet. "Here."

"You want me to lift Mjojonir?" Loki stares in confusion. "Are you insulting me?"

"You can't lift it, can you?"

His irritation grows. "Of course I can't lift it. I've never been able to lift it."

"Loki... You... We've... Do you not remember the time we..." Thor stares at him, dumbfounded. "Do you really not remember that you too can wield Mjojonir?" Then another thought occurs to him, one which seems more likely. "Wait, is this another elaborate scheme of yours to steal Mjojonir?"

Sylvie takes in a deep breath, pushing down all the complicated emotions that have found their way into the spotlight since she met the mirror image of her brother. Right now, she is trapped in a reality that is not of her choosing, by an entity that is not known to her, and she cannot allow herself to get lost in the illusion. The man in front of her is merely an opportunity, one which she has to seize. "Alright, then. Come in already, brother." She tilts her head towards the door, gesturing at the brothers to come inside.

"Brother?" Loki mumbles under his breath.

Sylvie shrugs. "Well, he is your brother, and I am your wife, right?"

---

Thor walks through the kitchen and into the living room like he knows the place extremely well. He sits down on the couch- in the spot that Loki already considers his own spot, Loki notes with annoyance - and examines a cushion. "I see you replaced these after the mishap with the gun."

Loki and Sylvie exchange a look. They have no idea what he is talking about, but if they know themselves at all, they were definitely the ones responsible for the incident.

"Here, have a drink." Sylvie offers him a coffee mug filled with whiskey on the rocks. When Thor reaches for it, she covers his hand with hers.

Loki feels that ever familiar feeling that he has felt anytime something he wanted has gone to Thor instead. It's not like Sylvie is his actual wife, and he has any right to be jealous. But the mere sight of Sylvie's hand covering Thor's is a source of extreme irritation for him. "What are you doing?"

Sylvie places the finger of her free hand on her lips, asking him to be quiet. She returns her attention to Thor. There's a flash of green, travelling from her hand, to Thor's, and rising up his arm, to his heart. "Oh, the gun. That was something. Remember the day we met?"

Loki finally realizes what is happening. "Are you enchanting my brother?" He whispers.

Sylvie rolls her eyes, whispering back at him. "Obviously."

"You can't enchant my brother!" He hisses. "He's my brother!"

"And you've done worse to him." She points out. "We need to know what he knows."

Loki sighs, finally giving in semi-reluctantly.

"You know how we met." Thor answers, confused, and oblivious to the conversation between his brother and his wife.

"I know. But let's reminisce." Sylvie keeps her tone calm and cheerful. "Tell me about the good old times."

"It wasn't good." Thor reminds her. "You broke Jane's telescope."

"Right. Good ol' Jane." She fakes a laugh, before turning to Loki. "Jane?"

"The human he's dating." He supplies.

"Human?"

He gives her a sad nod.

"And what is my name, my full name?"

"Sylvie Lushton, from Broxton, Oklahoma. You took my brother's name only to escape the internet fame under yours. Clever." It is clear from the way he speaks that he thinks highly of her.

Loki and Sylvie exchange another look. A few days back, this is when he would have asked about Mjojonir, what the deal is with him apparently being able to wield it. But now, he can think of only one thing, because there is only one thing that actually matters. "Ask him about my parents."

"And your parents? Where are they now?"

"At New Asgard, of course." Thor tells her like it's obvious. "The same place they were the last time you visited."

Sylvie lets go of his hands abruptly. The thought that she probably has a set of parents at Oklahoma, and a version of Odin and Frigga at New Asgard is too overwhelming. She leans back against the sofa, trying to catch her breath.

Thor blinks, trying to adjust to the fact that he is back at Sylvie and Loki's living room instead of his bed chamber at Asgard. "Did you just-?" Realizing what happened, he stares at Sylvie in shock. "All the years, and you have never once tried to enchant me, not even when Loki begged you. You have always been a loyal friend to me." His voice grows resolute, like that of a man on a mission. "Tell me this instant what is going on with you two. I demand answers."

"I'm sorry." Sylvie tells him sincerely. She knows now that this man is not the one responsible for the illusion. His memories are real, at least to him. He is not a danger to them

Loki smiles sadly. "You wouldn't believe us even if we told you."

Thor crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back against the cushions, making it clear that he is not going anywhere until he is satisfied. "I travel through space with a talking racoon and a grunting hormonal tree. Try me."

"Okay. We are from a different reality. Two different realities actually." Loki begins his Loki lesson. "I was supposed to be immortalized in the hearts of Asgardians after meeting a heroic end in glorious battle with Thanos. Sylvie was taken from Asgard when she was merely a child. There is this evil organization called the TVA. Time variance authority. We weren't supposed to exist, yet we existed. So these pathetic, low-life bureaucrats arrested us. We were trying to find the man in charge. We were so close. Then we found ourselves here abruptly."

Thor just stares at them, utterly confused.

"You're rubbish at this." Sylvie comments, before taking over the storytelling duty. "Loki and I are not who you think we are. We are from a different reality. Your memories are not real to us. They never happened to us. I have never met you. And we are most definitely not married."

"Ouch." Loki places a heart over his chest to express his hurt. Sylvie grins at him.

Thor tries his best to process this wild tale. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that my brother, my only brother-"

"Adopted." Loki interrupts with the quip. He can't stop himself.

"- My annoying brother", Thor continues, "is supposed to be dead? And you? You're from Asgard?"

"I'm him, actually." Sylve explains. "Well, not him, another version of him, the superior one. I'm Sylvie Laufeydottir." She half smiles at Thor.

Thor stares at Sylvie, then at Loki, then back at Sylvie again. "Are you sure you're not under the influence of any narcotics?"

"Yes!" Loki reaffirms, more exasperated by the minute.

"Are you sure I'm not under the influence of any narcotics?" Thor wonders.

"Not really." Loki admits.

"But I assure you, what we are saying is the truth." Sylvie looks him in the eyes, hoping he can see the honesty in hers. "This life, this house, we have only known it for a day."

Thor is quiet for a long while. When he speaks again, his voice is more sympathetic, and less skeptical. "Would you like to know more? About your past, I mean? The one I know?"

"Of course." Sylvie answers immediately. Part of it is to gather information so that they can decide how to get out.

There's another part of her that really wants to know what a happy life looks like for her. She can't resist the temptation to sneak a peak down the rabbit hole.

Thor takes a sip from the mug. The ice has melted by now, but the drink is cold enough. Taking in a deep breath, he begins. "I met you six years back at London. You were filming something for YouTube, and you accidentally broke Jane's telescope. You were gracious enough to offer to buy her a new one. But she wanted nothing to do with you." He adds, as an afterthought, to lessen the blow. "It's nothing personal, Jane just doesn't really like influencers. You gave me your number, in case she changed her mind."

"A while later, Loki stole my jacket. Well, borrowed, in his words, but I haven't seen it since that day, so you be the judge. Where is it, by the way?"

Loki rolls his eyes. "Isn't it clear that I do not know?"

"Right." Thor nods. All of this is still bizzare to him, but he's willing to be open to the possibility. "Anyways, Loki found the little card with your number in the pocket, and he called you up. You hung up on him within a minute. That's your version of the story, anyway. Loki swears you talked to him before you hung up."

"And then my brother, ever so proud of himself, took that personally. He called you back to tell you off." He puts on his best Loki imitation. "I'm Loki, the prince of Asgard, the God of mischief, and you must treat me with respect, or I will use my hairgel to slick your hair back too. Bla bla bla." He grins when he notices Loki glaring at him, and his grin grows wider at the next part. He looks at Sylvie with a smile that conveys how proud he is of her. "You hung up on him again."

"He Googled you up and showed up at your doorstep the next week, ready to turn your clothes into snakes and show you your place. But the moment you opened the door, my brother was putty in your hands. Seriously, he wouldn't shut up about you for weeks."

"Instead of snakes, he gave you flowers. He serenaded you, actually. What was the song, brother? When she sleeps- no, wait." Thor hums the tune, trying to remember the words. "That's it! When she sings, she sings come home." He laughs, like he always does when he imagines Loki acting like a lovestruck fool. "I can't believe you didn't get a restraining order on him. He kept sending you flowers every day. Until you finally decided to go out with him. You guys hit it off right away. Your parents liked him. I don't know why." This earns him another glare from Loki and results in another grin. "Our parents liked you. It was all surprisingly easy."

"Loki proposed during the Convergence. He was so nervous about it. It was fun to watch him squirm."

"You had a June wedding. You moved here after a few months. And you've been happily married since."

It's almost impossible for either of them to imagine a world where they have sworn to spend eternity with another person.

But it's not impossible at all, not anymore, not when they have found each other. Sylvie tries not to dwell on this for long.

Another thought occupies her instead. If she is not an Asgardian princess in this reality... "How do I have my powers?"

Thor shrugs. "How does anyone have their powers? How do the Avengers have their powers?"

They still do not know who did this, but now they have an idea about what was done to them.

If he's being honest with himself, a reality where he and Sylvie both exist together, where his parents are alive, and Thor doesn't hate him, is not the worst thing in the world. It is almost like a scene from his dreams, depicting his heart's desires.

"Thank you." Sylvie sincerely tells Thor. "Now we need to find a way out."

[spideyxchelle]

the odds are never in our favor

or, the hunger games headcanon that has been rattling around in my brain 

her name is in the reaping bowl 47 times

that is nearly seven times more than the average eighteen year old. the odds are certainly not in her favor. but they never could be for an outskirter kid from seven. her family is not one of the merchant class. she has had to beg, borrow and sometimes steal to feed her family. there is too little to go around and too many mouths to feed. still. she perseveres. she has no other choice. 

if today is the day she is reaped, she will go to her death knowing she did all she could for her family. 

besides, she tells herself as she shakily walks to the town square for reaping day, she could win. it isn’t common, but people from seven do win the games. while they do not have the training of the careers or the brilliance of people from three, people from seven have brute force. and sometimes a little brute force can make all the difference. 

hell, four years ago, a kid from seven won. at sixteen, too. he had outsmarted all of the contestants, hiding in trees and swinging from them to get around the arena, like a spider would from its webs. he had been fast. and a quick talker, too. he had a good humor about him. people in the capitol said he was charming. but Michelle didn’t think so.

even though he was two years older than her, MJ had known Peter Parker in school. he had been quiet. he had one friend, maybe two. when he had been reaped and this other persona, another identity, came flashing out on screen, it had been the antithesis of the boy he knew back home. it was as if he had put on a mask to bare the atrocities of the games. 

with his mask on, no one could see him flinch. 

it was brilliant. the capitol ate it up. they loved him. he was their golden boy. 

people from seven could win. and if she was reaped, MJ could win, too.

it wouldn’t come to that, she reminds herself. she is in the reaping bowl 47 times. but she cannot be the only one. there are other half-starving kids from all over seven. she could go home to her family after this entire affair. and just like that the last seven years of horror, the sleepless nights where she woke up screaming that she had been picked, would cease to exist. she would finally have aged out. 

one more day.

she can make it one more day.

the preening drone from the capitol welcomes everyone in the square, grinning from ear to ear about the games and the capitol and all of the good and glory the yearly spectacle brings to their great nation. it makes michelle sick. there is nothing noble about killing children. 

her fury travels down to her clenched fists that clasp at the worn lace of her reaping day dress. she hates the capitol. she hates every last one of those smiling dolls that paint their faces like murder is funny. 

her eyes search the dead eyes of the victors from seven that sit silently on the stage, awaiting the reaping. they will do nothing, just like she will in the crowd. and the cycle will continue. every year. forever and ever. 

children will be reaped and slaughtered for sport, and nothing good will ever be safe in this world of nightmares. 

“ladies first”, the disjointed voice of the capitol puppet chirps. michelle glances across the square to count off the top of her sisters’ heads. all four of her younger sisters stand rigid as stone. terrified. she wants to call out to them, to tell them it will be okay, that she will protect them. she will always protect them. 

“MICHELLE JONES”, the capitol official says gleefully. 

and michelle ceases to breathe. or think. or feel. it all goes away. like she had never been a person to begin with. everything that made her human eroded away in one horrible, endless moment. 

her eyes snap up to the stage and the traitorous friends and neighbors she had known all of her life make room for her to march up to the stage. no one says anything. no one tries to stop the injustice. she hates them all. she doesn’t blame them. 

the world is cruel.

something, maybe muscle memory or perhaps it is a peacekeeper, thrusts her forward and she begins to take the long walk up to the stage. someone in the distance is crying muffled sobs. she wonders if it is her mother. it could be. she does not turn around to check. her eyes are too focused on the stage and the stairs she will be expected to climb without fainting. 

suddenly she remembers the year twelve year old Cissy Cartright had been reaped. she had collapsed when her name had been called. the peacekeepers had dragged her through the square and dropped her heavy heap of a body on the stage. it had been horrible to watch. 

she will not be remembered that way. no. michelle finds some strength beneath her numbness and climbs the stairs. she stands silently beside her capitol executioner who pulls the male name from the reaping bowl. 

she does not hear who will join her in hell. she is frozen. unfeeling. and has the faintest sense that someone is watching her intensely, too intensely, from the stage. some peacekeeper amused at her shaking knees, no doubt. 

when her and the boy are escorted from the stage. she is taken straight to the train. she does not get to say goodbye. she is silently glad. she does not know what she would say to her family. maybe she would ask them to bury her under her favorite tree just at the edge of the forest. or maybe she would do something stupid. like cry. 

no, it is better that she is taken right from her sentencing to her death. there will be no time to reflect on what she has lost. she is completely lost in her thoughts. someone is talking to her on the fast moving train. she can hear the warped version of speaking distantly, but it is as if the radio is out of frequency. she sits, motionlessly.

until someone touches her knee. she jumps out of her skin and snatches the fork on the table in front of her, posing it as a weapon. 

the entire train car goes quiet. when her eyes focus, she realizes she has a fork at the jugular of Peter Parker. he is wide-eyed and intently watching her. she notices he is not afraid. he looks surprised, maybe even daring but not scared.

“you’re quick,” he observes. she nods, dumbly. “put that fork down, MJ.” on autopilot, she corrects, “only my friends call me MJ.” he quirks a grin. “I think, based on the circumstances, I can call you MJ.” she almost asks why. and then it hits her. 

she has been reaped for the hunger games. she is going to die in that stupid arena, fighting for her life. she is going to be forced to become someone that she is not. when it comes down to it, she will fight and lose whatever last glimmer of humanity she has been keeping from the capitol all of these years. 

she will become a shadow of who she once was. people will remember her as a killer. or the killed. or both. 

she drops the fork. she begins to shake. there is another commotion. but she pays it no mind. she is having a breakdown. she cannot breathe. why can’t she breathe? there is no oxygen on this train. it isn’t like the forest, her forest, with all of her trees that stretch to the high heavens. this metal box is going to kill her. it is racing toward her death. 

someone hauls her up into their arms, the embrace is strong and certain. and when she finally passes out from the stress of the day, she hears a quiet voice reassure her, “I won’t let you die, MJ. I promise.” 

when she wakes, the train is dark. she is pillowed in the softest bed she has ever slept in and someone has taken the time to tuck her in. she rubs at her weary eyes. no one has tucked her in since she was a child, and even then she had been so fiercely independent her mother had given up by the time she was four. 

“you’re awake,” someone from the shadowy corner of her room says. she sits up, like a shot, looking for something to use as a weapon. the lamp on the bedside table seems to work just fine. the voice chuckles, roughly, “relax, MJ. I’m not going to hurt you.” she cautiously turns the lamp in her hand on. her not-attacker is Peter Parker. victor of the hunger games. he is sitting quietly in her room. it is strange, bizarre even. the kind of thing that happens to other people and not her. after all, he is a superstar who became famous because he was unfortunate enough to be chosen to murder children in a sadistic game. 

it is bizarre because she knows his face better than she knows her own. he is on every screen in seven. all the time. he is not someone that should be sitting quietly in her room. but she tries to breathe. he does not seem like an immediate threat. 

after a moment of hesitation, she puts her lamp on the bedside table. the room is still hazily illuminated. his face gives nothing away. the mask again, she thinks. 

“what are you doing here?” she asks. “you passed out,” he answers. “earlier. when we were trying to talk with you and Eugene about the games. strategy. the doctor thinks you’re having some kind of stress induced breakdown.” he smiles. it is rueful. “I said I couldn’t understand why.” michelle blinks. she tries to piece together the conversation that is happening to her and notes, “you’re teasing me.”

“no,” he says, seriously. “I would never do that.” and MJ does something stupid. she believes him. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he continues. “its an honor to fight for my district.” peter looks disappointed and says, “of course. well. I wanted to wait until you woke up to see if you were okay. I guess I’ll...go.” 

she nods. he hauls himself out of his chair. and before he goes, he lingers at the door and looks at her over his shoulder. “I am sorry, MJ.” 

she sleeps fitfully that night. she keeps hearing the resounding boom of the canon fire. she sees her face flash in the sky of the arena. she does not want to die. she tries to feel something. it is impossible. the capitol took it all when they called her name. 

she has a brief moment of clarity, sometime around three in the morning, when she realizes that THAT is why the hunger games exist. they make the tributes less than human so the rest of the districts know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they are less than. barely human. a means to an end. better to feel nothing. do nothing. 

never revolt. 

she will, she thinks. I will, she pledges to herself. 

and when she wakes the next morning, padding into the food car of the train, she sits opposite of Peter, who is locked in conversation with an older victor from a games twelve years ago, and says, “tell me how to win.” 

something in his eyes shifts. she cannot read it. mask mask mask, she thinks. but she waits for him to speak. patient and furious at her fate. he sees resolve in her now, she knows he does, and with the smallest smile, he says, “let’s begin.” 

[ojello]

The “Incident” With Gakushu |Yandere Karma Akabane x Reader|Pt.1|

Quick Disclaimer+Trigger Warning: This story is meant for the purposes of entertainment and is in no way meant to romanticize violent behaviour or mental illnesses. This story also contains mentions of suicide so if that or any of the themes mentioned makes you uncomfortable I strongly suggest reading something else. Minor note: [Rea] = “Reader” which is you~ 

When most people wake up in the morning, there are certain things they expect and certain things they don’t. Normally, sitting across from a handsome, albeit rugged looking detective falls under the latter category.

But ever since what every other adult in [Rea]’s life refers to as “the incident with Gakushu”, normal lost its place in [Rea]’s life.

The detective sits across from [Rea], helps himself to some tea her mother set out. The look in his eye is stern and empty. Like he’s seen incidents like the one with Gakushu and others incidents far worse.

He speaks kindly to [Rea]. He tells her she’s not in trouble.

[Rea] knew that. She’s doesn’t do bad things—Nothing bad enough to warrant a visit from the police that is.

He also tells her what happened wasn’t her fault. He’s not the first one to tell her that. Even if he was that wouldn’t change the fact that it was [Rea]’s fault. Partly. Most of the blame, most of the blood is on certain red-headed devil hands.

And with any luck, [Rea] will make the detective see that too. After all, his entire occupation revolves around reading between the lines, and refusing to take things at face value. If anyone would believe the truth of what happened, it was him.

“What was your relationship with Gakushu?” The detective asks. He sets his cup down.

“He was my boyfriend.” She answers.

“So you two were...” he pauses as if searching for the right word.

“Close,” he finishes.

[Rea] nods.

“Did you notice any changes him his behaviour? Anything that Mae you think he might...”

“Kill himself?” [Rea] asks.

The detective nods. He grimaces

“No. Because Gakushu didn’t kill himself. He murdered him.”

[Rea] has expects the detective to spout the same crap she’s heard the best past few days.

Now, it can be hard for people to come to terms with this, but the healthy thing for you to do is accept it.

But he dosesn’t. In fact he’s wiped away his grimace and a look of intrigue takes its place.

“Who’s he?” He asks.

“Karma Akabane.” [Rea} shutters just saying his name leaves her with a foul taste in her mouth.

The detective takes another sip of tea.

“And Karma is?”

“A friend... or he used to be.”

“And this Karma broke into Gakushu’s home. Killed him and wrote a fake suicide note in Gakushu’s handwriting.”

“Far fetched. I know, but there’s no doubt in my mind. That’s what happened.”

“And what was Karma’s motive for killing Gakushu?”

{Rea} took a sip of her tea.

“For you to understand. I’ll have to start from the beginning.”

[Rea] and Karma. Best friends. Partners in Crime as one might say. They loved getting into all sorts of trouble together. Although, [Rea] noticed Karma’s violence streak. There were times an innocent prank turned into a bloody brawl at the drop of a hat. More over he seemed to enjoy inflecting pain on others. His lips twisted into a cruel smile and the glint in his eyes matched that of a rabid dog.

[Rea] found this disturbing but Karma never beat anyone up that bad and he always stooped his assault when [Rea] told him to.

Still, [Rea] knew his bloodlust would get him into trouble one day... and it did.

A nasty fight with anther student earned Karma a month long suspension and a one-way ticket to E-class.

This meant Karma and [Rea] couldn’t spend time together at school anymore. What with being in different classes and the unspoken rule: treat students of E-class like dirt.

[Rea] do that though. She never acted rude or snobby towards E-class students. Granted, she didn’t treat them nicely either. She adopted a “if I don’t bother them, they won’t bother me” attitude with that class and its students.

She planned on treating Karma the same way. Just at school though. They could still hang out and get into trouble outside of school just like they used to.

And that’s what they did when Karma’s suspension was up. Everything return to to its normal rhythm. Until one day when they were walking home [Rea] asked:

“Why did you beat that guy up? I mean you always beat people up, but you really did a number on him this time. What did he do?”

Karma looked back at her and smiled.

“I heard he had a crush on you. Can’t have that. You belong to me.” He said.

[Rea] felt a cold beat of sweat drip down her back, but she shook it off. Karma wasn’t a stranger to dark humour.

“Haha. Hilarious. Now tell me the real reason.”

Karma stopped walking and turned around.

“That was the real reason. I love you, [Rea]. The thought of you with anyone besides me drives me crazy—no it is crazy. Why would you be with some random loser when you’re meant to be with me and only me. After all unlike them, I’d do anything for you... anything to keep you by my side. Where you belong.”

Everything about the confession… from the dark look in Karma’s eye to the words he used to express his feelings made [Rea]’s blood run cold. She found it hard to want to still be Karma’s friend let alone date him.

“Karma...” she started.

“I’m sorry. I like someone else and... I’m sure he likes me to so...”

That wasn’t a lie. [Rea] always had eyes for the star of the school, Gakushu Asano. To say she was overjoyed when she overheard girls say that he might like her would be a gross understatement.

She never told Karma since she didn’t think he’d want to talk about girly things like crushes.

“Who...” Karma asked in a voice [Rea] never heard him use. Low, loud, and angry.

“Um...”

“Who’s the bastard trying to take you away from me!? Tell me so I can put him in his place!”

[Rea] stepped back.

“I just remembered... my mom wanted me to pick up a few things.” [Rea] lied. She stuttered and tripped on her own words. She barely understood herself.

“Oh... I’ll go with—”

“That’s okay.... you can go on ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow though.”

But tomorrow never came. For the next few months [Rea] avoided Karma like gang green. All his calls became voice mails she didn’t listen to. The walls of texts he sent went unanswered, and [Rea] took a later train home to avoid running into Karma.

She didn’t want to distance herself from him. For the longest time Karma was a person [Rea] felt safest around. Physically and emotionally. She showed of her brash, somewhat unappealing side without fear of judgment, and he’d have her back when they got into trouble. A knight in red armour.

But... after hearing what Karma would hurt someone, not in self-defence but over petty hearsay, rumours, hallway gossip. [Rea] didn’t feel safe around someone who could snap so easily.

She had to left him go... and that hurt him but it hurt her too.

It wasn’t all bad though. She had Gakushu.

He didn’t make [Rea] forget Karma, or replace him—no one could—but he soothed the aching loneliness in her heart. That was enough.

Intelligent, debonair, and a perfectionist Gakushu drove [Rea] to become the best version of herself. Focusing on herself helped [Rea] move on. Plus he had a secret sweet side he only showed around her. [Rea] loved that about him the most.

Everything seemed fine—not great but fine. That was enough for [Rea]... until the incident that is.

They found Gakushu dead in his room a few days before mid terms. A pool of his own blood surrounded him, and his hand a note addressed to all the important people in his life.

Cause of death: suicide.

“At least that’s what everyone thinks.” [Rea] says, finishing her story.

The detective nods

“Makes sense. Son of the principal of an elite private school... top of his class... maybe the pressure got to him and he scrambled for peace—a way out. And to him the only way out was...”

“Death.” [Rea] finished.

“Yes.”

The detective the rest of his tea and sets the cup down.

“But... I’m not convinced that’s true.” He says.

[Rea]’s eyes light up.

“You’re not?”

“Yes. Something about Gakushu’s death doesn’t set right with me. There’s also Karma’s history violent behaviour...Can I ask you a few more questions?”

[Rea] nods ready to tell him anything.

“I have a few more questions.”

“So, Karma disappeared and ceased all contact with you around the time Gauku dead, right”

[Rea] shakes her head.

“It’s true he’s  disappeared, but he still contacts me...with letters.”

“What kind of letters?”

[Rea] hugs her shoulders as a her stomach twists in knots and her mouth goes dry.

“Sick letters.”

“I’ve taken them to the police, but without a return address they can’t figure out who sent them...that and they seem to think it’s a harmless prank.”

“Can I see them?”

[Rea] nods and goes off to her room to retrieve the few letters she didn’t throw away or burn. She wanted to get rid of them all, but she figured she keep a few for evidence.

The detective reads through the letters one by one. They’re short and violent. Phrases like: I’m going to smother you. I’ll cut anyone if it makes you love me. You love me. Keep popping up.

None of them are signed off with a name, but they all end with: I’m coming for you.

The detective grimaces. He holds his stomach like he’s about to throw up.

“These are sick...but they’ll help.”

“Thank you so much.” [Rea] says.

The detective rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Thank me when the case is solved.I’ll do what I can to keep you safe, cub.”

[Rea] tilts her head.

“Sorry...that’s what I call my daughter. You remind me of he

The detective stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card.

“If you notice anything that makes you uneasy or you see Karma anywhere call this number and I’ll send help right away.”

[Rea] thanked the detective, and he went on his way.

Knowing that there was someone who not only believed her, but was taking inactive to find Karma and make him pay for what he did gave [Rea] that same sense of safety she once had with Karma.

A short obituary. Next to the text a picture of the detective working on [Rea]’s case. Someone found him in his office with a hole in his head and brain matter splattered on the window behind him.

Cause of death: suicide.

Not surprising. His wife left him and took everything and his children refused to speak with him. That’s enough to make most mean look for comfort in the barrel of a gun.

[Rea] thinks the same thing at first, but her body temperature drops when she realized it might be Karma.

He kills himself a few days after he said he’d help me... this isn’t a tragic coincidence not it’s him.

[Rea] decides she’ll leave home that night. It’s not safe in town anymore. She has to go somewhere anywhere where he can’t find her.

She’s only finished packing her bag when she sees a piece of paper on her desk. [Rea]’s blood went cold as she reads it out loud.

“I’m not sure if I can forgive you for betraying me twice. Although, I might if you beg harder enough, but no promises. I’m coming for you be a good girl and wait for me.”

And that’s when it hit her.

He’s coming for me. Doesn’t matter who I go to for help or how far I try to run away... he’s coming for me. It’s only a matter of when... and all I can do hope he doesn’t kill me when he does.

A/N:Tbh I kind of feel like I copped out with the ending and I’m sorry I just didn’t have anymore creative energy to end it better. Too all you Gakushu lovers, sorry that he dies in this fic. But in my defence: nine times out of ten, if it involves a yandere there will be death.

[clan-of-reaching-stars]

@jadedragons @clan-lunstrae-fr

Okay, the Cliff notes version of my Clan’s Lore. And by Cliff Notes I mean this took an hour to write but hey, it’s all written now.

Vale and Orithya are mentioned in Generation Eleven.

Generation One

Iskal and Shalestone found the Clan, picking up Pan, Viridiana and Lethe. The three are fighters, but Lethe retires to be the Clan Hatchling Keeper after Shalestone and Iskal’s kids are born. Iskal and Shalestone share leadership duties, with Pan and Viridiana taking over defense.

Generation Two

Lethe about dies of happiness due to having to look after eight kids. Three of Iskal and Shalestone’s daughters stay (Cerise, Merean, and Likan) one is exchanged with a Nature Clan to foster relationships, who send their son Andric. A baby Imperial, Tazenia is found, and then a baby nocturne, Talin. The Clan takes in a sickly Coatl, Jecto. A rather absent minded Tundra child is taken in, his name is Tayio.

Later, when they’re all the equivilant of teenagers, two others join, Lace and Sykion.

Jecto will always be sickly but the Clan adores him, and does their best to help him. Merean became head huntress, with her sisters help. Andric becomes a scout, and patrols borders and checks out new territories. Tayio likes digging so he takes over expanding the lair, Tazenia is big and good at settling disagreements so she handles the BeastClan familiars and allies. Talin asists her for some time. Lace is the Clan Jester, and Sykion hunts bugs for the Clan.

Some adults join the Clan as well.

They pick up an adult fae, Inez. She takes care of keeping track of the Clan’s hoard.

From the same Nature Clan as Andric comes the Guardian Nora. Her mate Sulor also joins the Clan, joining the guard as trainers.

Most of these two generations will form the Council.

Generation Three

At this point the Clan is Twenty dragons so they start breeding. 

Lace, Sykion, and Likan become a polyamorous relationship. Likan and Sykion are the biolgical parents of Deryn and Nela. Nela went to serve the Arcanist, while Deryn is still finding her place in the Clan.

Andric and Merean become a thing and have Orisa and Tyrath. Tyrath becomes a scout like his father, Orisa takes after her grandmother’s diplomatic nature and becomes a merchant/ambassador for the Trading Post.

Pan is aromantic but wants kids, and Viridiana does as well so they have a son Dmitri. He joins Tayio in expanding the Clan’s lair, and his parents just want to see him happy.

Nora and Sulor have three children. Only two remain with the Clan, Gale and Imerial. They and Nora’s half-sister Azzura form a battalion in Pan’s army/guard.

Two teens join the Clan, Tigress and Ariella. They are lesbians and join the lair expansion crew.

A mirror named Duskwind joins the Clan as well. He does finances for Orisa.

Yuniver, the Clan messenger also joins.

This Generation is one of the closest knit, second only to Generation Seven.

Generation Four

Generation four is a mess.

Jecto adopts a daughter, Nebula. She becomes mages and study arcane magic.

Oz, a librarian joins the Clan.

Frostaithan, a very sick guardian is found by the Clan and nursed back to health. He becomes an assistant diplomat to Shalestone.

Sykion and Lace have kids, Birch and Felar. Those two often leaving the Clan for long periods of time. 

An extremely foul tempered guardian named Shadowclaw joins the Clan and trains as a fighter.

Nora and Sulor have a nest around this time, but none of the clutch stays with the Clan. This is common for them and this one is only noted because Colrath is one of the dragons. He joins Clan Aegis, a Clan Shalestone hopes to form an alliance with.

Generation Five

Beacon, the grandson of Iskal and Shalestone joins the Clan, Deryn, missing her three siblings and looking a lot like her cousin, adopts him as her little brother. Beacon will later be named heir to Iskal and Shalestone.

Pan and Viridiana have a second child, Ariadne. She joins the Lair expansion group like her brother, becoming the group’s main architect. The Lair expansion look much nicer now.

Orisa and Duskwind have two kids, Tobai and Iblis. Tobai becomes the Clan alchemist. Iblis struggles to find her place for awhile.

Generation Six

After a brief stasis period where the Clan expanded its territory and settled, a few new dragons join the Clan.

Arawn is born, a nocturne with such a poor sense of direction he got lost and turned into a forest spirit.

Vesper is a Shadow Egg and hailed as a blessing from the Shadowbringer. When on his birthday the next year he’s turned into a Nocturne he has a few choice opinions on his deity but accepts his place

Phyllis joins as a healer, focusing mostly on herbal remedies.

Kellan also joins, the first male Imperial of the Clan and the first Lair guard. The second is Rowan, a fae who joins a few days later. The two become inseparable.

Aegean is next to join, the Clan’s main provider of seafood, the coatls rejoice.

Generation Seven

This generation was incredibly close knit and is practically a lair on it’s own.

Gaila is born, the first of the new colors. She trains under Shadowclaw, the two of them fight constantly but seem to be incredibly close as well.

Molan is one of the biggest in the Clan, earning the nickname Thunderhead. He’s the Clan inventor and also a pacifist. He’s blessed by the Stormcaller.

His charge is Nightstar, a nocturne that usually hangs off his horns and assists him.

Valoran joins the Clan. The Grandson of Treesnek he serves as fortune teller and most hated dragon in the lair. He’s actually not a bad guy if you get to know him. And ignore that one kidnapping thing no one knows about. He and Gaila are sworn enemies. That is to say Gaila swears every time she sees him and he loves annoying her.

Myra the bard joins, full of songs and a love of performing.

Faolan is next, a diplomat who briefly enters a dating sim before he and Gaila become a thing.

Iva, a dragon known for her luck joins the Clan as well.

Bracken, the poison master, joins as well. He is the half brother of Phyllis and the two of them bond and quickly begin working together on a garden for their various needs.

Generation Eight

Treesnek and gays

Valoran “finds” a strange spiral named Elita and raises her. Remember that kidnapping thing no one knows about? She’s also his cousin. Elita masters shadow magic like her guardian (lowercase g).

Sylva joins the Clan, and is visited by Treesnek as a child freaking everyone out.

Abiliene, a gardener blessed by the Gladekeeper joins the Clan.

Mask joins the Clan, and becomes the butler, ensure the lair doesn’t fall apart. (Thank the Arcanist we have someone on that.)

Three friends join the Clan, Eclipse, Dawn and Victor.

Victor is a necromancer. Well he prefers scientist. He and Tobai dance around each other for a while before Tobai asks him out. Their science husbands now.

Dawn is a scribe and quickly become entranced by Myra’s story. And Myra herself. They’re wives.

Eclipse joins Iblis in the library and together they discover a new technique for enhancing weapons and items. This spell goes haywire and enhances them. They now have the ability to enhance objects using the runs on their bodies. Eclipse also ends up in a time paradox that messes with his mind and thus why he always has a pocket watch on him.

Zenith joins the Clan at this time, half starved. The Clan nurses him back to health and he joins the Lair guards.

Dominick and Belemus, the twin blacksmiths, join the Clan.

Not part of the Clan but!

Outside of the Clan a highwayman is cursed into a horrifying form and branded with runes detailing his crimes. This backfires horribly as Lune loves his new form.

Generation Nine

At this point Colrath re-enters the story. Barely recognizable, he tells the story of how Clan Aegis fell to a Plague Clan. The Clan is horrified by this, and by Colrath’s single minded determination for revenge. Shadowclaw is put on his guard duty to make sure he doesn’t do something violent or rash.

 Colrath’s charge hatches, to his utter horror it is a plague dragon. He names her Panacea (Cea for short). Shortly after, Shadowclaw finds a water egg, which hatches into a guardian Larimar. The two are raised as siblings and are incredibly close. Also yes their two dads are a thing now.

Hollow is brought into the Clan to be spymaster, trained by Imeriel and Valoran.

Volo, an old wind dragon blessed by Windsinger joins the Clan.

Generation Ten

The Clan moves into a new home and discovers it haunted by a dragon named Asteria.

Nita hatches and is adopted as Victor and Tobai’s daughter.

Inverna, a fire mage joins the Clan.

Shadowclaw and Colrath get a third kid, Alina.

During the fight for Starwind bay, a tundra hatches and joins the Clan. Starwind took her name from the bay and grows up to run a pirate crew. This is where Lumen, Absi, Ekhi, Noctis, Lux, Poe, Hadrian, Solstice and Caerwyn end up.

Generation Eleven

The current generation finally.

Vale joins the Clan and the Lair guard. He becomes known for his distant nature and cold behavior.

A short time later, his sister Orithyia joins the Clan as well, fleeing their mother. The siblings do not get along well, Orithyia thinks Vale is cruel and cold, Vale thinks Orithyia is cowardly and weak. Orithyia is determined to save Frostaithan from Treesnek, who seems to have possessed him.

[slavicviking]

My Hero chapter 2

[ModernSoulmateAU As Astrid is about to find out herself, nothing goes as planned when Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third is involved.]

<- Previous chapter;      Fanfiction.net version

CHAPTER 2: Misunderstood

The gods hate me.

It's the first thing that crosses Hiccup's mind as he stares at the blonde wingless beauty on the ground. Admittedly, he has imagined how it would be to know who his soulmate is, most people do at least once in their lives. But as opposed to most people, it never had been his priority. It always seemed like something that could happen to someone else; maybe Astrid, or Fishlegs, but not him. The idea of the gods dictating who he should love had always felt somewhat dictatorial and cruel to him. He wasn't sure he even believed in the wings. They're... silly, and almost fake in their own perfection. Now, it seems, he doesn't have much of a choice anymore.

His eyes flicker to the blue and white volleyball that lies on the grass, the one that almost nailed Astrid in the head, before turning slowly back to the girl in question. His shaking hand reaches behind him, and he almost has a heart attack when his fingertips meet the soft feathers that coat his, his, wings.

He expects to wake up any moment now.

"No." The weak sound gains his attention and his focus is immediately on Astrid once more. The girl looks completely shocked – he can't really blame her for that as he isn't coping with it much better – but there is just something about it that makes his heart sink. She looks confused. She looks scared. She looks…

She looks disappointed.

Hiccup swallows slowly, trying to push aside the unwanted thoughts that rush to assault him. Hesitantly, he holds out a hand to help her stand, but she eyes it almost angrily and he backs away again, redirecting his gaze onto the ground. From the corner of his eye he can see her standing up shakily and dusting off her leather skirt. His fingers move a little, dancing around the idea of trying to help her again. He fears she's going to crack any moment. Or rip off his head.

"No." She keeps mumbling under her breath again and again, one of her hands traveling to the end of her braid and gripping it almost desperately, and he is pretty sure that he is not meant to hear what she's saying. She doesn't even seem conscious of the fact that she's saying anything at all. The lost look in her eyes betrays her; he is pretty sure his emotions are on full-display as well. It's a mess; they are a mess. Astrid's words sting him painfully, cutting right through him like a knife. "Not him, not-"

Someone coughs and Hiccup is suddenly flooded with the realization that they are not alone. In fact, a large number of people has gathered around them, curious about what happened. Anger fills his body because what is it to them, anyway? He wants to scream, yell, but no sound leaves him.

Astrid seems to have realized the same thing just a second later because she looks around, her fists clenched tightly by her sides. The released braid whips the side of her face and slides over her shoulder. Some people have the decency to actually look away, but most keep gawking at the unusual scene. Astrid's crystal blue eyes catch the ball on the side and she glares at it as if it were her greatest enemy. It might as well be.

"A-Astrid…" he manages to utter, finding some of his voice again. He immediately regrets it when her gaze snaps to him with this… with this look he can't really understand. She's not happy, it takes no genius to understand that. She backs away one step, two… Astrid looks completely out of place and his heart goes out to her; he wants to embrace her, to make her laugh like she was just a moment ago, he wants… He doesn't know what he wants.

"I-I," her voice wavers as she looks around again. Her hands swats her short, uneven fringe away only for it to fall back into place a second later. "I n-need to go."

And then she does. Just like that.

He stares after her retreating form growing rapidly smaller, his lips parted as if to say something back. An awkward cough and a snicker follow Astrid's "escape," but he barely hears it. His ears are clogged and a feeling of numbness washes over him. Cold air hits his now-bare back, shredded scraps of shirt dangling in the wind by his sides. It’s… it’s embarrassing. Without a word, he turns and starts walking away, awkwardly swaying to the sides, completely unaccustomed to the new weight. He doesn't have any idea where he's going – he just knows he needs to leave.

He hates them.

No, he absolutely despises them.

They weigh him down and make him even clumsier than he already was. Every time he passes by a mirror, there they are, staring at him, reminding him that he has been, in fact, rejected. By Astrid Hofferson nonetheless.

Which makes it hurt all the more.

Astrid has always been present in his life, whether or not she's known it. She has always been the star of the class, and, willingly or not, has always been a person to gain attention. For a long time he thought she was just another stereotypical "popular girl," or at least wanted to believe that. It's much easier to fall out of a stupid crush if the girl turns out to be less perfect than she seemed at first. But thanks to the Hairy Hooligans (bless Gobber for creating it in the first place,) he actually had gotten a chance to know her. To be her friend even, sort of.

Astrid was different than he had expected. She's violent, brash, and untactful; she hates boys clinging to her and she is probably stronger than any other member of their club, Gobber included. She's not perfect, but he found himself falling for her even more, making him act like a love-sick puppy in her presence more often than he cares to admit. (A fact that is regularly pointed out to him by Tuffnut and his own dear cousin Snotlout.) He was so glad that they were kind-of-friends, as it was so much more than he had ever hoped for. Now, though, everything is ruined. And he can't help but feel that it is his fault.

A gnawing feeling in his chest makes him restless. He knows how much Astrid values the wings and he can't help but fear… What if-what if Astrid changes? What if she feels entitled to be with him, just because the wings tell her so? He can't imagine her doing that, but the wings are surely able to mess up anyone's life. He doesn't want Astrid to look at him any differently because of them, or feel forced to fake being obnoxiously in love for the sake of the two abominations sticking out of his back.

Hiccup winces as the wings bang into one of the walls in the kitchen, almost knocking off his late mother's photo. Gripping the countertop, he pursues his lips, breathing in sharply. His eyes catch the reflection of the damned things in the glass-covered kitchen shelves, and he looks away in disgust. He bites his lip, expression hard. He could… he could rip them off. Pretend it never happened. He's sure getting rid of the wings would, in the end, be less painful than having to face Astrid ever again. He snorts. Maybe she will help him tear them off his back if he promises to never mention the whole thing. He groans, cradling his head in his hands.

Gods…

"Auugh!" he yelps, letting out a high-pitched shriek (a very manly one, mind you,) as something soft brushes against his leg. His eyes shoot open and his head jerks down to see a black cat with glowing green eyes staring up at him, judging him silently.

"What?" Hiccup snaps, and Toothless, named so after the teen had discovered the cat was missing most of his back teeth, narrows his eyes. Swiftly, the black feline jumps onto the countertop. Hiccup swears the cat knows exactly what is going on and what the whole wing-thing means. He flinches under the animal's piercing stare, as ridiculous as it sounds. "Don't look at me like that."

Toothless keeps eying his owner knowingly and Hiccup frowns, his eyes meeting the cat's in a short-lived staring contest. A loud ring makes him look away, however. A hand travels to his hair absently and the boy walks reluctantly over to his phone to read the message. He fears it's someone from school, asking about… about what... happened, the day before. He lets out a sigh of relief when it turns out it's just his father, letting him know that he's not arriving back until tomorrow evening. This buys him some precious time. The last thing he needs right now is his overbearing father asking him all the wrong questions and wanting to know everything.

Especially since there is nothing to say.

The clock on his phone reads eight o'clock. He should be at school already but he can't bring himself to go there today. Because school means Astrid and pretending everything is alright when it most definitely is not. Even if she were absent, which is quite possible, he would have to face everyone who had seen the whole thing. He is pretty sure that news like this will be spreading frighteningly quickly, and it would not be long before everyone in school, including the teachers, hears about it. The thought makes his stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. He is fine with being teased and laughed, at as long as they leave Astrid alone. That's not going to happen, though, and he knows they will not let her live this down. At least not anytime soon.

Hiccup shoves the phone into his pocket and returns to Toothless who was sitting patiently, waiting for the boy to return. Hiccup leans on the countertop and pets the cat gently, letting out a sigh. A quiet purr leaves him a little more relaxed, and his muscles feel less tense. He is aware he will have to face Astrid and the issue of the wings sooner rather than later and he knows that it's going to be far from easy. He starts to wonder whether it's possible that the gods have made a mistake. The idea of Astrid actually returning his feelings seems too preposterous to be true.

"What am I going to do, Toothless?"

A loud "meow" as an answer doesn't help him much. Go figure.

Despite that, Hiccup wakes up with new-found determination the next day. He pulls a crudely-shaped shirt on, one that can fit the wings, formulating the master plan of "how to approach his supposed soulmate without dying or making her run away (again.)" His dad had bought some "wing-shirts," as he likes to call them, some time ago "just in case" and Hiccup had been furious. Now he is glad for his father's preemptive thinking because it's that or going around shirtless. And that would be bad for everyone.

By the time he leaves the house, he is pretty sure his plan might actually work. Toothless eyes him suspiciously the whole morning, not understanding his owner's overly cheery attitude when just a few hours ago he had been moping around. Even Hiccup is surprised with himself, to be honest.

The realization of what he is actually about to do fully hits him five minutes away from school, with the red-brick building already in sight. He comes to an abrupt halt, his feet digging themselves into the muddy ground as he hears his name tittered behind him, followed by a short laugh. A couple saunters pass, gawking at him–or rather what is on his back–the whole time, and he just knows everyone has heard about "the incident" by now. His eyes fall and his heart stops. His reflection stares back at him from a shallow puddle before him, the putrid rainwater showing him also the wings. Avoiding mirrors like the plague for the last two days was a mistake, he realizes that now. Even in the filthy water he can see that they don't look the way they should.

He has seen other people's wings. Ingrid Hofferson, an embodiment of the perfection entitled with the wings, is someone he can admire. Hers are truly breath-taking, and it's exactly that image that makes people want to have them themselves. But then there's Mildew. He scares him. Maybe because the old man is a living and breathing proof that not everyone lives happily ever after. That the wings don't necessarily have to "work." Or maybe because with the recent events, Hiccup sees himself ending up like this, alone and bitter. He doesn't know the story behind Mildew's wings, and a big part of him never wants to find out. Whenever he looks at the old man's dark, dead feathers, a shiver travels down his spine.

Now, as his green eyes study his own reflection, his heart freezes. Hiccup's breathing goes shallow when he sees the feathers, the image of Mildew's quickly flashing before his eyes. He tries desperately to suck in some air. They look worn-out, ready to fall off, even. Almost automatically, his hand reaches to run through the left wing, and he is terrified as a feather comes away in his hand. It isn't painful as far as physical pain goes, but it leaves him feeling empty. A lump forms in his throat. The feather that fell is not pearly-white, not even close. The light middle turns grey-ish by the edges, looking dead, or at least sick. They're rough to the touch, prickling the skin like dry grass or sand paper.

Gripping the single feather in his hand like a talisman of sorts, he stands unmoving. Groups of Berk High students pass him by, glancing at him either in confusion or with a teasing glint in their eyes. Finally, his feet start moving again- but they take a new path. He turns to the side and breaks from the masses moving towards the building in the distance, adding more speed to his pace. Mrs. Roberts, the chemistry teacher, heading towards her first class with coffee in hand spots him but doesn't say a word, only following him with her eyes. He can sense the pity. All the glances and murmurs along the way make him walk faster and by the time he reaches a small building at the back of the school he's almost running.

"Gobber?" Hiccup calls timidly as he opens the doors of the shop, the only place he knows will not be swarmed with students right now. He growls when the wings get stuck in the doorframe. Again. Ripping them off sounds like a better idea with each passing minute.

"I'm 'ere!" the Scott yells from the backroom. "Aren't ya supposed tah be in school?" Gobber walks out of the small room on the back, cleaning his one remaining hand with a rag not much cleaner than the filthy hand he was trying to clean. The man stops in his tracks the second he sees his godson; his winged godson.

"Hiccup…" the mechanic grins. "Congr-"

"Don't." Hiccup shakes his head weakly. As he walks into the light, Gobber is finally able to see the color of those wings and his smile fades. He knows just as well as Hiccup does that they look anything but fine. The boy hugs himself, his gaze solemnly on the ground. "I was wondering… Can I stay here for today?"

"I – uh. I suppose ye can," the older man responds, sounding puzzled. He scratches his bare chin as he looks at the teen, his best friend's son. He has never seen him so… resigned. Defeated. Hiccup was always cheerful, determined – so much like his late mother. Gobber lays a gentle hand on the lad's shoulder, causing him to jump in surprise.

"What 'appened, lad?" Hiccup shakes off Gobber's hand angrily.

"As if you don't know already."

"I 'eard some rumors…." The older man frowns as he studies the teen. "I 'ad no idea it was yue."

"Well, now you know," comes the defeated response. Hiccup plops onto the only chair in the shop, leaning heavily on the old desk to his right. His hand goes to prop his cheek. The wings are sticking awkwardly out, jammed against the back of the chair and causing him to curl in on himself. Gobber starts to gather some papers strewn randomly across the shop and pile them together to the side. It's painfully clear he's trying to find a distraction while he sneaks glances at the younger Berkian; Gobber does not keep things organized… ever. A sudden thought crosses Hiccup's mind and he tries to straighten himself as much as he can with the wings limiting his movements.

"Has… Have you seen Astrid?" His voice comes out more high-pitched than he wants it to, cracking embarrassingly by the end of the sentence. Gobber reacts all too quickly, throwing the papers aside and blowing his cover at the same time.

"I 'aven't seen 'er." The man's eyes flicker to the dull feathers. "Perhaps she'll come today."

He doesn't believe that; Hiccup knows that, and Gobber knows that, too. He limps closer to the boy and pats him on the shoulder.

"Ye need ta' talk with 'er, laddie."

"I know," Hiccup mumbles barely audibly. He swallows slowly, his mind drifting to the blonde girl for the umpteenth time in the last two days. He sinks into his chair. "I know."

Astrid lies in her bed, staring at the ceiling absently.

Recently, she's spent so much time doing just exactly that, that she knows every crack and every stain on it by heart. She can hear her mother stopping by her door for the fifth time today, trying to lure her out of the room with soft words and bribes in the form of her favorite food, and yet again Astrid tunes her out. Her fists grip the quilt tightly.

She is Astrid goddamn Fearless Hofferson.

She is scared shitless.

Every time she closes her eyes, the only thing she sees is Hiccup, poor Hiccup, watching her all confused and scared. And the wings – the wings that she always thought she deserved – are far more beautiful than she ever imagined them to be. But they are on Hiccup's back and not hers. It bothers her, leaving her furious and bitter, at first. She is strong, she is independent – she deserves them. The fact that he had to "save" her from a volleyball of all things leaves more than a bad taste in her mouth. But as hours pass, she starts to realize that it's not for her to decide, and it never was. She recalls Hiccup looking just as miserable as she felt after the wings appeared on his back.

And she left him there, completely alone.

Shame creeps up on her. This isn't the way a Hofferson deals with things – they face problems head first and with steely determination. Yet something broke in her in that moment. Perhaps it was because it came completely out of blue. One second they were walking together, laughing, and the next… She tenses. She and Hiccup are friends, just friends. He is kind and thoughtful and caring and his jokes almost always make her laugh. She admits that his company is nice and welcome. He always manages to brighten her mood, often simply by just being there. But she has never thought of him that way, she insists. She doesn't like him… does she?

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

Astrid presses her face into the pillow again, letting out another frustrated groan. She wants to take back everything she's ever said about the wings – her life has been perfectly fine without them. She knows she will have to face Hiccup and his damned wings soon, and a part of her wants to do this now, right at this exact moment. To just burst out of her house, find him, and… and then what?

They should talk. They have to talk.

The problem is that Astrid isn't one to talk; she's not good with words, and never has been. She can't force the problem to go away with her actions alone this time, and she comes back once again to her starting point with nothing new or more helpful. She wonders if Hiccup is having similar thoughts and whether he feels just as confused and as lost as she. She curses herself because her mind for the umpteenth time drifts over to him. It seems that no matter what she does, or thinks about, it always does at some point.

It's infuriating, Hiccup is infuriating.

Her phone rings, catching her completely off-guard. She doesn't even glance at it – it's probably one of her friends asking her about what happened. She is fully aware the whole school must know at this point. The phone doesn't shut up and keeps repeating the annoying melody over and over again.

She finally reaches for it and numerous messages from various people pop up in her notifications. She mindlessly scrolls through them and her eyes catch the words "Hiccup" and "wings" multiple times. She grips the phone tightly, feeling new wave of anger blossoming in her chest.

When a loud "ding" signals yet another message, Astrid decides it's the last straw.

As she pushes open the heavy front doors of her high school the next day, she finds herself in a completely different world. The silence of her own room is replaced by a chaotic medley, the assault of noise forming an incomprehensible pulp. A part of her instantly regrets leaving her home, but she is fully aware she has to face her problems.

The people around her don't notice her at first but soon enough she is swarmed with other students obnoxiously peppering her with questions regarding her "mysterious absence." (It's so obvious they know exactly what happened, and it makes it all the more enraging.) She's annoyed but it's nothing compared to the anger that floods her body when her eyes catch two kids gluing on another one of those obnoxious prom posters. She doesn't allow her mind to drift into dangerous territory, not letting herself recall her last conversation she had held about the said prom. With clenched fists, she strides their way.

"What are you doing?" The two boys' heads snap towards her, confusion clear on their young faces.

"Putting up the posters?" one of them, a brown-haired junior, responds uncertainly, finishing off the last corner of the poster.

"Don't you think there are enough of them already?" Her tone is harsher and meaner than she expects it to come out and the two boys exchange glances warily.

"But they told us…" The other of the two, clearly a freshman, starts to explain but his cracking voice fades into the background for her as a too-familiar mop of auburn hair appears in the crowd of students in the corridor. Her feet move on their own before she registers it, leaving the two boys standing there even more confused.

"Hiccup," Astrid murmurs quietly, and people gift her with weird looks as she elbows her way towards the tall teen. The wings are seemingly impossible to miss in the masses, and she is, for once, glad for that – at least she knows where he is.

"Hiccup!" His back stiffens and his eyes land on her, growing wide. Her own heart does a weird flip in her chest when he looks at her. Without her consent, her eyes drift to his wings and, suddenly breathless, she notices the gray color, the sick look they have. Words die on her lips, everything that she wanted to say completely forgotten. Hiccup shuts his locker, before taking a few hesitant steps back. Astrid's throat is too dry to speak, so she stands there and stares at the faded color of the feathers idiotically.

And then he's gone.

Before she has a chance to react, he has already left, by some miracle losing himself among the throng of students even despite the wings. The situation seems all too familiar, but different entirely at the same time, and she doesn't know what to do. The image of his wings plagues her mind, leaving her restless.

It's her fault.

Now, she is going to fix it.

Next chapter ->

(All of my writing)

[standuphippy]

February Favorites

Every December I have a ritual. First, I try to compile a list of records, movies, and shows I’ve enjoyed the year. I wait until the last minute and then struggle to get it posted before the first of the year. I dump something half-assed on New Year’s Eve, then sit back and cluck my tongue at anyone who posts a “Best of the Year” list after Jan. 1.

I always resolve to do something sooner (and better) so this is a first step in that direction. The world has changed since I started this, but fuck it, here’s what I enjoyed in February. Here’s a link to a playlist for the music: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ucvCNnCuT4ZZVCyz2ddKM

NEW MUSIC: 


Agnes Obel “Myopia” 
 Her fourth record of fine orchestral pop. 

 Arbor Labor Union “New Petal Instants” Four years ago I went to see them at the Bootleg and I’m pretty sure I was the only person in the audience who wasn’t in one of the opening bands. It was a great show. Southern fried guitars. I like Bo Orr’s yelp.

Califone “Echo Mine” Happy to finally get a new Califone record, though it’s a companion work to a dance piece and some tracks leave me wondering what I’m looking at. There are some great songs that anchor it as a whole. I love the sound of Tim Rutilli’s voice and guitar, and I think he’s a master of weaving abstract lyrics and melody in a way that makes his phrases land emotionally true.

Cold Beat “Mother” Synth pop that has the hooks.

Eyelids ”The Accidental Falls” Three years ago I visited a friend in Minneapolis. Woke up and made coffee and he put the “Or” record on the turntable, and Oh! that riff in “Slow it Goes”… a pretty great intro to this band. They’ve really put in a lot of work with collaborators recently, including an EP with John Cameron Mitchell. “The Accidental Falls” has lyrics furnished by poet Larry Beckett. (Related recommendation: Eyelids “Or”)

Frances Quinlan “Insight” 
 Hop Along started out as Frances Quinlan’s home recording project, then grew into a band so successful that she has to qualify her new record as a solo album. The distinction makes sense when you hear it, though, it’s pretty stripped down. I love her voice. (Related recommendation: Hop Along “Painted Shut”)

Greg Dulli “Random Desire” 
The Afghan Whigs are one of my all-time favorite bands. On his first “official” solo record, Dulli sounds energized and tries some interesting vocal tricks. 
(Related recommendation: The Afghan Whigs “Gentlemen” and “Black Love”)

Grimes “Miss Anthropocene” I like this record.

Heart Bones “Hot Dish” Sabrina Ellis and Har Mar Superstar are two of the best performers out there. They got together a few years go and toured playing songs from the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack; now they’ve got their first full length and it’s just as catchy and funny as I’d hoped.

The Innocence Mission “See You Tomorrow” 
I loved their first self-titled record back in 1989 and I’ll check out anything they release. Their arrangements are pretty spare these days but Karen Peris’ voice has always been the draw. 
(Related recommendation: The Innocence Mission “The Innocence Mission”)

The Men “Mercy”
 Over their career they’ve gone in a lot of musical directions and made several outstanding records. They’re incredible live but they haven’t been to Los Angeles in years.
(Related recommendations: The Men “Open Your Heart” and “Tomorrow Hits”)

POLIÇA “When We Stay Alive” 
This may be their best record yet.


Sarah Harmer “Are You Gone”
 Sarah Harmer played at Spaceland (now Satellite) in support of her excellent record “Oh Little Fire.” I’d had a long week and skipped it;  I’ve had to wait ten fucking years for a follow up record and tour. If Kathleen Edwards is the Zoë Records version of Lucinda Williams, Sarah Harmer is the label’s version of Shawn Colvin.

Soccer Mommy “color theory”
 Haven’t been much of a Soccer Mommy fan in the past but this record is one of my favorite records so far this year. Ride the mid-tempo wave.

Squirrel  Flower “I Was Born Swimming” Could easily sit on the shelf between Mitski and TORRES. It’s a great debut.

TORRES “Silver Tongue” 
I happened upon Pitchfork’s review of her debut back in 2012 and have been a fan ever since. Her debut is a classic to me. She signed to 4AD, put out two ambitious records and then got dropped. Now she’s on Merge and produced “Silver Tongue” herself. I think it’s her best since her debut. She’s fire live.
(Related recommendation:  TORRES “TORRES”)

OLD MUSIC (record store finds and new discoveries):

Dry Cleaning “Sweet Princess EP/ Boundary Food and Drink EP” 
I was listening to Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs in anticipation of their show here and when the record was over, Spotify played a Dry Cleaning track and I loved it. Both of these EPs are great, filled with spiky guitars and dry, spoken lyrics about the numb horror of modern life.

Guided By Voices “Live From Austin TX” 
Found this one at Soundsations. Double vinyl, recorded in 2004 before a hiatus. Sounds good. Lots of “Bee Thousand/ Alien Lanes” classics alongside tracks from “Half-Smiles of the Decomposed,” the record they were touring at the time.

Rosie Thomas “With Love” 
I liked Rosie Thomas’ Sub Pop releases, I didn’t know about this one but I found it at Amoeba. Happy to find out about it, it’s one of her best.

NEW MOVIES (theatrical):


Emma. 
It’s fun and it’s gorgeous. Every frame of the film is carefully considered and it shows. The performances are excellent and when the sparks start to fly it’s a thrill.


Beanpole 
It’s soul-crushing and gorgeous. The characters struggle to put their lives together in postwar Leningrad and find that any act of kindness or mercy can be manipulated or subverted. It’s not a cruel film, but it can be hard to watch. I’ve thought about it quite a bit since I watched it: about what writer/director Kantemi Balegov showed onscreen versus what he didn’t, how the characters’ histories are revealed, and about the performances that brought them to life. The film stayed with me, which is one of the highest compliments I can give. The trailer is a fine piece of work in and of itself.  

OLD MOVIES:



Ad Astra
 I don’t know how this got made and that’s not a slight but a registration of genuine bewilderment. The film is a juxtaposition of emotional emptiness and the void of the universe. An internal character study wrapped in first-rate sci-fi set pieces. I marveled at it on an XD screen last year and recently watched it with my wife. If anything, I wish it had leaned even harder into its art house impulses and cut the voice-over narration in half. 
 Doctor Sleep (Theatrical) 
I tried to see this in the theater but I couldn’t make it happen.  It wasn’t that my wife gave birth a week previous or that the film got middling aggregate reviews, as either of those factors by themselves would not have dissuaded me. I simply couldn’t get past the fact that I’d already wasted two and a half hours in the execrable mire that was IT: Part II two months beforehand and the experience left me gun-shy. Wish I’d checked it out on the big screen, looking forward to diving into the Director’s Cut.

The Gold Rush (1942 Version) I’d never seen this version of the Charlie Chaplin classic: it runs a few minutes shorter than the original and has voice-over narration. Started watching it with my daughter while we were home sick and realized that the sight of Big Jim, especially in a jittery frame rate, is pretty unsettling to a six year old.

Hacksaw Ridge Mel Gibson gets away with a lot of things, as a director it’s graphic violence. Andrew Garfield plays a conscientious objector who joins the army to be a medic and refuses to touch a weapon. The second half of the film is grueling but the WWII combat looks incredible. 

House by the Cemetery 
Your enjoyment of this movie will depend on your love for Italian horror cinema and all of its idiosyncrasies. The value is in the modes of death and the sound design. House by the Cemetery is not a great movie, but I love the scene where Bob is trying to get out of the basement. For a split second I felt genuine panic, as I realized that Fulci might be willing to take the events of the film further than I was willing to follow them.

Old Joy 
I saw Old Joy when it was originally released and I loved it. Two old friends at different turning points in their lives go on a camping trip. Kelly Reichardt’s made a lot of great films since then, but Old Joy has a special place in my heart because when I saw it I had just entered my 30’s and still had friends like Kurt. 


BOOKS:

Ad Nauseam by Michael Gingold It’s a collection of vintage newspaper ads for horror films from the 80’s. Reading it brought back a lot of memories. I admire the effort of saving these for so many years.

The Guardians by Sarah Manguso 

I picked up 300 Arguments a few years ago after the AV Club recommended it and read it on a flight to Chicago. It’s made up of 300 short passages, some only a sentence long. I admired the precision and thoughtfulness of those focused lines.

I sought out some of her other work and found her very relatable, in part because we’re the same age, suffered from similar medical conditions, and spent time in Iowa City.  I’ve read Ongoingness: The End of a Diary, and The Two Kinds of Decay.

The Guardians is a memoir about her close friend, written following his suicide by train.

Reading her books creates this expansive image of Manguso as a person, in that some of the events of the three books overlap. I realized that her reflections in The Guardians were those of the person who had also overcome the prolonged health issues described in The Two Kinds of Decay, and was writing about all of it in the diaries described in Ongoingness: The End of a Diary. They are all great reads. I’d start with 300 Arguments.

SHOWS:

Imperial Teen Zebulon 02/28/20 When I see Imperial Teen I think about all the other times that I’ve seen Imperial Teen. I think about all of those times in my life and the different highs and lows that the band has been through. All the different times that they seemed poised for great success that never materialized. Despite those disappointments, they still put out a record every few years and occasionally play a few shows. They have a deep catalog of excellent pop songs. It’s as great a pleasure to see them today as it was twenty years ago. 
 Califone The Hi Hat 02/29/20 I love Red Red Meat but I’ve never seen a great show by them. I like Califone and I’ve seen some good shows, but the last one I caught (2017) turned out to be a Tim Rutilli solo show and that’s not what I wanted. The show at The Hi Hat was the best Califone show I’ve ever seen. They sounded excellent and Rutilli seemed  enthusiastic. He kept thanking the audience for coming out on a Monday night (it was Saturday.) The set stretched close to two hours with no encore.

[kidsviral-blog]

What I've Learned About How To Be A Girl

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/what-ive-learned-about-how-to-be-a-girl/

What I've Learned About How To Be A Girl

Being a capital-G Girl is something that works for other people, and does not work for me. But it took me a while to get there.

View this image ›

Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

I am 4 or 5, preschool age, running around alone on a playground that only appears in this memory and no others. Two older girls (are they older or do they just seem older because they have long, beautiful hair and the right clothes?) ask me if I’m gay. They laugh, but together, at me. I think “gay” means “happy,” and I am, because it’s fall and I love fall and I am having a good time. I say yes. They’re so surprised, and they laugh more, scathingly, and my skin prickles with shame. “She said she’s gay!” They cackle. “You have hair like a boy,” they sneer, and I don’t yet understand why this is bad. The differences between myself and these girls seem very obvious, and very sharp, in a way they weren’t five minutes before.

I am in elementary school and I spend the vast majority of my time pretending to be someone else — anyone else. Characters I made up, characters I didn’t, versions of myself that I mentally insert into whatever I am reading at the time. Pretty much all of the versions of myself I envision have the following in common: They are older than I am, they are a thin version of myself I erroneously believe I will someday become, and they have Disney Princess hair that never has to be thought about or maintained. They are, essentially, the Perfect Girl version of me I really wanted to be. They’re exaggerated and do not allow for nuance. They’re the version of Girldom that just walked out of a 1950s ad for futuristic dishware. They still have an edge of hope.

I start middle school and my body feels separate from me. Nothing ever fills it, and I have no interest in adorning or primping it. I make a satchel out of felt and twine and tie it around my waist and ride my bike through the woods, pretending I’m an elf. My hair is long and tangles easily and I hate brushing it. My stepmother digs her fingers into it, picking as gently as she can at the rat’s nest it always becomes. I don’t wear jeans or dresses; I wear soft clothes that are too big for me. My mother picks at me — she wants me to be more feminine, she wants me to wear makeup and part my hair and wear nicer things that we can’t even afford, and I understand now that she wanted these things because she believed they would be armor between me and a world that hurt. She wanted them not because I wasn’t enough, but because she was afraid. It will take me 10 years to understand this. For now, I feel like I am not enough.

I am almost done with middle school, which has felt like a never-ending gauntlet. My body has shapes that I don’t like, that feel foreign and wrong. Other people notice. I’ve started wearing jeans and black oversize T-shirts with band names on them. I wear a lot of my father’s old clothing. Other people start calling me a slut in addition to a whale and a hippo. Once in art class a boy who never leaves me alone loosens the screws in my chair, and when I sit in it, it falls apart to a chorus of shrieking laughter. Two girls throw spitballs at me every afternoon on the bus; they jeer and snarl and I understand that this is what I deserve, because I am not good at being like them. I have friends, but only one of them is really nice to me, and even she sometimes caves. She doesn’t want to find herself outside, like I am. I forgive her over and over. I would do the same thing if I was her.

I start high school and I cut my hair short, short, short to my shoulders. I can’t hide behind it as much anymore. I make other friends; one teaches me how to put on eyeliner (incorrectly, it turns out). I start listening to music that makes me feel like there’s champagne under my skin, like I am understood. I learn that I can’t go without a bra anymore; I learn this by not wearing a bra and being quietly, snidely mocked all day. I still wear oversize things, but they’re bright. As time goes on, I find that I cannot be a girl the way that other girls are girls. I can’t find stylish clothes that fit me; I can’t afford them anyway. I start cutting up my old clothes to make them less ugly. They’re still ugly, but now I’ve made them that way, so it feels like a choice. High school is less overtly cruel, but there are still people who hate me on principle and make no secret of it. They are largely men. I don’t know what to do about it. I stop trying.

I am diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome when I am 13-almost-14. I start seeing a new endocrinologist when I am 15 and she puts me on a medication that will help with my insulin resistance, a symptom that baffles me. I understand that it has something to do with hormone production, but this understanding is fuzzy. I mostly feel like my baby-making parts are trying to kill me. I’m so bad at being a girl, I think, that being a girl is making me sick. She explains my weight is not my fault. It’s a symptom too. I feel complicated. It is not quite relief.

The medicine that helps with my insulin resistance makes me very sick.

I don’t tell anybody.

I figure: A doctor gave this to me, so it’s OK. She told me I need to lose weight, so maybe this is how.

I don’t feel like my body is really part of me. I don’t feel a connection to it. I don’t touch or look at it if I don’t have to, but there are mirrors all over my house, and I spend all of my time dodging them, because if I get caught I can’t stop looking, with the same kind of revolted fascination I recently saw on the face of a man contemplating a bad taxidermy website.

Everything I eat leaves my body almost immediately, leaving no footprint of fullness behind.

I start fainting.

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

Around 15 I dye my hair for the first time. I figure if I have to be different, I might as well be really different. All along, underneath this, there is a kind of level despair — a part of me feels anguished, always, even when I am happy. There is a war in me, and I have learned to ignore it. I dye my hair before my mother gets home one day. It’s red dye. My natural hair color is almost black. I don’t bleach it first, so what I wind up with is this sort of rusty auburn. I love it. I look in the mirror and for the first time I see someone that looks like me.

When I wash it out in the tub, it looks like the tub is full of blood. I think about what it would be like if it was my own, but idly, without any active interest. My scalp itches.

I lose around 70 pounds in six months. (This is a very dangerous amount of weight to lose that quickly, for anyone playing along at home.)

One day I notice my clavicle. I can fit two fingers in the hollows of it. It feels like an achievement.

“You’re doing so well,” everyone says. “You look so good.”

I am doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there is something very wrong with the volume of food I am taking in versus the weight I am losing. I am hungry all the time. I am so hungry that hunger begins to just feel like something that always has been and always will be. I am the human equivalent of the sound of grinding teeth.

“You’re doing so well,” everyone says. “How much weight have you lost?”

Eventually I see a doctor. I see two, actually — my endocrinologist and a cardiologist, to see if there’s something wrong with my heart. There isn’t, and I’m surprised, because something feels very wrong with my heart.

I start gaining the weight back before we all leave for college and I gain the rest back during my freshman year. My boyfriend — we are trying long-distance because we’re idiots — tells me that I’m beautiful, and maybe we should work out together. (We live two states apart.) I’m stunning, and am I sure I want to eat that? I have never fully believed that I am desirable, and I can feel whatever tenuous certainty I have start to shrink.

I cut the rest of my hair off when I go home for winter break from school. I dye it red again — I had stopped, I hadn’t felt the need, I hadn’t wanted to. But I don’t feel like I have control over myself; I feel myself slipping. Desirability and femininity are so entangled in myself that I feel I can’t have one without the other; if I am failing at one, my attempts at the other must be laughable. Everyone must know. My hair looks terrible, but that’s mostly because the person who cut it didn’t know how to cut short hair on girls. I don’t hate it. I don’t like it, either. I feel, very carefully, not much at all.

When my boyfriend breaks up with me it blindsides me in the way only very obvious things can. I eat two meals in seven days. I want to shrink myself into nothing.

I grow my hair out. I grow my hair out for the better part of two years, thinking that all I want is to look like someone he never knew. I want to finally win at the game of Girldom I have been half-assing for my entire life. I wear dresses, I wear makeup, I get layers and Zooey Deschanel bangs and I blow-dry them. I wear things that fit. I paint my nails. I am aggressively, determinedly Normal. I am sick of being outside. I am sick of fighting.

Being a Girl is so much harder than being a girl and it feels like a Sisyphean task, because no matter what I do I take up too much space. There is too much of my personality, too much of my body, too much of my feelings. I am always, internally, a glass about to spill or a boiling teakettle. This is unacceptable if I want to be a Girl, so I learn to never talk about it. I almost never think about not eating. I almost never think of figuring out a way to make myself sick. (I think about them all the time.)

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

I get a job immediately out of college because I am very, very lucky. I feel good; I feel better; I have done a year of therapy and I am not in therapy now but I think maybe I can manage. This is a new feeling. The anguish that has been my constant companion, a tight knot in my chest, a little voice chanting you’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong, is not gone, but is quieter.

I dye my hair a couple shades lighter than normal. I don’t have a bathtub in the apartment I’m renting with three friends who are still in college, so I do it in the shower. The color stains the old grout the color of old blood for a couple of weeks. I stop trying so hard to be a Girl and try a little harder to figure out how to be myself.

I move to New York. I relapse — sort of. I pre-relapse. I prelapse. At first I blame the summer sun and the smell of garbage for my lack of appetite, but I know I’m deluding myself. I get my shit together and find a therapist — quickly this time, before I can really hurt myself, and I learn that recovery is not a straight line. It will take me another year and a half to understand that recovery isn’t even a circle; recovery waxes and wanes, goes in and out like a tide.

I learn that being a girl is not a straight line, either. And I learn that being a Girl is something that works for other people and does not work for me, and anyway, such a narrow definition feels like a cage. I decide that I can be a girl, and that sometimes I will be too much, and that’s OK. (I sometimes need to repeat this to myself; I sometimes need a reminder.) I start cutting my hair again. Every time I cut it, I am shocked at how much lighter my heart is. The shorter it gets, the freer I feel.

One night I feel like one of those coiled springs with a fist on the end of it. I feel like I could hurt. I itch everywhere, in my marrow. I feel like there is a tiny goblin sitting on my shoulder hissing in my ear about how disgusting I am, how horrifying, how too much, how not enough. Nothing I do will shut him up. So I dye my hair bright blue. It takes four hours. I don’t do it carefully, and I end up burning part of my scalp (by accident) with bleach. When I’m done, I feel quiet and eased. I feel like enough.

Lately, I feel like this more and more often. It feels normal to feel like enough, and not an anomaly whose end I have to defend against.

I do not have it all figured out, but I am here now, and I am trying.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/kayetoal/tbh-gender-is-a-performance-i-forgot-to-buy-tickets-to

[kidsviral-blog]

What I've Learned About How To Be A Girl

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/what-ive-learned-about-how-to-be-a-girl/

What I've Learned About How To Be A Girl

Being a capital-G Girl is something that works for other people, and does not work for me. But it took me a while to get there.

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

I am 4 or 5, preschool age, running around alone on a playground that only appears in this memory and no others. Two older girls (are they older or do they just seem older because they have long, beautiful hair and the right clothes?) ask me if I’m gay. They laugh, but together, at me. I think “gay” means “happy,” and I am, because it’s fall and I love fall and I am having a good time. I say yes. They’re so surprised, and they laugh more, scathingly, and my skin prickles with shame. “She said she’s gay!” They cackle. “You have hair like a boy,” they sneer, and I don’t yet understand why this is bad. The differences between myself and these girls seem very obvious, and very sharp, in a way they weren’t five minutes before.

I am in elementary school and I spend the vast majority of my time pretending to be someone else — anyone else. Characters I made up, characters I didn’t, versions of myself that I mentally insert into whatever I am reading at the time. Pretty much all of the versions of myself I envision have the following in common: They are older than I am, they are a thin version of myself I erroneously believe I will someday become, and they have Disney Princess hair that never has to be thought about or maintained. They are, essentially, the Perfect Girl version of me I really wanted to be. They’re exaggerated and do not allow for nuance. They’re the version of Girldom that just walked out of a 1950s ad for futuristic dishware. They still have an edge of hope.

I start middle school and my body feels separate from me. Nothing ever fills it, and I have no interest in adorning or primping it. I make a satchel out of felt and twine and tie it around my waist and ride my bike through the woods, pretending I’m an elf. My hair is long and tangles easily and I hate brushing it. My stepmother digs her fingers into it, picking as gently as she can at the rat’s nest it always becomes. I don’t wear jeans or dresses; I wear soft clothes that are too big for me. My mother picks at me — she wants me to be more feminine, she wants me to wear makeup and part my hair and wear nicer things that we can’t even afford, and I understand now that she wanted these things because she believed they would be armor between me and a world that hurt. She wanted them not because I wasn’t enough, but because she was afraid. It will take me 10 years to understand this. For now, I feel like I am not enough.

I am almost done with middle school, which has felt like a never-ending gauntlet. My body has shapes that I don’t like, that feel foreign and wrong. Other people notice. I’ve started wearing jeans and black oversize T-shirts with band names on them. I wear a lot of my father’s old clothing. Other people start calling me a slut in addition to a whale and a hippo. Once in art class a boy who never leaves me alone loosens the screws in my chair, and when I sit in it, it falls apart to a chorus of shrieking laughter. Two girls throw spitballs at me every afternoon on the bus; they jeer and snarl and I understand that this is what I deserve, because I am not good at being like them. I have friends, but only one of them is really nice to me, and even she sometimes caves. She doesn’t want to find herself outside, like I am. I forgive her over and over. I would do the same thing if I was her.

I start high school and I cut my hair short, short, short to my shoulders. I can’t hide behind it as much anymore. I make other friends; one teaches me how to put on eyeliner (incorrectly, it turns out). I start listening to music that makes me feel like there’s champagne under my skin, like I am understood. I learn that I can’t go without a bra anymore; I learn this by not wearing a bra and being quietly, snidely mocked all day. I still wear oversize things, but they’re bright. As time goes on, I find that I cannot be a girl the way that other girls are girls. I can’t find stylish clothes that fit me; I can’t afford them anyway. I start cutting up my old clothes to make them less ugly. They’re still ugly, but now I’ve made them that way, so it feels like a choice. High school is less overtly cruel, but there are still people who hate me on principle and make no secret of it. They are largely men. I don’t know what to do about it. I stop trying.

I am diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome when I am 13-almost-14. I start seeing a new endocrinologist when I am 15 and she puts me on a medication that will help with my insulin resistance, a symptom that baffles me. I understand that it has something to do with hormone production, but this understanding is fuzzy. I mostly feel like my baby-making parts are trying to kill me. I’m so bad at being a girl, I think, that being a girl is making me sick. She explains my weight is not my fault. It’s a symptom too. I feel complicated. It is not quite relief.

The medicine that helps with my insulin resistance makes me very sick.

I don’t tell anybody.

I figure: A doctor gave this to me, so it’s OK. She told me I need to lose weight, so maybe this is how.

I don’t feel like my body is really part of me. I don’t feel a connection to it. I don’t touch or look at it if I don’t have to, but there are mirrors all over my house, and I spend all of my time dodging them, because if I get caught I can’t stop looking, with the same kind of revolted fascination I recently saw on the face of a man contemplating a bad taxidermy website.

Everything I eat leaves my body almost immediately, leaving no footprint of fullness behind.

I start fainting.

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

Around 15 I dye my hair for the first time. I figure if I have to be different, I might as well be really different. All along, underneath this, there is a kind of level despair — a part of me feels anguished, always, even when I am happy. There is a war in me, and I have learned to ignore it. I dye my hair before my mother gets home one day. It’s red dye. My natural hair color is almost black. I don’t bleach it first, so what I wind up with is this sort of rusty auburn. I love it. I look in the mirror and for the first time I see someone that looks like me.

When I wash it out in the tub, it looks like the tub is full of blood. I think about what it would be like if it was my own, but idly, without any active interest. My scalp itches.

I lose around 70 pounds in six months. (This is a very dangerous amount of weight to lose that quickly, for anyone playing along at home.)

One day I notice my clavicle. I can fit two fingers in the hollows of it. It feels like an achievement.

“You’re doing so well,” everyone says. “You look so good.”

I am doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there is something very wrong with the volume of food I am taking in versus the weight I am losing. I am hungry all the time. I am so hungry that hunger begins to just feel like something that always has been and always will be. I am the human equivalent of the sound of grinding teeth.

“You’re doing so well,” everyone says. “How much weight have you lost?”

Eventually I see a doctor. I see two, actually — my endocrinologist and a cardiologist, to see if there’s something wrong with my heart. There isn’t, and I’m surprised, because something feels very wrong with my heart.

I start gaining the weight back before we all leave for college and I gain the rest back during my freshman year. My boyfriend — we are trying long-distance because we’re idiots — tells me that I’m beautiful, and maybe we should work out together. (We live two states apart.) I’m stunning, and am I sure I want to eat that? I have never fully believed that I am desirable, and I can feel whatever tenuous certainty I have start to shrink.

I cut the rest of my hair off when I go home for winter break from school. I dye it red again — I had stopped, I hadn’t felt the need, I hadn’t wanted to. But I don’t feel like I have control over myself; I feel myself slipping. Desirability and femininity are so entangled in myself that I feel I can’t have one without the other; if I am failing at one, my attempts at the other must be laughable. Everyone must know. My hair looks terrible, but that’s mostly because the person who cut it didn’t know how to cut short hair on girls. I don’t hate it. I don’t like it, either. I feel, very carefully, not much at all.

When my boyfriend breaks up with me it blindsides me in the way only very obvious things can. I eat two meals in seven days. I want to shrink myself into nothing.

I grow my hair out. I grow my hair out for the better part of two years, thinking that all I want is to look like someone he never knew. I want to finally win at the game of Girldom I have been half-assing for my entire life. I wear dresses, I wear makeup, I get layers and Zooey Deschanel bangs and I blow-dry them. I wear things that fit. I paint my nails. I am aggressively, determinedly Normal. I am sick of being outside. I am sick of fighting.

Being a Girl is so much harder than being a girl and it feels like a Sisyphean task, because no matter what I do I take up too much space. There is too much of my personality, too much of my body, too much of my feelings. I am always, internally, a glass about to spill or a boiling teakettle. This is unacceptable if I want to be a Girl, so I learn to never talk about it. I almost never think about not eating. I almost never think of figuring out a way to make myself sick. (I think about them all the time.)

View this image ›

Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

I get a job immediately out of college because I am very, very lucky. I feel good; I feel better; I have done a year of therapy and I am not in therapy now but I think maybe I can manage. This is a new feeling. The anguish that has been my constant companion, a tight knot in my chest, a little voice chanting you’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong, is not gone, but is quieter.

I dye my hair a couple shades lighter than normal. I don’t have a bathtub in the apartment I’m renting with three friends who are still in college, so I do it in the shower. The color stains the old grout the color of old blood for a couple of weeks. I stop trying so hard to be a Girl and try a little harder to figure out how to be myself.

I move to New York. I relapse — sort of. I pre-relapse. I prelapse. At first I blame the summer sun and the smell of garbage for my lack of appetite, but I know I’m deluding myself. I get my shit together and find a therapist — quickly this time, before I can really hurt myself, and I learn that recovery is not a straight line. It will take me another year and a half to understand that recovery isn’t even a circle; recovery waxes and wanes, goes in and out like a tide.

I learn that being a girl is not a straight line, either. And I learn that being a Girl is something that works for other people and does not work for me, and anyway, such a narrow definition feels like a cage. I decide that I can be a girl, and that sometimes I will be too much, and that’s OK. (I sometimes need to repeat this to myself; I sometimes need a reminder.) I start cutting my hair again. Every time I cut it, I am shocked at how much lighter my heart is. The shorter it gets, the freer I feel.

One night I feel like one of those coiled springs with a fist on the end of it. I feel like I could hurt. I itch everywhere, in my marrow. I feel like there is a tiny goblin sitting on my shoulder hissing in my ear about how disgusting I am, how horrifying, how too much, how not enough. Nothing I do will shut him up. So I dye my hair bright blue. It takes four hours. I don’t do it carefully, and I end up burning part of my scalp (by accident) with bleach. When I’m done, I feel quiet and eased. I feel like enough.

Lately, I feel like this more and more often. It feels normal to feel like enough, and not an anomaly whose end I have to defend against.

I do not have it all figured out, but I am here now, and I am trying.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/kayetoal/tbh-gender-is-a-performance-i-forgot-to-buy-tickets-to