#system saturday

[zakeno]

Do you know a fictive alter? Learn a little more about fictional interjects this System Saturday- er, I mean, Sunday! 🖤

[fagsex]

🤣🤣🤣

[statementlou]

So I see folks pointing out that Louis' circle A tattoo is more likely an aesthetic choice than an announcement of a political commitment to anarchism, and saying basically that that maybe makes him a bit of a poser and I mean- I GUESS. But I don't like to look at things that way and I don't think it's useful. As I see it the subversive sexiness of the symbols of resistance have ALWAYS been gateways for people who are drawn to the struggle in vague ways and that's GOOD. Aligning yourself with those values is good no matter the reason, in my book, especially given the wretched options available out there, but also the journey doesn't necessarily stop there. Gatekeeping queerness victimizes people who are just trying things out and starting to discover that it may run deeper than just trying on a new look who should instead be welcomed and helped along their path, and I fail to see how gatekeeping political affiliations is any different (plus how counterproductive to actual movement building is that?)

ANYWAY. What I really want to say about Louis is that while I KNOW that Louis is probably not secretly a theory reading anti-state communalist anarchist, I think that actually Louis' optimism and idealism (and his unwavering commitment to allying himself with the working class and embracing those roots) are a perfect fit for the philosophy and always have been. I know that anarchism is mostly understood as being about throwing molotov cocktails and fighting the state (and the allure of its symbols are that they signify this, a terrific aesthetic for him to choose to sign on with in my book), but that's honestly largely cartoonish stereotyping that comes directly from anti-anarchist state propaganda. That resistance is necessary in this hellscape of oppression we live in and is super important, but in its heart anarchism is only about the state in that the state and capitalism currently stands in the way of its goals. The whole point of anarchism is that it's NOT about the state! It's about being able to imagine something better than a state, it's about how we live and about how we SHOULD live, it's about HOPE and picturing something utopian and something free of the ways capitalism pits us against one another! What could be more Louis than that?

"I need you and you need me and I love that" is as beautiful a way of talking about the cornerstone of anarchism that is mutual aid as any long winded essay I've read (even if what he meant was contextually different), and I think when he talks again and again about how special the space fans have made around him is he is expressing an intuitive understanding of the importance of autonomous zones, places and moments outside of the shitty life imposed on us by the system (also a huge part of anarchist thought). Maybe I'm just being an optimist but I think that Louis DOES understand that caring for people and wanting self-determination and freedom for all and allying himself with the working class involves a certain amount of resistance to and positioning yourself in opposition to the state. Thinking the symbols of smashing that state are cool isn't meaningless; it's a CHOICE. There are other cool symbols out there and I just happen to think that feeling a resonance with certain ones is something in and of itself, even if at this moment he does not choose to start a fight with the media about it all.

[tennessoui]

new wip wednesday

i wanted to get the first chapter of this done as an early bday present to me because ive been talking about this fic for foreverrrrr but its not gonna happen because im bad at measuring time and effort 😮‍💨 but look! hunger games au fic!

Anakin pushes his face into his neck, letting his lips press against his pulse for a moment. 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, recognition and warning rolled into one tone. 

But Anakin wouldn’t be who he is if he allowed the man in his arms to so easily twist away. He wouldn’t even be here now, pressed up against him with the scent of saltwater and lilacs and leather filling his nose, if he let one warning word distract him from his goal.

So instead he pushes further, wraps his hands around Obi-Wan’s hips and takes the skin beneath his lips between his teeth. The soft fabric of their pants brush together, so loud in the stillness of the kitchen that it’s deafening—that it’s almost loud enough to drown out the catch in Obi-Wan’s breathing.

But Anakin has trained himself over the past five years to listen for all the small ways that Obi-Wan Kenobi capitulates, so he hears his sigh, feels the slump of his shoulders against his own as his head sways forward and then back.

Anakin takes his time worrying a bitemark into his neck, just at the edge of his beard. On the holos that will film Obi-Wan’s face today, it’ll look like a shadow. 

But Anakin will know. Obi-Wan will know. 

“Anakin,” his lover murmurs, and Anakin’s hand moves from his waist up to stroke down his arm, corded with tense muscle. Fisherman’s muscle. Victor’s muscle too.

Not today, he means. It’s obvious in every line of his body. It’s obvious in the fact that he left the bed so early in the morning when neither of them must work. It’s obvious in the distance in his eyes, the frown across his lips.

Today is not a day where Obi-Wan will accept pleasure from anyone’s lips or hands, undeserving as he feels to be on the receiving end of such a kindness.

Anakin’s left hand falls to cover Obi-Wan’s, tangling their fingers together. His are rougher than Obi-Wan’s, working man’s hands now that he is twenty-one and a man of the sea like most are on Stewjon. The rough drag of his calluses over the hairy knuckles of Obi-Wan’s hand makes Anakin swallow a smile. Victors of the Hunger Games are forbidden from working laborious jobs. They’re meant to languish away in their Coruscanti-funded manors, with idle minds and idle hands, picking at paints or design stencils or any number of different government approved hobbies

Obi-Wan Kenobi is not made to be idle. He has no patience for painting or sewing, for cooking or jewelry design. Luckily for him, Stewjon is the fourth planet from Coruscant, on the edge of the inner rim, and it’s rather small, rather ordinary. In the colder months, during the few months of the star year where the galaxy is not forced to care about the Hunger Games and its Victors, he can slip away to the ocean. Fish and sail like he was born to do, Stewjoni through and through.

But Anakin is out on those choppy seas year-round now that he’s four years finished with his compulsory education. His hands are rougher than Obi-Wan’s and they always will be.

Anakin likes it. Likes the way Obi-Wan’s softness contrasts against his own rougher places. Likes that he can sneak away from Obi-Wan’s manor in the blue of the pre-dawn light, first to the sea and then to the market, and Obi-Wan will be there when he gets back. Likes that when he leaves, his lover is curled up asleep in their bed. And when he returns with the fattest fish from his haul, Anakin can cook it for him too. 

He likes that he is the only thing Obi-Wan needs. He provides. He cooks for him. He feeds him. He touches him with his rough hands, to dirty him and then to clean him up. Everything that Obi-Wan needs, Anakin is the person to give it to him.

He supposes he has Coruscant to thank for that.

He’s not stupid enough to say that—ever, but especially today. Especially on the day of the Reaping. 

[itzsassha]

✦ 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒙 𝑵𝒂𝒐𝒎𝒊 - 2/?

[theactioneer]

Double Hawk (Sega, 1990)

[frecklystars]

Please tell me I'm not the only one who noticed the parallel 😳...

[ktskibkg0]

Bye

[im-still-watching-anime]

atsushi: we have a connection

akutagawa: what kind of connection? good? bad?

atsushi: im not sure but by god if it isn’t there

[doefrost]

oh its quitting time brothers

[zakeno]

Starting off System Saturday with some facts on polyfragmented systems. As one ourselves, we love polyfragmented systems here, and you should, too!

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Introspection

Summary: Moon Knight Comic universe. A study of the Interpersonal relationships between Marc, Jake, Steven, Mr. Knight, and Moon Knight.

They don't always get along. Sometimes they have no choice but to hold things together while one of them seems determined to take them apart.

Pairings: Gen fic, Brief mentions of Greer and Marc.

Warnings: Dissociation

Word Count: 4715

A personal note: I started this as something else and then had a small mental health event and continued to work on this. So it didn't go where I had planned on going. But here it is for whatever it's worth. I hope it's worth something.

----

MARC

Sometimes I remember life one way and sometimes I remember it another. It’s hard to pin it all down. If you asked me what I did this morning I’d be hard pressed to tell you the fine details but I can guess the usual. 

Each awakening starts the same. I listen to just about every joint in my body pop and creak as I crawl out of bed and wait for sensation to return to my body. I imagine it much like watching someone claw their way out of a shallow grave. When I am sure that the body is mine, I chug the coffee that by now must be two days old and reheated so many times the burnt smell only makes me think it’s stronger than it is. 

It does nothing for my headache but at least the double vision blurs into one and I can do more than make further zombie sounds. This does little for the popular notion that I am a dead man that has returned from the grave so many times that I sometimes catch myself glancing in the mirror at the symbole on my forehead. Is it still a moon? Am I sure? Is it the crest of a god or the word of another? Perhaps it is the truth. 

I try not to think about it if I don’t want to spend the next hour fading in and out of that dangerous void. 

Today is a bad day. I can’t stay out of the past. It happens. The past is a long dark tunnel or a glimpse of a street light I once stood too long under. 

I can feel the annoyance as I fade and cling at the same time. He calls me a pain as I dig my heels in. I’ve been told that I have a nasty tendency to dig my grubby mitts in so hard that it takes a considerable fight to knock me out of place. He says I have control issues. 

I don’t do it on purpose. I frankly wouldn’t know how to stay if I wanted to. I tend to come and go like a nasty habit you just can’t get rid of. Every time you think you’ve kicked it, it comes crawling back. 

Sure, I can give it up for them when we talk. When we talk. I remember the silence. Confusion and blanks written off with a shrug. Then I remember the yelling. There used to be so much yelling. Like siblings yelling from one room to the other over a barrier of invisible walls and doors that rattled on old hinges. 

We don’t yell anymore. Mostly. He calls me short sighted. The other one calls me a Schlimazel. He thinks he’s funny. I snapped and called him a Meshuggeneh once and he laughed about it for two weeks straight. He takes a special delight when I speak in that tongue. 

I think there is a popular opinion that we act like a big family full of love. Just a bunch of brothers that look out for one another. Bullshit. We are not brothers. Brothers in our situation would have probably killed each other years ago. The truth is that we are three grown men all trying to drive the same car and decide on where it’s going all at the same time. 

Sometimes we want to go to the living room and end up on the fucking roof. And it’s always anyone’s guess on how we got up there. When was the last time we ate? Did the other one go nuts on eggs again or did I have the reins and forget to eat for three days because I’m an idiot? It’s anyone’s guess. 

It has taken us a very very long time to figure out how to function. How to work as a team. How to care about one another. We certainly didn’t come into this wanting to help the other guy stop crying. It was just annoying listening to him cry all the time. We wanted him to stop. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to stop. He wanted me to stop. We were just kids. Just kids learning to share and… 

Here I go again, floating into the void and I think we’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for ten minutes. He’s fucking yelling at me to get my shit together. 

I know what would really piss him off. I don’t want to piss him off. But I do. I piss him off by existing sometimes. He used to wish I would go away. He could put up with the other one but me? I was unacceptable. I used to wish I would go away too. I hated how much I was present. Always there. Always waiting to be angry. Waiting to punch something. Waiting to find a reason. 

They both tell me I need to stop. I needed to learn how to exist. I existed enough. It’s how we got into this mess. I existed. My name was put on a paper: Here Elias begat Marc and all the trouble that came with. 

I’m the trauma. I’m the reason. I’m the one that ran. I’m the one that made the decisions. I’m the one that lost… 

Now here’s the territory that he won’t let me near. Says I get too close and hurt myself too much. As if I can’t help but shout out “Here I am”. 

And as I sit and stare into the fire of my trauma, he finally pulls me and it feels like a relief as even the body lets out a sigh. 

STEVEN

It takes a minute. It doesn’t always. When he cooperates it’s like lightning. That’s the problem though, isn’t it? Marc Spector cooperating? The very notion of it makes me smile. 

Like the notion that Marc might actually take the moment to be more aware. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so pissed off. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not pissed at him. Not really. It’s hard to be pissed at him these days. Back at the start, though? All you had to do was imply his presence and I was pissed at the man. 

I think he still strives for that. He wants us to be angry at him. Give the man a stick and find him in the woods poking a bear for kicks. 

I’m pissed because I have to do this. I’m pissed because this is something that we still have to do. What brought it about this time? That’s always the part I hate the most. Trying to figure out why Marc had to be pulled. 

We know our places now. It wasn’t easy to figure out. There was a certain level of trust we had to reach to figure it out. When Marc was needed, we knew it was going to hurt. We hardly ever asked for his help. It was pride not to. 

Me? Needing his help? When I could just avoid the situation all together, why would I need his help? 

My denial was deep enough to drown us. My pride, the anchor that brought us down. 

Marc thinks I’d have been the perfect son. I was better. I was the one you introduced to your friends. And in this corner you see Steven Grant, poised and perfect. Just don’t ask him where his family is from. A nod and a wink and we can pretend he’s something else, right? 

Marc forgets how outright obnoxious I used to be. Forget the bruised knees and black eye. That was someone else. My creases were all pressed and my shirts were the whitest. “Yes teacher or course teacher right away teacher”. With grades and posture, I could look down my nose at the world. 

So why wasn’t I the perfect son? Because that was someone else. The real mensch. Yeah, he came a little late, but that’s the nature of him, isn’t it? While Marc and I circled the drain, he sat back with the plug yucking it up with the locals. He doesn’t know our trauma. Our pain. He shifts in and out like it’s nothing. That’s his job. 

Now I’m beyond annoyed. That spot on the wall still hasn’t moved and I’m stuck playing put the lid back on everything Marc opened up. 

I don’t tell him. He has enough to beat himself up over. I don’t tell him how it all carries over. I don’t tell him how his tears sting a little bit more when I’m the one shedding them. I don’t tell him that my hands shake just a little bit as I flush out our wounds. 

There’s a new bruise and I swear it lines up with someone’s fist perfectly. The night was long and now here we sit with ice and a fog that I can’t make go away. Images of our father float in and out and I hear something that I don’t know the words to. 

The fact that Marc does makes me angry. Angry at myself. 

Marc will never know how much he reminds me of our father. Not because he is like the man. No, they couldn’t be further from night and day. But Marc, full of vengeance and fire and bloody fists… No one worships like he does. Only our father, a Rabbi, could have more faith. 

I’d never tell him this, though. He wouldn’t understand. 

The wounds are clean and the bandages applied. My job is done and there is still so much more work to do. I do what I can. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

The mensch wants to know what’s going on. He doesn’t pay attention. He doesn’t have to. It’s my turn to be the stubborn ass and it isn’t till I feel the warm comfort of his embrace that I realize there’s more needed than a desperate need to make amends. 

JAKE

Bubbeleh, take a rest, eh? 

What’s going on up here? Why are we so worked up? I step out for a second and look at this mess. Stomach sounds like a grinder and I feel like we did ten rounds with that gorilla at the zoo. 

Steven makes a jab at my choice in food. What part of our life has been Kosher? Why start now? I think we’ll be forgiven if we break a few rules. Ah, there’s the issue, isn’t it? 

Memories. 

I can sit back and watch them. They play like an old flickering television with a bent antenna. 

No guess on who let these out of the box. He sulks in the back and I can feel his pain radiating across the whole void. 

Marc… If it was ever possible for someone to embody the word Schlep it would be Marc. I sit back quietly for a bit, letting the food soothe the body first. That quiets Steven down. Always worried about the body. The body relaxes and so does Steven. 

Steven settled, now comes the hard part. 

I do remember. I see the boy struggling and I see the other one rebelling in his own way. I remember stepping in more times than they know. I remember what it was to wrap ourselves in a large warm blanket and cry ourselves to sleep. 

The mustache goes on. Steven hates it. Hates what the adhesive does to our skin. I tell him to grow it out naturally; but then you’d have two problems instead of one. I’m a problem fixer. My problem can be fixed with adhesive and a hat.  

I pull my sweater closer and adjust my hat. Marc would riot if I wore the other hat. It was easier to dip into older traditions. It feels right. It feels like it holds us down and gives me the silhouette I know is right. 

Steven thinks I don’t know. I know more than he does sometimes. I never settled on denial. I just settled on acceptance. 

I whisper the right words. The ones that finish the song Steven forgot. They say there is a prayer for everything. Meditate on it long enough and there is a blessing for every situation. 

Sometimes a simple blessing is one that simply soothes the soul. It doesn’t have to make sense or even be appropriate. Just a notion that you do belong and that the good you do is truth enough to exist. 

“May it be your will that I lie down in peace and rise up in peace.” It isn’t the whole prayer. I don’t even remember the whole thing, but the whole thing isn’t what is needed now. Words are like that. Like a lullabye or a magic spell, we settle in peace. We know the truth to those words. 

And we do rise. We always rise up, but never in peace. But for now… At least we can lie down in a sort of peace. 

Cat naps, really. I close our eyes in the reclined seat of the cab as the sounds of the city soothe us into a slumber that keeps the dreams away. 

A yawn and a blinker later, we tour the city. This is my peace. Chit chat with the locals, a tip here and there from the underground. I smile to the fare and impart knowledge on the tourists. We were all dazzled by the city at one point or another. 

By the time my tour is over, we feel rested and refreshed. As much as is capable for us to feel anyways. I think if we ever really did rest we might not ever get back up again. 

Steven is quiet and back in place where he can pretend that maybe this time Marc might behave. I wish I lived in that bloke’s world. At least I know he won’t spiral for a bit. He likes to at least space out his breakdowns a bit. Adds flavor for when they really do build up. 

And a look up at the rising night sky assures me that Marc is also quiet, resting and pretending that he won’t be needed again. I don’t know how to tell him that he’ll always be needed. That he’s wanted. That I wouldn’t trust anyone else to watch my back. 

But now another bloke is stirring and asking questions. 

Yeah buddy, we got this. Just a hiccup or two. The usual. 

He relaxes and I let him stretch. He’s the shy one of the group, which is ironic considering just how flashy he is. 

You want denial, just ask him who lives under that mask. 

I relax back. He does better when we aren’t watching. Maybe someday he’ll feel confident enough to etch out his own place. It’s really enough to make me want to come up with a new prayer just for him. I was never a wordsmith though. Blessings were more of Marc’s territory anyways. 

MOON KNIGHT 

He gives us the information we need. He asks if we want to know about the day. We don’t. We appreciate the offer. He has a lot to share, but these things don’t mean anything to us. He has a lot of strength to offer and we appreciate him for it… But sometimes we enjoy just sitting in silence as we feel the moon and city and justice. 

We don’t know what we did today. We don’t know how the body is doing. We don’t know how they are doing. That isn’t really our business. Our business is up here under the sky under the mask. We can feel the bandages and know the fussy one has taken care of us. We feel energy and relaxed and know the chatty one has done his part. We also feel the anger and need to punch something and know our companion is ready. 

He isn’t always there. Sometimes it’s just me and I feel like a ghost, sliding through the moonbeams and haunting the streets. I don’t know how I feel about these times. 

Our companion helps us. We help him. He pretends to be us and we let him. He can pretend that he doesn’t exist and we are blended until his needs are ours and our actions are his. 

Sometimes he bleeds through. Sometimes the mask becomes heavy on his skin and we have to assert ourselves. We act on behalf of the system. We act because it’s what he needs. When his needs hurt, we let the others take him away. 

We aren’t sure when we became me. When I became individual. We prefer him to be there. We remember a time when we were one. Now we aren’t sure who or what we are. The fussy one prods at us sometimes. Questions us and tries to find out what we know. He asks us a lot of questions. Right now he dismisses us as essential to our companion and lets it go. The chatty one spends a lot of time trying to talk with us. He does not care for the mask and often sits back and just talks. I think he thinks we are a good way to see how our Companion is doing. 

Our companion sometimes resents us. We are the job. We are the work. We are the way for him to let off steam. We are the action to what needs to be done. 

But we are only here when the sky is dark and when justice is needed. When we slip away, it is just him and that is when the mask becomes too heavy. 

That is when we aren’t sure…  There is another we. 

Mr. Knight

I am not Marc Spector. This much I know. Marc doesn’t know this. It’s a recent development. Steven calls it ‘failure to trauma process’. Marc hides behind us. It is difficult to know when he is he and I am me. He is the man under the mask that does not wish to be there. I am the mask. 

The problem was that he would not take off the mask. We became new. 

I’m not sure what I think of things. Only Marc wears the mask. Jake doesn’t care to wear us. Our style doesn’t really match his, but he’s still supportive. Steven was exasperated by us at first but now he finds a useful transfer of information through us. The actual Knight? We’re a team. Sometimes we talk. Perhaps we have the most in common. We have jobs. Our job? We protect Marc. 

The Knight is difficult to speak with sometimes. He’s a bright white light in the dark and sometimes formless. I honestly can’t tell if he is one person or many pretending to be one. Maybe he’s all of us? Maybe I’m really just Marc pretending to be someone else. 

Steven tells me I’m too self aware for that. I asked Steven about the Knight once and Steven didn’t have an answer. 

Sometimes I am Marc. When his blood boils and he walks the street in search of something to hit I very much am Marc. I’m a thin shield over him, much like gauze over a wound. I don’t have fists. I am just the gloves that soak up the grime. 

I become myself when Marc checks out. He still loses time. He won’t admit it. Staring at the far wall while he sits in his chair or waters his plants. My plants. We keep things tidy. Perhaps that is why Steven likes us. 

I keep up appearances. How would it look to find ‘Mr. Knight’ standing in the corner staring at the dust on the leaves for the past twenty minutes? 

I think the others notice. The vampire? She knows. Once she met Steven she caught on real quick. Jake and Steven? Easy. Those two idiots couldn’t ever pretend to be someone else. They fought too long and hard to be independent. She isn’t sure about the Knight. It’s hard to tell with him. Perhaps she sees him as something else completely. Maybe he is. 

Me? She watches me carefully. Jake calls me ‘auto pilot’. When Marc goes ‘space case’ someone has to drive. I think the vampire avoids me when she doesn’t sense Marc there. Maybe I am an auto pilot. A way for him to watch the world without having to take off the mask. I’m okay with that.

The Tiger has noticed me but doesn’t say anything. She’s more familiar with Steven and Jake. Jake chats up anyone and everyone. Steven likes communication. Any way for him to ‘settle the system’ he takes it. The moment the Tiger officially became a part of the picture, Steven and Jake got involved. They like her. She is on edge around the Knight. Perhaps she senses something different about them. It’s hard not to. With me? She asks me to step back. She got Marc to take the mask off the other day. It was nice to step back. I’m not sure what will happen to me if Marc stops wearing the mask all the time. Maybe we become ‘Just Marc’ again. 

 I’m here as long as he needs me. 

Right now he needs me. We’re having a rough day. I say we because when Marc has a bad day, we ALL have a bad day. 

Marc is having a panic attack. 

His mask is off and he has locked himself in his room. The first line of defense steps up. 

We can all feel him assess the body. Marc digs in hard. In his worst moments it would take an act of sheer force to pry the body away from him. 

Steven is cool and collected as he looks the situation over. He talks to Marc and we all watch. It gets crowded up in the front during these times and Jake hangs back. He likes to show his support but also make sure no one else gets in the way. 

We had an incident a month back where we all tried to have opinions. Talk about loud chaos. 

Marc starts to yell and Steven shakes his head, not wanting to force it but not wanting to let it continue. 

The Knight simply watches, formless and bright. They don’t understand these things. They do understand that it can affect how they function though. 

Jake saunters in, hands in pockets as he talks to Marc and Steven. They all have history. 

Marc reaches for me. He wants to hide. I soak up the tears and cover the scars. 

Steven sighs and I can feel his pull as we wordlessly talk. I am auto pilot as Marc fades back and the body carries on. We feel tired. The information travels up the ranks and we all decide what to do with it. 

The Knight shares in his own strange way the memories of a full night. Jake shares memories of a full day. I sit in the chair and watch as the mission moves around us. 

Steven gives orders. Sleep. Short and sweet. 

Convincing Marc to sleep is a chore for the others, but not for me. 

When Marc thinks he is me, I can simply stand and move us to the sarcophagus. Climbing in, Marc settles back and we all feel the body sink in. 

We aren’t perfect, but we are a team. We have to be. 

Tomorrow Marc will wake up again. Tomorrow we will all find our places and tomorrow there might be more of us or less of us. Just gotta roll with the punches. 

Marc

Here we go again. Alarm. Awake. Headache. Confusion. Fight through. 

Fight through. 

Pain and aches and old blood and this deep fog that mutes all light and sound and color and feeling. I live here. I live in the blur. I work best in the blur. 

Muffled and soft. It lets me breathe. In and out. I can’t hear my own pounding blood rushing in my head. I can’t feel the cracks and pops as my legs bend and snap into place to lift this shell. 

I move past the room filled with plants I don’t remember buying. Past the decorations I don’t remember setting up. Hand tracing the ever breathing and changing walls of the living mission. 

I pause. 

“Good morning.” We understand one another. A haunted shell. Walls that hold nothing and too much. 

The walls breathe and I wait. I breathe with them, meditative and peaceful. A moment for me. Only for me. This is how I ground. I connect with the ghost in the walls until I too can inhabit my home. 

Good morning.

Coffee. Chatter. Energy. Noise. Movement. I’ve surrounded myself with movement. I remember a time when my life was non-stop movement. 

Come and go. Through the door as Steven, out the door as Jake, in the sky as Marc and… I try not to think too hard about that part. That time in my life is hard for me to pin down. I wasn’t the one driving most of the time. Then when I was, it was filled with pain. 

Now I’m sitting here and they move around me and I am waiting. The movement has slowed down. When I do go, it isn’t the constant shifting, changing, and rushing that it was. 

It feels… Languid. 

I gaze out the window. It’s a quiet night. I don’t trust the quiet ones. They drift slow and I’m left pacing like a caged tiger. 

“Marc. Sit.” Speaking of caged tiger… She watches me and gestures for me to join her. Calm and peaceful and domestic. 

I hesitate. Domestic was not something I could do. Domestic was his. 

They say cats can sense the switch. Maybe it’s chemical. Maybe it’s just sensing the mood. 

I try not to. I try domestic. I don’t deserve domestic. Domestic and Marc Spector do not belong together. 

It’s just sitting. 

Mr. Domestic chimes in. Of course he would. I stop and she watches. The mask hides the fade. I wonder if she can sense it because her tail starts to twitch. 

I’m grounded. I have no reason to give in. There is no danger. I have no reason to stay. All that stands before me now is the one thing Marc Spector has never been able to handle: Happiness. 

She isn’t gonna be happy if you don’t put your butt in that chair.

The other guy. Mr. Charm. As if he were a professional at making people happy. 

Take off the mask. 

We should patrol. 

Let’s go out and have a drink. 

We need to take a day off. 

The people need to see us. 

I’m so tired.

Needless to say we all have opinions. More than I would think there would be. Some that come softly and others that rock through us like a megaphone to the brain. 

I sit with her. She rolls up the mask just enough to touch the face. Our face. My face. 

Slowly. Like peeling back layers of grime and sand and blood and pain and trauma I let her take the mask away. She places it just in reach of me. As if she knows something I don’t. Something that makes my fingers twitch towards it, longing to touch it. To press it to my heart and keep it safe like a gentle friend. 

I take a breath. Let the air fill my lungs. Let the fog fade. Let the world settle. Let the Me I am becoming fight the Me I have been back and into submissive silence. 

There will be days. Days where that me wins. Days where I do not sit with her. Days where I flinch away and pull the mask back down. Days where the past pierces through me and I am lost again. 

“It’s quiet.” I close my eyes and lean back. 

“Quiet?” She gently curls into me. Warm and soft and heavy at my side. 

“For now.” I relax and feel my foundation shift, letting these old walls settle as they continue to hold it all up. The body sighs and I look at her. Me and him and the other and they and them and us. “Here I am.” 

We rise in peace. 

I let us be at peace. 

[fereldanwench]

teasers for an upcoming photo story 🧡

mods: valerie's top ⚠️ do not reupload or edit my shots without my permission ⚠️

[theactioneer]

Renegade (Technos, 1993)

[atempause-art]

be normal about that man challenge (impossible)

i uhhh.. i think the reason why i jumped way too fast on my eurovision shitpost and turned those designs into modern unhinged AU for samuel and adam is because all of my ocs and their stories are too depressing and too serious and i finally found an outlet to just be batshit insane

i’m also calling that diskopříběh AU making me the funniest person in the room rn but only to fellow czechs

[imaginarycyberpunk2023]

OTP: Lite Sneeze // Macha Richter and Vinnie Gallo