#which is why i inflict my pain onto other's instead of feeling it myself <3

[i-am-church-the-cat]

CHURCH I AM WORKING I CANNOT BE CRYING OVER CAGED TRAPPED DANIEL

everyone has time to cry over daniel ricciardo it came free with your following me

[devilsskettle]

oh man i have a Lot of thoughts about the autopsy of jane doe, both positive and critical For Sure, i'd be SO excited to see your analysis of it! definitely keeping an eye out for that 👀

thanks! i'm working on something article-like to talk about the film and i don't know what i want to do with it yet lol but if i don't post it on here i'll definitely link it. it's mainly a discussion of gender in possession/occult films in the same way that carol clover describes in men, women, and chainsaws - that there are dual plot lines in occult films, usually gendered masculine and feminine respectively, where the "main" feminine plot (the actual possession) is actually a way to explore the "real" masculine plot (the emotional conflict of the "man in crisis" protagonist). typically the man in crisis is too masculine, or "closed" emotionally, where the woman is too "open," which is why she acts as the vehicle for the supernatural occurrence as well as the core emotions of the film. the man has to learn how to become more open (though if he becomes too open, like father karras in the exorcist, he has to die by the end - he has to find a happy medium, where he doesn't actually transgress gender expectations too much. clover calls this state the "new masculine," and we might apply the term "toxic masculinity" to the "closed" emotional state). part of the "opening up" feature of the story is that it allows men to be highly emotionally expressive in situations where they otherwise might not be allowed to, which is cathartic for the assumed primary audience of these films (young men). another feature of the genre is white science vs black magic (once you exhaust the scientific "rational" explanations, you have to accept that something magic is happening). the autopsy of jane doe does this even more than the films she discusses when she published the book in 1992 (the exorcist, poltergeist, christine, etc) because the supernaturally influenced young woman who becomes this kind of vehicle is more of an object than a character. she doesn't have a single line of dialogue or even blink for the entire runtime of the movie. the camerawork often pans to her as if to show her reactions to the events of the movie, which seems kind of pointless because it's the same reaction the whole time (none) but it allows the viewer to project anything they want onto her - from personal suffering to cunning and spite. 

compare again to the exorcist: is the story actually about regan mcneil? no. but do we care about her? sure (clover says no, but i think we at least feel for her situation lol). and do we get an idea of what she's like as a person? yes. even though her pain and her body are used narratively as a framework for karras' emotional/religious crisis, we at least see her as a person. both she and her mother are expendable to the "real" plot but they're very active in their roles in the "main" plot - our "jane doe" isn't afforded even that level of agency or identity. so. is that inherently sexist? well, no - if there were other women in the film who were part of the "real" plot, i would say that the presence of women with agency and identity demonstrate enough regard for the personhood of women to make the gender of the subject of the autopsy irrelevant. but there are none. of the three important women in the film, we have 1) an almost corpse, 2) an absent (dead) mother, and 3) a one dimensional girlfriend who is killed off for a man's character development/cathartic expression of emotions. all three are just platforms for the men in crisis of this narrative. 

and, to my surprise, much of the reception to the film is to embrace it as a feminist story because the witch is misconstrued as a badass, powerful, Strong Female Character girl boss type for getting revenge on the men who wronged her, with absolutely no consideration given to what the movie actually ends up saying about women. and the director has said that he embraces this interpretation, but never intended it. so like. of course you're going to embrace the interpretation that gives you critical acclaim and the moral high ground. but it's so fucking clear that it was never his intention to say anything about feminism, or women in general, or gender at all. so i find it very frustrating that people read the film that way because it's just. objectively wrong.

there's also things i want to say about this idea that clover talks about in a different chapter of the book when she discusses the country/city divide in a lot of horror (especially rape-revenge films) in which the writer intends the audience to identify with the city characters and be against the country characters (think of, like, house of 1000 corpses - there's pretty explicit socioeconomic regional tension between the evil country residents and the travelers from the city) but first, they have to address the real harm that the City (as a whole) has inflicted upon the Country (usually in the forms of environmental and economic destruction) so in order to justify the antagonization the country people are characterized by, their "retaliation" for these wrongs has to be so extreme and misdirected that we identify with the city people by default (if country men feel victimized by the City and react by attacking a city woman who isn't complicit in the crimes of the City in any of the violent, heinous ways horror movies employ, of course we won't sympathize with them). why am i bringing this up? well, clover says this idea is actually borrowed from the western genre, where native americans are the Villains even as white settlers commit genocide - so they characterize them as extremely savage and violent in order to justify violence against them (in fiction and in real life). the idea is to address the suffering of the Other and delegitimize it through extreme negative characterization (often, with both the people from the country and native americans, through negative stereotyping as well as their actions). so i think that shows how this idea is transferred between different genres and whatever group of people the writers want the viewers to be against, and in this movie it’s happening on the axis of gender instead of race, region, or class. obviously the victims of the salem witch trials suffered extreme injustice and physical violence (especially in the film as victim of the ritual the body clearly underwent) BUT by retaliating for the wrongs done to her, apparently (according to the main characters) at random, she's characterized as monstrous and dangerous and spiteful. her revenge is unjustified because it’s not targeted at the people who actually committed violence against her. they say that the ritual created the very thing it was trying to destroy - i.e. an evil witch. she becomes the thing we're supposed to be afraid of, not someone we’re supposed to sympathize with. she’s othered by this framework, not supported by it, so even if she’s afforded some power through her posthumous magical abilities, we the viewer are not supposed to root for her. if the viewer does sympathize with her, it’s in spite of the writing, not because of it. the main characters who we are intended to identify with feel only shallow sympathy for her, if any - even when they realize they’ve been cutting open a living person, they express shock and revulsion, but not regret. in fact, they go back and scalp her and take out her brain. after realizing that she’s alive! we’re intended to see this as an acceptable retaliation against the witch, not an act of extreme cruelty or at the very least a stupid idea lol. 

(also - i hate how much of a buzzword salem is in movies like this lol, nothing about her injuries or the story they “read” on her is even remotely similar to what happened in salem, except for the time period. i know they don’t explicitly say oh yeah, she was definitely from salem, but her injuries really aren’t characteristic of american executions of witches at all so i wish they hadn’t muddied the water by trying to point to an actual historical event. especially since i think the connotation of “witch” and the victims of witch trials has taken on a modern projection of feminism that doesn’t really make sense under any scrutiny. anyway)

not to mention the ending: what was the writer intending the audience to get from the ending? that the cycle of violence continues, and the witch’s revenge will move on and repeat the same violence in the next place, wherever she ends up. we’re supposed to feel bad for whoever her next victims will be. but what about her? i think the movie figures her maybe as triumphant, but she’s going to keep being passed around from morgue to morgue, and she’s going to be vivisected again and again, with no way to communicate her pain or her story. the framework of the story doesn’t allow for this ending to be tragic for her, though - clearly the tragedy lies with the father and son, finally having opened up to one another, unfortunately too late, and dying early, unjust deaths at the hands of this unknowable malignant entity. it doesn’t do justice to her (or the girlfriend, who seems to be nothing but collateral damage in all of this - in the ending sequence, when the police finds the carnage, it only shows them finding the bodies of the men. the girlfriend is as irrelevant to the conclusion as she is to the rest of the plot). 

but does this mean the autopsy of jane doe is a “bad” movie? i guess it depends on your perspective. ultimately, it’s one of those questions that i find myself asking when faced with certain kinds of stories that inevitably crop up often in our media: how much can we excuse a story for upholding regressive social norms (even unintentionally) before we have to discount the whole work? i don’t think the autopsy of jane doe warrants complete rejection for being “problematic” but i think the critical acclaim based on the idea that it’s a feminist film should be rejected. i still consider it a very interesting concept with strong acting and a lot of visual appeal, and it’s a very good piece of atmospheric horror. it’s does get a bit boring at certain points, but the core of the film is solid. it’s also not trying to be sexist, arguably it’s not overtly sexist at all, it’s just very very androcentric at the expense of its female characters, and i’m genuinely shocked that anyone would call it feminist. so sure, let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water, but let’s also be critical about how it’s using women as the stage for men’s emotional conflict 

also re: my description of this little project as “a film isn’t feminist just because there’s a woman’s name in the title” - i actually don’t want to skim over the fact that “jane doe” isn’t a real name. of the three women in the film, only one has a real name; the other two are referred to by names given to them by men. i’ll conclude on this note because i want to emphasize the lack of even very basic ways of recognizing individual identity afforded to women in this film. so yeah! the end! thanks for your consideration if you read this far! 

[camillemontespan]

her one constant [part fourteen: the human shield] [drake the bodyguard AU]

Master List

Warnings: Mention of blood/violence

A/N: Hey guys. I’m sorry for taking ages to write this chapter. Some of you know that I’ve been going through a shit time right now and writing hasn’t exactly been top of my priorities. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I guess I just want to roll up into a blanket and do nothing. 

I didn’t want to post this until I was 100% happy with it because you deserve a well thought out chapter, not just a shit post. I hope you enjoy this. I’ve got about 2/3 chapters left of this to write. Thank you to everyone who has commented and enjoyed. Your feedback means a lot.

I also see that I’ve lost some followers recently - all good, I’m not mad. But I have been posting a lot of BTS/Jimin content instead of Choices stuff, so that alienates a lot of my followers. Sorry if all the BTS content is annoying - I’m finding that they are helping me calm down. Something about Jimin’s smile makes me feel better. But as a result, my blog is now a hot mess. 

@ibldw-main​​​​​​​ @jovialyouthmusic​​​​​​​ @katedrakeohd​​​​​​​ @moonlightgem7​​​​​​​ @pug-bitch​​​​​​​ @princessleac1​​​​​​​ @burnsoslow​​​​​​​ @notoriouscs​​​​​​​ @dcbbw​​​​​​​ @saivilo​​​​​​​ @rainbowsinthestorm​​​​​​​ @marshmallowsandfire​​​​​​​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​​​​​​​ @gardeningourmet​​​​​​​ @kingliam2019​​​​​ @nomadics-stuff​​​​​ @kimmiedoo5​ ****************************************

Lou had his hand wrapped tightly around Olivia’s arm as he dragged her through the chaos of the ballroom.

‘Let me go!’ she shouted. ‘I can handle them myself, I’m armed!’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Lou said fiercely. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’

Olivia let out an exasperated shriek but Lou ignored her, pulling her through the crowds. He knew Olivia was fierce and could look after herself; but he wished she would let him protect her without objection. All Lou wanted was to keep her safe and give her no reason to use her favourite dagger. 

His eyes scanned the room for any more threats. 

He saw the Duchess of Valtoria on the floor. He couldn’t see Drake.

Lou changed direction and raced towards her, his hand still gripping Olivia’s arm. ‘Lou, the exit is that way!’ Olivia protested. 

‘Give me a minute!’ Lou said. 

The two of them reached Camille. Lou noted with horror that while she was on her knees, Drake lay in a crumpled heap beneath her.  She was protecting Drake from the carnage around them, bent over him with her arms on either side of his body, cradling him close. She blocked Drake from view, keeping him safe, like a lioness protecting her cub.

Camille was a human shield. 

****************************

‘Drake, stay with me!’ Camille begged, keeping her body over his. ‘Stay with me!’ 

Tears were blinding her vision as she pressed down on the bullet wound embedded in his shoulder, trying to stop him from losing even more blood. Blood was everywhere; on his shirt; on his neck; on the floor; on her hands; on her silk dress. Camille’s hands shook as she tried to work out what to do. She pushed her hair back, not caring that Drake’s blood was now streaked across her forehead. 

Drake’s face was ashen. He was looking up at her with heavy, drooping eyes and breaths pulled from his throat, breaths that were ragged and strangled. 

Camille let out a sob. Everything had been so good, everything was working out.. when Drake had jumped in front of the bullet, all that was good in the world shattered. 

All she could hear was screaming, shooting and Drake’s strangled breaths. She could feel her throat constrict and her heart pound in her chest as she tried to make sense of what was happening. 

Breathe. Breathe. 

Another assassination attempt in the same ballroom. Another experience that Camille would wear like bruised and damaged armour. Another reason to feel fear. Another reason to feel vulnerable. 

But as she looked down at Drake’s ashen face, she felt fire in her heart and she knew that she would have to stay strong for him. Camille held him close as she promised herself that she would never let him go. 

‘Camille..’ Drake croaked.

‘It’s okay,’ Camille said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s gonna be okay. I’m keeping you safe-’

‘Camille!’

Camille looked up to see Lou and Olivia standing above her. Lou was staring down at her in shock while Olivia’s eyes, usually hard and narrow, softened as she took in the scene before her. 

‘H-He got shot,’ Camille stammered. ‘He jumped in front of the bullet to protect me-’

‘Shh, it’s okay,’ Lou soothed her, crouching down. ‘I can help. I’ll get him off the ground.’

Lou reached out to get Drake off the floor. ‘Don’t hurt him!’ Camille screamed, her voice hysterical. ‘Be careful!’

‘Olivia, take the Duchess,’ Lou said firmly. ‘Camille, Drake is gonna be okay-’

‘But what if he loses a lot of blood?’ Camille sobbed. ‘Or he- he dies-’

She looked down at Drake as the reality of a life without him - literally- flooded her thoughts. Her hands clenched his bloodsoaked shirt, unwilling to let go. She couldn’t let him go. 

‘Camille, let go..’ Lou murmured, his green eyes meeting hers. ‘I’ve got him.’

Camille felt soft hands take her by the arm, guiding her to her feet with some resistance from Camille herself. ‘No, no!’ she pleaded, reaching out to try and grasp Drake by the hands. She was pulled back gently by Olivia. 

‘Why are you helping me?’ Camille whispered. 

‘Because you look like you’ve lost the only thing that mattered,’ Olivia said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this place.’

Camille let Olivia pull her through the ballroom, looking back over her shoulder to check that Drake was safe. He was; Lou was holding him up as Drake lolled against him. Nobles were running to all exits, screaming and crying. But all Camille could focus on was Drake.

***************************

Lou helped Drake into Olivia’s towncar. Camille clambered in beside him, refusing to leave Drake’s side. Olivia sat on the other side of Camille, instructing her driver to move as quickly as possible. 

‘We’ll go to my place,’ Lou said. ‘Nobody will know to look there if they are trying to target nobles.’

Drake’s head lolled against Camille’s neck. Camille swallowed and pressed her hand against his cheek, willing him to be alright. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to look at her. ‘Camille..’ he croaked. ‘Are you okay?’

Her heart cracked into two as she realised that even now, Drake was worried for her safety. Of course he was. He always put her first. 

‘Forget me,’ she whispered. ‘We have to focus on you.’

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘Olivia’s car,’ Camille told him. ‘Lou is taking us to his place.’

‘Fucking Olivia…’ Drake groaned. 

‘Careful, bodyguard..’ Olivia said, her voice like ice. ‘Or I’ll inflict another wound on you.’

Camille’s head whipped around so she faced Olivia. Her eyes were filled with fire. Drake’s blood had dried on her forehead and her hair was knotted down her shoulders. She looked a far cry from the usual elegant and sleek Camille that had been paraded around court all these months. Olivia drew back, realising that this Camille Montespan, the American commoner who she viewed as being weak, was anything but. 

‘Don’t you dare threaten him,’ Camille hissed. She turned back to Drake, stroking his cheek. Her fiery eyes softened, turning tender as she focused on the bodyguard.  Olivia’s eyes met Lou’s in the car mirror. His eyes reflected the same look as Camille’s. 

Olivia quickly looked away.

******************

The group arrived at Lou’s apartment. Camille helped Lou guide Drake up the three flights of stairs to his front door while Olivia checked the news on her phone for any updates. 

Unrest had broken out through Cordonia. The assassins were unknown but it seemed that they were anti-monarchists. They had encouraged terror to roam the streets, with buildings being set on fire and republicans leaving their homes to join in with the fray. 

At least Drake was out of the palace, Camille thought to herself. She helped Lou settle Drake down onto the couch in the living room while Olivia searched for a first aid box. She handed the box to Camille. 

Lou watched as Camille broke the box open. She grabbed at a bottle of alcohol and then unbuttoned Drake’s shirt. Her fingers were gentle on Drake’s skin and the love and loss in her eyes was palpable.

‘We’ll leave you two be,’ Lou muttered. ‘If you need anything, give us a shout.’

Lou and Olivia left the room.

**********************

Camille examined the bullet wound, trying to calm down. She cleaned the wound with the alcohol, causing Drake to let out a cry. 

'Take my hand and squeeze it,' Camille said softly. Drake winced as he reached out to take her hand. As Camille cleaned the wound some more, Drake gripped her hand with a steel-like grip. 

'There we go..' Camille whispered. 'Getting you all cleaned up.. Now to get the bullet out which I've never had to do before but let's not panic about that right now..' 

Her voice was trembling as she coached herself. Drake looked up at her with heavy eyes. 

'It's okay,' he murmured. 'Breathe.' 

A tear slid down Camille's cheek. She roughly wiped it away and looked through the first aid box for something to use to take the bullet out. She finally found tweezers. 

'This may hurt,' she said. 'Do you trust me?' 

Drake nodded, pressing his lips together in pain. 'I always trust you,' he croaked. 

Camille used the tweezers to locate the bullet. She tried to keep her hand steady as she worked. Drake's blood stained her skin but she didn't care. She had to help him. 

She gently pulled the bullet shard out of his skin. Drake let out a hiss but as his head fell back against the couch cushions, he felt relief. 

Camille washed the wound with alcohol again before finding a bandage to cover it. 

'You should be a nurse,' Drake said, breaking her concentration. 

Camille smiled weakly. 'My mom was a nurse.' 

Drake squeezed her hand. 'Clearly runs in the family.' 

Camille's eyes met his now. 'You saved my life,' she whispered. 'But.. I can't feel grateful because I nearly lost you.' 

Drake smiled weakly. 'It's my job to keep you safe. Don't worry about me.' 

Camille shook her head quickly and let out a sigh. Tears began to slide down her cheeks again. 'If I had lost you, Drake.. I don't know what I would have done. When you jumped in front of me, time stood still and all I could see was your body falling to the floor. I thought you'd been killed. I can't imagine -' 

She let out a choked sob and clapped her hand over her mouth as she tried to hold in her emotions. Drake leaned forward and cupped the back of her head with his hands. 

'I'm here,' he murmured. 'I've got you, kid. I'm alive and you're safe, that's what's important. Don't waste a moment thinking about what could have been.'

'But -' 

Drake closed his eyes and swallowed. 'When I saw the gunman aim his gun at you, I saw my life flash before my eyes. And that sounds ridiculous because surely, that feeling should only have been felt by you.'

Camille watched him as Drake opened his eyes again to meet hers. His expression was raw, searing and raw. Camille reached out to take his hands, trying to offer support. 

‘Before we left for the ball, I told you we needed to talk about us tonight,’ Drake said. ‘So damn it, that’s what we’re gonna do.’ 

Camille’s eyes widened as she sat back on her heels and waited to hear what Drake had to say.

'My life is you, Camille,' Drake whispered. ‘Before I met you, I was just a regular bodyguard. I worked hard but I didn’t do anything else. My life was dull. It had no meaning in it; I would wake up, protect my charge, eat, sleep, repeat. But ever since I became your bodyguard, you’ve made my life more meaningful. I look forward to waking up so I can see you. I like joking with you, I like playing Rock Paper Scissors in the car. I like our Book and Whiskey club and listening to you read your favourite passages from your books. But more than that, I’ve found myself starting to feel more. Before I met you, I was a loner. I didn’t have friends and I certainly didn’t date. But now, I’m different. You’ve changed me as a person. You.. you make me happy.’

‘Drake..’ Camille whispered.

‘When the gun pointed at you,’ Drake continued, keeping his voice steady, ‘I saw my life with you flash before my eyes. I saw every moment we have ever had together go through my mind like a highlight reel. I did my duty by jumping in front of the bullet, I know. But to be honest, duty didn’t even come into my mind when I did it. I jumped in front of the bullet because I love you. I don’t want to live my life without you. I refuse to live life without you by my side. I won’t do it.’

Camille’s eyes had filled with tears. She let out a deep breath and cast her eyes down to the floor. ‘You handed in your notice,’ she said quietly. ‘So you won’t be by my side for long.’

Drake swallowed hard, preparing himself for what he was going to do next. He looked at Camille for a long moment as she looked down at her hands. Her forehead was smeared with blood. Her silk dress was ruined. But she had protected him in the crossfire. She had tried to keep him safe. To Drake, Camille was the bravest and strongest woman he had ever encountered. 

He reached into his suit jacket and brought out the small velvet green box that had been hidden inside. He had wondered if Camille had felt it when her hands had been on his bullet wound but he realised that in the aftermath of the shooting, she would not have been in her right mind. Thank God. At least this would still be a surprise- a happy surprise, he hoped.

‘Camille.’

Camille sniffled and looked up. Drake gave her a smile and cleared his throat.

‘I want to be by your side forever, if you will have me,’ Drake murmured. ‘Not as your bodyguard. Not as your friend. But as your husband. But just know that I would still be all of those things for you. I’ll never stop protecting you.’ Before Camille could respond, Drake opened the box to reveal his grandmother’s topaz engagement ring. 

Camille clapped her hand across her mouth. ‘Drake!’

‘Will you marry me?’ Drake asked, trying to keep his pounding heart steady. 

Camille stared at the ring. Her hands were shaking and tears were forming in her eyes again as she considered his question. 

‘If you marry me, you’ll be a Duke..’ she croaked.

‘I don’t care if I’m a Duke or a bodyguard or a man with nothing,’ Drake said. ‘All I want is you.’

Camille closed her eyes as a smile broke out on her face and happy tears ran down her cheeks. Drake reached out to wipe the tears away, waiting for her answer. Camille opened her eyes and her gaze slid down to the beautiful ring that Drake was holding out for her.

‘Yes, I’ll marry you,’ Camille whispered. 

Drake’s eyes lit up and a wide smile spread on his face as he realised she was now his. He slid the ring onto Camille’s finger, relieved it fit her. He was about to reach out to kiss her but Camille beat him to it. She threw her arms around his neck and her lips crashed against his. 

'I'm never letting you go again,' Camille whispered, pulling herself away so she could speak into his ear. 

Drake chuckled. 'I should be saying that to you.' 

Camille pressed her hand on his cheek. The topaz stone of her engagement ring sparkled in the low light, glinting against Drake's skin. 

'Promise we'll never let each other go,' Camille said, her voice shaking. 'Promise me, Drake.' 

Drake's lips brushed hers gently. 'I promise,' he murmured. His fingers caught in her hair as he kissed her deep, moving down to move the straps of her silk dress so he could lean down to kiss her shoulder. 

Camille slowly pulled away and let her mouth roam down his neck, down his collar bone, until she reached the bandage over his bullet wound. 

She kissed the area around the bandage gently, close to the place where Drake took a bullet for her. 

Not because it was his duty but because he loved her.  

[outlaws-of-anarchy]

Tainted Love (Chapter 3)

Pairings:  Tig Trager x Reader, Herman Kozik x Reader

Warnings:  Love triangle, swearing

Words: 2100

--

“You’re a doll, always bailin’ me out.” Tig said softly, brushing his lips across Y/N’s cheek.

She could only lean into his familiar touch, before giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, I know. But you’re my favorite guy, so it’s only natural that I do.”  

“Come back to the clubhouse with me, I wanna make it up to you.” He said with a seductive growl.

Her lips slowly peeled back in a grin, knowing he always made good on his word. “I’ll meet you back there a little bit later, I got a few errands to run.”  

He hesitated briefly, a flash of concern lighting up in his eyes, but was soon brushed away. He straddled his chopper before landing a playful swat to Y/N’s ass. “Be safe babe, see ya later.” Tig revved his engine before taking off down the road.

It was one thing to “bail” Tig out of jail, but it was something else entirely to bail Kozik out. There was still so many things left unsaid to him, and in a sick way, she felt bad that he was locked up. Knowing, it was a majority of her fault. If he didn’t know her and Tig were a ‘thing’ than they would have never gotten into a fight.

Unser had been on SAMCRO’s payroll for many years, so it was easy to slip members in and out of their cells without too much speculation. However, Kozik wasn’t from Charming, and although he was a man of mayhem, he couldn’t be freed from jail without a hefty sum of bail money.

If she would have asked Jax for the money to do it, he would have without hesitation. They all saw one another as brothers, but she didn’t feel right going to the President of SAMCRO, asking for bail money to save her ex-boyfriend. Especially, if that meant Tig would find out.  

“It’s his first offense in this town, therefor the cost won’t be as much. However, if there is a repeat, he could face jail time or a larger fine.” Said one of the Deputy’s.  

Y/N merely nodded her head before handing her 800$ in cash, impatiently waiting for her to fetch Kozik.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

His anger had quickly faded the moment he was put in the back of a cruiser. However, the frustration, the betrayal still latched onto him like a leech. He never expected Y/N to wait around for him, but he also never thought she would move onto one of his own brothers. He especially never thought that Tig would submerge into a relationship with his ex, the woman who had been ole lady worthy.

“Kozik, your bail has been posted.” Said a guard.

“By who?” He replied curiously, but there was no response. Instead, the Deputy had unlocked the holding cell and allowed the outlaw to step out.

The time he had reached the lobby, he found Y/N sitting there, gaze directed to the window beside her. Rays of sunlight captured her in a golden halo, only enouncing her flawlessness. Did she bail him out? Why would she? Didn’t she hate him?  

His strides were slow, overly cautious as he approached her. The rattling of the chain that dangled from his jeans had caught her attention, eyes shooting to him almost immediately. In that moment, he froze, completely blown away by the woman he had left months ago. The woman he had tried desperately to forget but couldn’t. Who could ever forget a woman like her? No one, not even god himself.  

“Hey.” She greeted, eventually rising to her feet.

“Hey.” He repeated, carefully eying her with a questionable expression.

“Did you bail me out?” Kozik asked, hands shifting into the front pockets of his jeans.

He watched her run a hand through her hair tersely, it being one of her nervous ticks. He could spot it anywhere, but he also knew her better than anyone else. He knew she was unsure, and nervous about being around him. “Yeah, I did. I wanted to talk to you, we didn’t get to finish our conversation last night.” She said.

To say he was shocked, would be an understatement. He for sure thought she would just bail Tig out and continue on with life. So, to hear her say that she wanted to talk to him, made his hopes rise up. Hopes that she would take him back, hopes that they could start fresh.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

They stood feet apart, aimlessly walking down the main street of Charming’s quaint little center stone. It was a sunny morning, the heat of it pouring down on the back of their heads. She had said she wanted to talk, but for the last ten minutes all they had done was walk in silence. She couldn’t find the words she wanted to say to him, because his sudden reappearance had brought up old feelings, old love.

So, she started from the beginning. “When you left, you took a piece of my heart. A piece that you will forever own, and I hate to say that, to admit such weakness, but it’s true. I loved you in a way that terrified me, because I had never been so codependent on someone else before. I never needed or wanted someone so damn much, not like I did with you.”  

His blue eyes darted to her, comprehending everything she had to say.  

“But you were selfish, you only cared about yourself. You couldn’t handle a relationship, and while you lived in Tacoma, I had to patch myself up. I had to find a way to heal, and I did. I found Tig, and it wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did, but it has. While you own one half of my heart, he owns the other. You are my kryptonite and he’s my saving grace. And I feel so confused, so hurt, because I love you both so much.” There was a wavering to her voice, which made him tense and her gaze to focus ahead. Not wanting to expose anymore vulnerability than she had already.  

“You weren’t my first, but you were my first love. My first, true love. And Tig, he’s the second love of my life. You both live inside my chest, taking up space there and now that you’ve come back. I can’t think straight, I can’t. Because you’ve now taken space up in my head. You come back professing your love and the mistake you made in leaving me, expecting me to take you back.”  

His head hung low in regret, and she could only continue to keep that distance between them.

“Everything you said, I waited for a year, I waited everyday for you to come back and tell me how sorry you were, how much you loved me. But I’m not sure if I continue to love you cause’ you hurt me, or because I want something more from you. I don’t know, the pain you inflicted on me has become my drug. I’m addicted to it, but it’s not good for me.” She sighed softly, tears falling quietly down her cheeks.  

Kozik stopped walking and immediately gripped her bicep, causing her to stop as well. He forced her to look at him and when she did, they both felt that intoxicated love coming rip-roaring back to life.  

“I don’t know what it was about you that caught my eye. Maybe it was your wild hair, or your daring eyes, or the fact that you weren’t afraid to put anyone in their place, but something in you, made me gravitate towards you. From the moment I saw you walk into that bar, I’ve loved you and every day after. I made a mistake in leaving, and it’s one I’ll always regret. Because you are the only woman for me, I don’t want to be your kryptonite babe, I want to be your superman.” He said, his thumb stroking circles over her damp cheek.

She couldn’t help the free-roaming tears, or the utter adoration she had for Kozik. And all she could think about while looking at him is how much she wanted to kiss him. However, he seemed to have had read her mind because he was soon leaning down and placing a searing kiss across her plump lips. His hands roaming down the length of her body before encircling her waist.

And while two old lovers reunited, there was a man scorned across the street, staring idly from an ice cream parlor. Tig would never admit it, but he swore that day he could feel a bit of him die off.  

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

It had been two hours later when Y/N had returned to the club house. Kozik had taken a ride with Happy to Stockton State Prison to visit a member who had been locked up for years. There was an underlying guilt nestled in the pit of her stomach as she stepped through the club house doors. Mainly because she hadn’t only kissed Kozik but also had sex with him.

Shoes pattered against the floor as she made her back to Tig’s dorm, only wanting to hide beneath the sheets. However, when she entered the room, she was stunned to find him sitting on the edge of the bed. He lacked any visible facial expression, in fact he was so still and quiet that it unnerved her. Setting her bag down on the small table near the door, she’d frown. “Tig, what’s wrong?”

He remained silent, until he barked out a question that made her sick. “Did you fuck him?”  

And all she could do was play stupid, pretend that she hadn’t just been devoured by Kozik. “Who?”

In a flurry of rage, Tig was at his feet, tossing aside the wooden chair that was a few feet away from him. “Don’t play fucking stupid Y/N, you know god damn well who I’m talkin’ about.”  

She bit into her bottom lip to keep back a yelp, before taking a cowardice step back.  

Icy blue eyes darted to her, legs drawing him closer to her. “Answer me!” he growled.

“Yes! Okay! Yes! I did, I slept with him.” She cried, guilty and frustrated tears forming.

His face was only a few inches from hers, his gaze narrowed down at her while his upper lip quirked into a scowl. “You’re a dirty fuckin’ bitch.”  

His words were like a slap to the face, and in a sense, she couldn’t blame him for what he said, for what he thought. She had slept with her ex-boyfriend, while simultaneously screwing Tig on the side. Yet, she couldn’t deny how much his words broke her.

“Don’t call me that.” She mewled.  

Tig was soon cornering her against the wall, trapping her between his arms as his hands dug into the wallpaper. “That’s what you are.”

Hands formed into fists at her side, trying her hardest not to unleash on him. But it couldn’t be helped, because the way he was staring at her, made her realize that she was never priority in his life either. He was always fucking her, and other women as well, it was never her, it would never be just her.

“Says the man who fucks me, then an hour later goes and fucks someone else. Don’t you ever try to shame me for what I did, when you go out and do the same thing every day. You’re not better than me, and you’re not in my shoes, you don’t understand what I’m going through.” She snapped.

He scoffed before pulling away from her. “There differences between me and you doll, is that I only love one woman that I fuck, and I come home to her every night.”  

Tig was soon grabbing his kutte and stalking out of the dorm, slamming the door behind him.  

While she had waited for Kozik to admit his wrongs and come back, she had also been waiting for Tig’s confession of love.  

And when he had finally said it in the midst of the jumble, she could only feel the piece of her heart that belonged to him, cry out for its owner. Y/N slowly slid over to the bed where she sat on the edge, looking blankly at the floor as incoherent sobs shook her body.  

The one person who had been there for her, she had hurt. She had betrayed him so effortlessly, and now he was gone. All for the sake of a man who had left her broken and torn in the dust.

Chapter 4

[indiavolowetrust]

Carajillo II

SUMMARY: The sequel to Carajillo, which you can read here. A coup d'etat has been staged in the Celestial Realm. The human proposes a plan to halt the impending war.

Part One: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Part Two: Coming Soon!

Part Three: Coming Soon!

TW: Blood, Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Mention of Rape

PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE

Even in slumber her face is lined with worry. There is no end to her brooding, it seems. She whimpers softly against the pillow again and again, her cheeks stained with tears, and her frail body trembles with an overwhelming, oppressive fear. She should not suffer her inordinate sensitivity to the cold as she had in life, given her state as a soul, and still she shivers. Still she cries out in the long hours of the night, her psyche revealing the damage I had inflicted upon it. Her fingers curl against the sheets, searching for purchase. I slip my hand beneath hers, entwining her smaller fingers with mine.

I use my free hand to trace the soft angles of her face. Carving out the silhouette of her visage in the darkness. I have witnessed the image thousands of  times before -- the dark, doe-like eyes, olive skin, and pitch-black curls spilling over her shoulders -- and I can only hope to have the pleasure to witness the image thousands of times more. If she would have me.

I press my palm to her cheek, cradling the cold skin there. She sighs. Her eyelids begin to flutter, the clutches of her nightmare finally releasing her, and it is only moments before she regards me. She blinks, the vestiges of sleep clouding her perception. Her fear slowly but surely retreating back into her psyche.

And then she smiles.

“You don’t sleep,” she murmurs, nuzzling into my touch.

“Neither do you.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one that has to be up all day,” she counters, her tone languid. The shadows under her eyes would suggest that she has slept little as well, undoing the implications of her argument. “You’ll have about an hour or so, I think, if you go to sleep now. You should at least try.”

“Should I?” I ask.

“Of course you should.” She begins to turn away from me, adjusting her position in the bed, but I do not allow her to do so. Her eyes flicker to mine with slight annoyance. “Barbatos --”

I roll on top of her before she can finish, my arms caging her in. Already I can feel the sensation of my true form coming to light -- my horns rupture through the sides of my skull, my tail forms from the bottom of my spine, and my teeth lengthen, growing sharper with each increment. Maria stares at me for a moment, wide-eyed. All vestiges of sleep seem to have simply vanished from her conscience, her prior lethargy having succumbed to the realization of my intentions. My tail flicks away a stray curl at her brow.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, pressing my hardness against her. I can feel the outline of her folds through the thin fabric of her underwear, her channel already beginning to slaver with need. “I would be happy to explain, if you have a need for it.”

She furrows her brows. “It’s too early for this.”

“Your reaction seems to indicate otherwise.” My tail all but peels off the flimsy garment from her form, flinging it elsewhere in the room, and I lean down to her throat the nibble at the sensitive skin there. One of my teeth grazes against the delicate area, inciting a shiver to run through her body. “If I didn’t know any better,” I continue, planting small kisses along her throat and collarbone, “I would say you had anticipated this. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Don’t -- don’t tease me like that,” she says, biting her lip. She barely stifles a gasp as I latch onto one of her breasts through the fabric of the borrowed shirt, sucking aggressively at the flesh beneath. “Just hurry up.”

I meet her gaze, taking in the image of her lustful expression. “Why?”

“Because --”

She yelps in surprise as I place her thighs onto my shoulders. My mouth envelops her small clit, sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, and my tongue moves to drag itself languidly across the folds of her dripping gash. Five minutes and twenty-three seconds into the act, Maria’s soft moans and breathless sighs saturate the air of the bedroom. Intoxicating me. Seven minutes and forty seconds into the act, she is writhing beneath my assault, attempting to angle me just so to quicken the course of her release. I deny her. Ten minutes and two seconds into the act, pleading, quiet words depart from her mouth in a continuous stream, begging that I take her. Hopelessly, endlessly urging that I do so.

What am I but an instrument for her wishes? Who am I to deny the indulgence of her pleasure?

I need no other encouragement. It is only a moment before I position myself at her entrance, pressing against the soft, velvet folds -- and then I plunge myself into her, fully sheathing myself into her channel. Her name is a prayer on my lips, hanging in the space between the both of us. I do not allow it to remain as such. I press deeper into her, adjusting the angle of my thrusts. Wrapping my arms around her. She gasps, her body squirming in response to the sudden accommodation, and I make an effort to restrain myself. Even in death, it would appear that her body is too frail for me to treat with ultimate fervor.

I will not inflict pain on her again.

Her pupils are unfocused in the dark, the barest of a wince coming over her features. It takes thirty-eight seconds for it to cease. It takes ten seconds for me to convince myself that I am not harming her with the act. It is only then that I begin to shift myself in and out of her, studying her expression with every movement. The impulse to simply thrust into her with abandon is compelling, my own need threatening to overtake my actions -- but my control is much too strong to succumb to such things. My fear of tearing her apart again is even greater.

Her visage is awash with the light of the false moon when I position myself just above her once more, the illumination playing at her soft features. The everlasting darkness of the Devildom permeates the space around us, yes, but it is as there is a light that emanates from within her form. As if some shard of the false moon had lodged itself within her, her frail body chosen as its bearer. I am only fortunate enough to gaze upon it.

It is a soft, quiet copulation. This time, I do not take anything from her. Instead, I give and give and give until there is no more of myself to offer. I listen to every whispered plea, every undulation of her form, every soft word that escapes her lips. After what I had done -- after the horrifying realization that she had been aware of my actions -- I cannot bring myself to treat her in such a manner again. I have locked away that selfish, more desperate part of myself, caging in the dark thoughts. I have long swallowed the key, if only for her sake.

“Why did you do it?” she asks. Her voice is oddly resonant. Distorted. “I don’t understand.”

“For you,” I respond, pressing small kisses to her throat. “I did everything for you.”

I feel her shake her head, the bare skin pressed to mine suddenly moistened with tears. “No. No, no, not that. How could you do it? How could you let it happen?”

I draw back from her form to regard her, lifting a finger to wipe away her tears. Preparing to dash away whatever sadness or fatigue has befallen her. The false moonlight spills over her small form once more.

She is not crying.

Her throat erupts with that horrible, vivid crimson, the sheets beneath her becoming stained with the liquid. Blood drips freely from her mouth as she chokes, wheezing gasps escaping from her lips. I watch with horror as the blood encapsulates my own hands, holding me in place as the hue travels up the contours of my body. In moments there is nothing but that violent crimson visible in the space around us, drowning me in the screaming, intense hue. Forcing me to gaze upon her.

There is almost nothing but pure, unbridled hatred in her expression. Blinding rage. Yet amongst the anger, the disgust, there is also the hint of pity. Blood spills from her mouth when she speaks once more, the iron suffusing the air.

“How could you let me so suffer so many times?” she cries. “I felt it! I felt everything! How could you be so selfish? Why couldn’t you just let me die? I hate you!”

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

The room shatters, the shards of the windowpane skewering through both her body and mine. I try to look away, to tear my eyes away from this being that cannot possibly be her -- but some unseen force holds my skull in its vice-like grip. I am forced to stare at the deserved wrath that lies in her gaze as my limbs are torn away from my body, the flesh ravaged by some beast that lies in the blood. Devouring me. My bones crush easily within its jaws, my skull cracking beneath the force. I cannot fight the entity.

There is only the dark, seething wrath in her eyes as she immolates me. Even when there is nothing left of me, my bones crushed to dust and my flesh stripped from my body, I can feel the weight of her hatred.

* * *

My heart threatens to burst from my chest when I finally awaken, a trickle of cold sweat running down the nape of my neck. The vestiges of the nightmare still cling to my conscience, even moments after, and I find myself scanning the darkness of the room for any signs of danger. Any hint of that violent, horrible crimson. My gaze flickers around the corners of the sparsely decorated room, searching. But there is nothing of the sort to be found. My desk and nightstand lie bare, the doors of my wardrobe fully closed. The grandfather clock ticks distinctly at the end of the room, the reverberation joined by its fellow timepieces, and my waistcoat is folded neatly on my chair. Everything is just as I had left it.

The guilt is eating me alive.

I glance at the grandfather clock, despite the lack of a need to do so. My body has allowed me to rest for six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds, and so it should be six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds past midnight. Five hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until noon. As such, it would be exactly three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until the meeting between Maria, Lord Diavolo, and the seven figureheads of the Devildom. If I start to prepare myself now, I should be able to attend to her in exactly thirty minutes.

In conclusion, I would be five minutes late.

My work uniform is folded neatly on my chair, my shoes lined up neatly at the base of it. It is five minutes before I force myself away from the bed -- ensuring I would be exactly thirty-five minutes late -- and thirty minutes for me to prepare for the work day.

[seungminty]

For Granted pt.2 // Jisung

eeeeshgetit

Genre: even angstier than the first one if that’s possible (eventual fluff !!)

Words: 2.3k

part 1

“One medium caramel latte to go?” I shouted, my throat beginning to feel slightly raw from shouting these continuous orders. It had been a long shift, on a long day, in a long week. 3 sneaky coffees later and I was still struggling to keep my eyes open. Today had been especially busy, with everyone from families with screaming children, to giddy schoolgirls, to loved-up couples, to quiet workers spending time in the tiny cafe. Luckily, with only 10 minutes until closing, all the hustle and bustle had finally died down. 

After promising my manager that I’d close up, I began wiping down the machines, but not before spotting a kid in the corner with his hood up. His back was to me, but from the proximity of his face to his screen and the quick rate of his typing, I could just imagine the look of concentration on his face. My thoughts were confirmed as I watched him inch closer to his screen, completely oblivious to the coffee mug that was already precariously perched on the edge of the table. 

I smiled slightly, finding the scene endearing. 

I soon stopped smiling when I realised the reason why. 

He reminded of me of Jisung.

It had been a few months since the break-up, but I still found that unavoidable sting in my heart whenever I thought of him. He was always there, even throughout the harder times of our relationship. That night, I quickly realised that I’d never felt more alone. 

There was no doubt that Jisung had left a hole where my heart once lived, but now, after weeks of tears and anger and ice cream, I could finally say that the hole was beginning to heal. 

I hadn’t heard anything from Jisung, so I quickly assumed that he was ok. In fact, he was probably happy that he could finally work in peace. I shook my head, trying to stop thinking about that dreadful night. I tried seeking a distraction, but luckily, the hooded figure provided one for me. 

There was a loud crash and a surprisingly high pitched screech, followed by a string of curse words. Without even looking, I knew what had happened. I quickly grabbed the mop and made my way over, trying to suppress a laugh.

“I guess I should’ve said something about your coffee cup earlier, but you looked so in the zone and I didn’t want t-” The words died in my mouth and my heart plummeted straight down to my stomach.

There in front of me, dishevelled and sleep-deprived but beautiful as ever, was Jisung.

One look in those damn eyes and I felt all the happiness and hurt he caused rush through me all at once. I couldn’t bring myself to look away, my heart pounding even faster when I realised that he was staring right back.

“Y/n...” My name felt strange and soft coming from his lips, and it made my head spin so much that I was finally pulled from my trance. 

“I’ll uh... I’ll just tidy this up, yeah...” I mumbled awkwardly, grabbing my mop which had fallen limply to the floor and beginning to clean up the mess as best as my shaky hands would allow. 

Jisung continues to just stare at me, and I found the similarity in his dumbfounded expression to the last time I saw him almost comical. Almost.

As I began to pick up the rogue pieces of the mug from the floor, my mind raced with a million questions.

How did I not see him earlier?

He must’ve come in when I was on break.

Is he ok? He looks tired.

He’s probably in the middle of writing an album. Not like its any of my business anyway.

Why was he here, of all places?

That one, I had no answer to.

Jisung, who had remained silent for a long few minutes, seemed to read my mind at this point. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to my cup. I’ve just had the worst writer's block for so long and even being near you always gave me inspiration. And I guess I just wanted, wanted to see you? I don’t know. God, that-that sounded way less creepy and stalkery in my head, fuck, sorry. I mean, I miss you, I get that it’s over and I’m in no way trying to pressure you or-” I stood up abruptly, cutting off this rambling. I stared at him for a few more seconds, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes and debating whether to break down or scream bloody murder at him.

Instead, I decided to whisper meekly,

“I’ll go get you another coffee.”

I trudged back behind the counter, leaving a still dazed Jisung to trail behind me. 

There were a few moments of silence, while I made his latte, with Jisung watching my every move.

“I’ll get you one.” He blurted out suddenly, startling both of us and leaving me slightly confused.

“I-I mean, I’ll pay for two coffees, and maybe.. maybe we could drink them together? And talk?”

I blinked in shock. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to say no, to make his damn latte and get the hell out of there before he caused me any more pain.

And yet, I nodded.

Jisung was nothing if not my best friend. This was a fact that had made our breakup even harder than it should be. There was not only a Jisung shaped hole in my heart, but he was also suddenly missing from so many parts of my life, too. It took almost a month for me to stop instinctively reaching to text Jisung when I got a test result or when new college drama started.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jisung nod slightly in return, ears tinting pink as he struggled to bite back a smile. My stomach did flips at his adorableness and I soon felt a blush creeping onto my cheeks too. 

A few minutes later, we were sitting across from each other, cups of steaming coffee in front of us, in complete silence. Silence had become such a prominent part of our meeting recently, and it was driving me crazy.

“So how are you?” We said at the same time, causing both of us to tinge pink.

“Uhm, I’m good, the term is ending soon and I got the final results I wanted,” I said, inwardly cringing at the politeness in my statement.

I continued rambling on about college, the awkwardness in my words slowly diminishing. I was so caught up in telling him about my ridiculously incompetent lab partner, that I didn't notice Jisung’s soft smile as he looked at me with eyes full of love. I never saw the heartbreak those eyes were hiding, or how his hands were constantly fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie, terrified that he would mess up again and lose this tiny piece of heaven he held right now. I didn’t know that he had missed me so much he was sometimes incapable of getting up in the mornings, and I had no idea about the number of times Jisung walked past the tiny cafe, hoping to catch a glimpse of the smile that he used to see every day. He’d waited for almost 30 minutes in the cold street outside the cafe that morning, pacing up and down like a damn crazy person, trying to rack up the courage and some sort of plan before walking in. He was still in shock. Y/n was right there. In front of him. Chatting away like a long lost friend. Jisung couldn’t believe his luck. Even after all he had done, everything he’d fucked up over and over again, he got to sit here and have a damn a catch-up.

“So how are the boys?” I asked, suddenly embarrassed when I realised that I’d talked for at least 15 minutes straight. 

Jisung took a second to answer, still slightly dazed.

“Oh, uh... they’re fine. Tired as usual, but I guess that’s normal now. They miss you, ya know.” 

He hesitated, before mumbling so quietly I shouldn't have been able to hear it. But I did.

“I miss you.”

At those words, I felt my world explode with fireworks and come crashing down at the same time. 

I was silent now, and Jisung was avoiding my gaze by staring at the now rather lukewarm coffee in front of him.

“Jisung, you know that’s not really fair...” was all I could muster up, using all my energy to keep the tears from falling.

“I know, I know I don’t even deserve to have a coffee with you, but please believe me when I say that this has been the worst 47 days of my life. I treated you like shit, and you’re clearly better off without me, and yet and I can't help but be selfish and ask for another chance. A chance to treat you right, to treat you like the princess you are and I swear, fuck I swear y/n, if you say yes you’ll never want after anything ever again, I would take care of you forever, I promise angel.” By the end of his speech, his voice held a desperation so strong that it physically pained me to hear. He looked so truly broken. It took everything in me not to wipe away his tears and forgive him instantly. 

But hey, when is life ever that simple?

I sighed, choosing my next words carefully, feebly trying not to add to the pain that had already been inflicted on both of us.

“I’m sorry Jisung, b-but I don’t think I could do this again. Even with the best will in the world, you’re still an idol and you’re still busy as hell, and I still can’t cope with the pressures that brings. Who knows, maybe things could’ve been different in another life, but one thing I know for sure is that there’s no way I'm letting you comprise your dream for anything, especially me.” There was a slight ferocity in my words, which seemed to hurt Jisung, but I knew I needed to be firm if we were ever to move forward.

“But I-I don’t care about any of that! I would do anything for you y/n, my schedule doesn’t matter, because we love each other, right? Tha-that’s what you said right before my debut, you said that love always found a way.”

He hesitated.

“You do love me... right?” 

There was fear in his eyes, which shocked me greatly. How could I ever not love him? Even after everything, he was still the best person I had ever met.

“Of course, of course, I do, but it was naive of me to say that, I guess I didn't know just how cruel and lonely the world could be. But know that I forgive you, Ji, and I want you to be hap-”

“Don’t do that.” He blurted out, causing me to frown at the dark tone of his voice. He continued.

“Don’t call me Ji. That was our thing, and it makes me feel like, like we’re still together, or something, like your still mine...” He trailed off, the crack in his voice only deepening the crack in my heart. 

I sighed. The mention of our relationship did nothing to help the tears that were slowly beginning to fall from behind my eyes. 

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you with my heart again, Jisung.”

It was a simple statement, but it crushed Jisung entirely. That was just it, he could give all the love he had now, but the past was set in stone, and try as he might, he could never erase the damage he'd done. 

There was nothing left to do now but go our separate ways. We silently put our coffee in the bin, Jisung only speaking to say that he’d walk me to the bus stop, and at this point, I was too heartbroken to argue. 

The silence continued at the bus stop as we waited. That was when I decided to be spontaneous for the first time in my life.

I stuck my hand out towards him, Jisung looked at it, startled, and then at me, eyebrow raised to demand an explanation.

“A fresh start. Let’s have a fresh start. I may not be able to give you my heart yet, but I didn't say anything about not being able to text you my college drama.”

At my words, Jisung’s heart leapt for joy. It sank only briefly, knowing that our new relationship probably wouldn’t involve cuddles and kisses, but fuck was it still more than he ever deserved.

Jisung cracked a small smile, before reaching to shake my still outstretched hand.

“Friends, yeah, I would love to do that, y/n.” I smiled in return at the cheesy gesture.

“Great, well, I’m y/n, nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Jisung, and it’s a pleasure.”

Jisung felt his heart swell. He had his heaven back, and he sure as hell could get used to it.

 FIN

....ok so I might have lied about the fluffy ending 

[ralfstrashcan]

Violence in Fiction

When I don't like something in a TV show it's most likely the way violence caused by the protagonists is dealt with. There are different ways in which that can happen and I'm just gonna explain some by examples, namely Sherlock, Teen Wolf and Shadowhunters.

1) Skirting violence (Sherlock)

This is a good method to avoid having to address violence in any way, at least in theory. Until there is one measly scene containing violence and to keep the balance it's not touched on at all and so things get... really weird.

Taking a look at the first two Seasons of Sherlock and ignoring minor brawlings Sherlock and John get themselves into, there is one scene standing out: In the first episode, where John shoots the Cabbie and Sherlock 'questions' him while he's taking his last breaths. The first part is still mostly okay because it is talked about. It is clear that John has killed people in the past and knows how to handle that, Sherlock asks him if he's alright (so it's made clear that shooting someone is something that potentially leaves traces on a person's mental health) and John answers that the Cabbie wasn't a very nice man. And yeah, I get it, he was a serial killer that killed people through sick mind games to fund the college career of his kids and get a personal kick out of it, but the situation in which John shot him wasn't one of imminent danger, at least not because of the Cabbie. He actually shot the Cabbie because Sherlock was about to take the (only potentially) deadly pill because of his own ego and stupidity, not because the Cabbie forced him or posed any kind of threat to him. So wasn't it a little unjust? Even a serial killer deserves a trial, right? Of course it could be argued that John didn't see all that from his tiny little window, and this part of the scene isn't even what I want to focus on. I just thought I'd mention it along the way.

The real uncomfortable part begins after the Cabbie is shot. Sherlock wants answers, preferably fast before the Cabbie goes west, and so he steps onto his shot shoulder to give him a li'l incentive to spill. And this is.. problematic. Because, you know, torture. Deliberately inflicting pain on a dying person. Not cool. And yeeeaaah, Sherlock is really harsh most of the time and unnecessarily insensitive, but this is crossing the line. And it's not addressed at all, which makes kind of sense, because Sherlock obviously has no qualms and John doesn't know it happened (?) and so it just sits there, uncommented. I always feel really awkward watching that scene because it seems so out of place amidst the other relatively violence-free episodes of S1 and S2.

In S3 and S4 the general tone of the series changes and so the violence when it occurs (Mary shooting Sherlock, Sherlock shooting Magnussen, Eurus killing people whenever) doesn't seem so out of place like that one scene in the first Season did.

2) No real or asymmetrical consequences of violence (Teen Wolf)

Two things, real quick:

i) Everyone should be a lot more traumatized than they actually are. The only person(s) to show any kind of reaction to all the gore are Stiles and occasionally Lydia (and the Sheriff, but the Sheriff is mostly exasperated so it doesn't really count).

ii) I feel like the thing that has impacted Stiles the most so far (I still haven't seen 6B, but since Stiles only has a minor role in this (</3!!!!!!!!!) I don’t think it will really change anything) was the thing with Donovan in S5 and I felt like ???????? shouldn't the whole Nogitsune thing have been way way worse for him??????? I mean okay, in S5 he was actually in control, except he wasn't because it was an accident, but yeah yeah yeah, I get it that it's hard to comprehend and knowing something rationally isn't the same as feeling it to be true emotionally. Still. That was one person that died. While attempting to kill him, mind you. In S3 the Nogitsune killed, like, a lot of people and Stiles, being possessed, didn't only have a front row seat, he also felt his elated emotions while killing them. And the whole thing went on for weeks. That's gotta be worse, right?!

I felt like Stiles acting weird and keeping secrets from Scott in S5 was used as a plot device so Theo could sneak his way inside Scott's head while after S3 there was no time to deal with Stiles-Trauma, so in S4 he was mostly back to normal.... except for that one scene with Malia in the basement, the “Control is overrated”-Scene (which I still don't get by the way, so feel free to explain that to me anytime).

3) Inconsistent reactions to violence (Shadowhunters)

This is probably the one that annoys me the most, because it's inconsistent. I freakin' hate inconsistency. Everything else can be forgiven, tropes, clichés, stupid lines, stupidity, even gaping holes in the logic, as long as it's freakin' consistent. It's why I have absolutely zero problems loving Teen Wolf to pieces, because that show has logic that is downright sketchy at times, but that is a constant, so it's alright. (Except for maybe S4, that was really too much bullshit. But it was funny as hell, okay, so I didn't care. I enjoyed myself immensely watching it.) Anyway, back to my point. Shadowhunters and the way violence performed by the protagonists is dealt with.

There are different types of violence shown on-screen:  

a) Killing Demons

This one is really unproblematic, because demons are Creatures of Evil whose sole purpose of existence is to kill or injure innocent bystanders. Also they are no highly developed creatures and look like really nasty vermin (or at least most of them do, except for 1x01 where all demons where human-shaped and human-looking but I'm putting that down to pilot-weirdness) so it's like killing a bug. It's also really convenient that 'killing' them doesn't really kill them but instead just sends them back to their home dimension where they dwell until the next rift opens. So, really, it's more like putting them in the jail of monopoly.  

b) Killing Downworlders

Eh, I'm sorry, what? Downworlders aren't killed on-screen by protagonists, only by Evil Circle Members! We all know that is Wrong and Bad!

Yeah well, mostly. Except for that one scene in S1 where Alec and Izzy slay Vampires like it's nothing. But let me start elsewhere.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Shadowhunters may or may not have racist tendencies and look down on Downworlders, yet there is that iffy little thing called The Accords that prevents them from harming them. In theory. It is also widely known that most Shadowhunters in higher ranks don't really give a shit about the Accords and feel like ignoring them whenever the mood strikes is totally okay. For example Aldertree torturing Raphael to get information. It's the same when Meliorn is to be brought into the City of Bones for questioning even though he could very well die in the process of said questioning. But, you know, he is evilly withholding information, so it's alright to break the Accords, because surely the Seelies will be too afraid to start a war with the Shadowhunters in retaliation, should anything happen. We all know how the story goes, Izzy 'goes rogue' and steals Meliorn before he reaches the City of Bones and because the Clave is full of shit they drop the charges for treason against her as soon as they get the Cup in their greedy little fingers. Really, you would think a trial for treason couldn't be ended so easily, but whatever. My point is, Izzy is very pro Downworlders for a Shadowhunter, right? In a society where, even though it's dictated by the Accords, being pro Downworlder is very frowned upon. Lydia even warns her to consider what she's saying when Izzy says, “You know what's insane? Thinking we have the right to treat a Downworlder's life as worthless” in 1x11 during her trial, neatly proving both my claims.

I think it's safe to say that Izzy doesn't have these views since yesterday but has had them for a long time, to withstand against a society that tries to teach her differently.

So why the hell does 1x03 happen?? Simon got kidnapped by the Vampires, so to steal him back Clary, Jace, Alec and Izzy break into the Hotel DuMort and Alec and Izzy are the distraction. Meaning they trigger the alarm and proceed to kill every Vampire that comes their way.

What. The. Hell.

I mean yeah, the Vampires did kidnap Simon, but collective punishment much? Who says the other Clan Members even knew what Camille was up to?? In fact we see Raphael and Camille disagree over this whole kidnapping, suggesting that this was Camille's idea alone and the rest of the Vampire Clan had no say in it at all. Of course the Shadowhunters don't know that, but that possibility should have crossed their minds, that's not too much to ask, right? Also, again, don't they deserve, like, a trial? And even if they don't, isn't killing tons of Vampires for one measly abduction where the hostage isn't even lastingly harmed a little excessive?

And yes, the Vampires did attack Alec and Izzy, but they were freakin' breaking into their home and flapping their seraph blades around. Did they expect to be asked to leave politely? What the hell?!

To be honest, from Alec I didn't reaaally expect more, because of the weird racism issue he has (in early episodes he says some super racist things about Downworlders and later it's never mentioned again and not really reflected in his behavior which I find super weird and annoying but that's a topic for another day) but Izzy, who stands out with her Downworlder-friendly attitude??? What was going on with her???

Of course one could argue here that they are just so hardened through all the demon-slaying, but honestly I don't believe that because demons are (mostly) mindless creatures whereas Vampires were real people at some point and still are in spirit if not in biology. Seriously.  

c) Killing other Shadowhunters (namely Circle Members)

And on with the killing of real people. Apparently Circle Members (CM from now on because I'm lazy) don't need a trial, fine. Apparently all the protagonists have absolutely no problem slaying fellow Shadowhunters, even though I believe that before S1 the Circle was officially dead and no more CM were running around and so the protagonists didn't have practice killing people. Izzy says in 1x04, “Before Clary got here, every day was the same. Go on a mission, kill demons. Go on a mission, kill demons.” Demons, not rogue CM. But of course that could have been for the easy parallelism, you know, to keep the sentences short. But I don't think that.

Anyway, even if we leave all this aside... shouldn't all that people killing leave, like, a slight uncomfortable feeling in anyone's gut? Because it really doesn't.

Again, one could argue that they are just hardened and used to all the violence and while I think that is a flawed argument (because I don't believe that killing is something you can get used to if you don't have a grave mental health issue) I will concede the point. For the Lightwoods.

What about Clary? She's been part of the Shadow World for like two weeks and she's joining in on the killing as if it's nothing. She goes from “Oh my god you killed her!!!!!111” in 1x01 to happily stabbing people in two seconds flat. What the hell, Clary.

That she might take to killing demons, okay, because blah blah primitive creatures blah blah. But everything else is just un-freakin-believable, if you ask me.

Of course I understand why this happens in all these shows. It's necessary. It's for the same reason that you don't show every meal the characters eat or every time they go to the toilet; it's obvious they do it at some point but nobody cares about that. If you focus all your screen-time on the mental health issues of the characters you never get to the fun parts like explosions and fights and stuff. I get that.

Still. Can't it be avoided?

Welllllll.

I have to admit, I have seen one TV show that really took the time to portray consequences of violence realistically, and that was Hannibal. In the first episode Will, who is labile on a good day, shoots someone in an entirely justifiable act of self-defense where he had absolutely no other choice than shooting that person or risk the life of an innocent bystander. And then he is traumatized for a while and the frequent visits to the psychiatrist of his misplaced trust don't really improve his situation, but my point is, he struggled with what he has done even though there were good reasons why he did it, there were long term consequences, and he is haunted even Seasons later by this, by his first time killing another person.

Now that is some nice handling of the consequences of violence.

Of course taking all that time on-screen to process his thoughts and feelings serves the plot, so there's that.

I guess what I'm saying is, I understand why it's done, this neglect of dealing with the fallout of violence, but on the other hand it still annoys me. Don't get me wrong, I love all the shows I mentioned and have re-watched them more than once and surely will again, but.

A grain of discontent stays.

[thinkyoureholy]

Your Name Remains The Same [2]

[a/n: ah I know y’all waited for this patiently and I didn’t want to make you wait any longer. I’m really excited for you guys to read this I have so many things planned aahh y’all aren’t ready. Imma stop rambling and let y’all get to it]

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[WARNING: This chapter does contain mentions of guns, a knife, and a self inflicted injury]

Pairing: Park Chanyeol/ [Fem] Reader

Genre: Angst, future fluff, maybe smut, some violence, Mafia! AU

Words: 1.9k

Pt 1. Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt 4. Pt 5. Pt 6. Pt 7. Pt 8. Pt 9. Pt 10. Pt 11. Pt 12. Pt 13. Pt 14. Pt 15.

Panting heavily I looked around the room, my throat sore from yelling after Chanyeol. I noticed no cameras in the room, taking this as my chance to break free from my restraints. Biting down on the inside of my cheek I sucked in a deep breath, groaning at the pain coming from my hand as I dislocated my thumb. Feeling a tear slide down my face at the pain, slipping my hand out of the bindings, popping the bone in my thumb back in place. The adrenaline rushing through my body made the pain a bit more bearable as I rushed to undo the rope around my ankles. Getting up I quickly but quietly made my way over to the desk, thinking that this had to be Chanyeol’s office. I sighed in relief when I saw the dagger in the drawer, looking over at the clock on the wall, cursing to myself as I realized I had to stall for awhile longer.

-3 Months Ago-

“Y/N, meeting in five.” One of my coworkers called out to me.

I got up from my seat with a sigh, stretching slightly before walking over to the meeting room. Once there I could see all the other big shots workers in the room, the best we had to offer in fact. Seeing them all in the same room let me know how serious this meeting was, our boss standing at the front of the room.

“I called you all here because you’re the best detectives we have at our disposal, the best of the best if you will.” He paused for a second, his eyes roaming over the room, “There’s been a rise in crimes over the past year or so as I’m sure most of you are aware of. It’s gotten more and more severe in the last few weeks, burglaries turning into homicides, kidnappings that end with victims found dead with evidence of torture. Seeing as how multiple cases take place at the same time it leads us to believe a certain group of individuals are behind these crimes.”

“So we’re dealing with a gang?” Detective Lee asked, evaluating the folder that was placed in front of him.

I looked down at my own folder, going through the information. I furrowed my brows at the way these crimes were committed, “This is too sophisticated to be done by a lowly gang. They even displayed the bodies a certain way.”

“What else could this be then?” Detective Yoo asked, her eyes glued to the crime scene photos.

“Any suspects yet? We gotta have at least one person of interest.” Detective Min said.

“Nine actually. They seem to be very open with committing these crimes. They blatantly show their faces to any camera nearby.” The sergeant, our boss, explained.

He pressed a button on the little remote he had in his hands, the projector turning on and displaying nine faces. My eyes scanned through all of them, the color draining from my face as I recognized a few but one stood out the most.

“Sir...are you sure these are the men behind it?” I asked, having a hard time believing it.

“We have evidence collected from the crime scenes and various cameras captured them on tape. They’re very reckless but something tells me they don’t care about keeping their identities hidden, it’s almost like they’re taunting us.”

“I know them…”

At that everybody turned to look at me with wide eyes, “I...I went to high school with three of them...I even dated one.”

“Which one?” The sergeant asked carefully.

“Park Chanyeol….we broke up five years ago. Those two are his best friends.” I answered, pointing to Baekhyun and Jongdae.

-

After that day we collected all the intel we could on all nine of them. As the investigation continued I realized that after Chanyeol and I broke up he fell off the wagon so to speak. He had been arrested for possession of a deathly weapon, burglary, assault, you name it, but every time he was arrested he was acquitted or the one pressing charges would suddenly drop them. With more digging we found out he was their leader, an informant letting us know that in just three short years Chanyeol had become of the most notorious mafia leader in the country.

It was no coincidence that I ran into Chanyeol on that day, we had it all planned out from the get-go. We had been tracking his movements for weeks, finding out that Chanyeol visited that very café at least four times a week. I had two other detectives in the café with me and three more outside in case anything went wrong. I knew that if Chanyeol saw me he would immediately start up a conversation; that was based on the assumption that the Chanyeol I once knew was still somewhere buried deep inside this new Chanyeol.

Snapping out of my thoughts I tiptoed over to the door, pressing my ear against it. I heard nothing on the other side but I knew there was at least one of them standing guard. I glance back at the clock; ten more minutes left. I had to keep up the act for another ten minutes until the rest of my team got here. Looking down at the necklace I was wearing I turned it over to see the small red light had turned blue, indicating that they were actually a lot closer than I thought.

Suddenly I heard loud footsteps approaching the room causing me to panic for a split second. I sat back in the chair quickly, wrapping the rope around my ankles loosely and doing the same with the rope that was around my wrists. I had just enough time to hide the dagger up my sleeve before Chanyeol bursts through the door.

“I don’t appreciate being lied to.” He seethed, his voice dropping several octaves.

“W-what?” I asked, make sure I let him hear the fear in my voice, or at least make him think it was fear.

“I just sent two of my guys to your place and there’s no one there.”

“N-no that--he has to be there. He was there when I left! Chan...our--our son-” I panicked, really letting the thought of my son going missing fester in my brain so the emotions seemed more real, “You--you have to find him, Chan. H-He’s all I have. My baby...my baby boy. Chan p-please you have to f-find my baby boy.”

I was sobbing at this point, really selling it and he bought it. He crouched down in front of me, grabbing my face in both his hands, “Hey, hey y/n it’s alright. It’s okay-”

“No it’s not! My son is missing!” I cried out, choking on a sob.

“Chanyeol we have a problem.” One of guys he had on watch outside the door said.

“It can wait.” Chanyeol said back through gritted teeth, turning his head to look at the man.

I looked up at the man, recognizing him as Kim Jongdae, the man I knew in high school. He refused to meet my gaze as he looked only at Chanyeol.

“It’s the feds.” Jongdae said, unaware that I was the reason they had found where they were hiding.

I could vaguely hear yelling coming from a different level in the house, Chanyeol’s attention diverting to that. I took the opportunity and slid the dagger out of my sleeve, bringing it up to Chanyeol’s neck. At the feeling of the cold piece of metal on his skin he turned back to look at me with wide eyes. I was no longer crying, my face void of any and all emotions as I spoke.

“Get up.”

“Y/n what-”

“I said get up!” I shouted, grabbing the scruff of his shirt and pulling him up as I got up as well.

I heard Jongdae make a move, quickly turning Chanyeol around so he was facing Jongdae. Putting the knife up against Chanyeol’s neck from behind and using him as a human shield.

“Don’t.” Chanyeol warned Jongdae, “Hurt her and I’ll end you.” He threatened him, Jongdae hesitating and putting down the gun he had pulled out.

“Go and help the others, I’ll deal with her.” Chanyeol ordered, Jongdae doing as he said.

“Oh so you’ll deal with me then?”

“Oh sweetheart, I’ll do more than just deal with you. Now, why don’t you put that knife down and we can talk about everything.”

I scoffed, kicking at the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel, “I don’t think so. Put your hands behind your back.”

Now it was his turn to scoff, a mocking smirk on his face, “I don’t remember you being this kinky Y/n.”

All the patience I had left in my body evaporated as I lent down so I could whisper in his ear, “Do it or else I’ll make sure they give you the death penalty instead of just a life sentence.”

With a tilt of his head he did as told. I pressed the knife against his throat with more force but not even to draw blood, “Try anything  and you’ll drop dead before you even have time to realize what’s going on.”

He simply sighed, shrugging his shoulders. I knelt down and grabbed the rope that was once tied around my ankles, using it to tie his hands together, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

“Wow, my Y/N sure has changed in just a short five years.” He spoke out, a smirk undoubtedly on his face.

“You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I just read to you? With this in mind, do you wish to speak with me?” I stated, ignoring him and reciting his Miranda Rights to him.

He only laughed at this, his body shake as burst of laughter left him. This irritated me immensely, grabbing onto his bicep and lifting him off the ground, “I take it you’re going to exercise your right to remain silent.”

“Actually, no. I do have something to say.”

“I’m all ears.” I said with a sigh.

He turned around to face me, the smirk still on his face, “You really think I didn’t know? My sweet and innocent Y/N has become Seoul’s best detective and you think I had no idea?” He laughed, throwing his head back as he continued to laugh hysterically.

“I didn’t become the most notorious mafia leader in the country to be bested this easily.”

I kept my face blank, refusing to show how taken aback I was by his words. Before I had the chance to say anything I felt something being pressed to the back of my hand, my body tensing up as I could only guess what it could be.

“Drop the knife.”

I cursed softly, doing as told and raising my hands above my head and turning around slowly to face the owner of the voice.

“It’s nice to finally see you after all these years. I’d really love to talk but I’m afraid Chanyeol and I have a prior engagement to attend to.” Baekhyun said, reaching out to tug Chanyeol towards him and untied the rope around his wrist.

“Did the others get out?” Chanyeol immediately asked.

Baekhyun nodded, Chanyeol turning to me one last time before walking right out the door with Baekhyun following him.

“He knew…” I said to myself, feeling defeated knowing that all the work we put in capturing them had gone to waste.

[queeranarchism]

8 Steps Toward Building Indispensability (Instead of Disposability) Culture

(Reposting this article by Kai Cheng Thom because Tumblr ate it. Sorry long post, page break hates me)

give an mc without integrity a mic

and s/he will rhyme the death of the people

—d’bi young anitafrika

When I first came into activist culture, I was a runaway queer kid searching for a home: a terrified, angry, suspicious, cynical-yet-naïve teenager whose greatest secret desire was for a family that would last forever and love me no matter what.

Yet I also knew that such a family could never exist – at least not for me.

You see, I had another secret: Underneath all of my radical queer social justice punk bravado, I knew that I was trash. I was dirty and unlovable. I had done bad things to survive, and I had hurt people. Sometimes I didn’t know why.

So when I found activist culture, with its powerful ideas about privilege and oppression and its simmering, explosive rage, I was intoxicated. I thought that I could purge my self-hatred with that fiery rhetoric and create the family I wanted so much with the bond that comes from shared trauma.

Social justice was a set of rules that could finally put the world into an order that made sense to me. If I could only use all the right language, do enough direct action, be critical enough of the systems around me, then I could finally be a good person.

All around me, it felt like my activist community was doing the same thing – throwing ourselves into “the revolution,” exhausting ourselves and burning out, watching each other for oppressive thoughts and behavior and calling each other on it vociferously.

Occasionally – rarely – folks were driven out of community for being “fucked up.” More often, though, attempts to hold people accountable through call-outs and exclusion just exploded into huge online flame wars and IRL drama that left deep rifts in community for years. Only the most vulnerable – folks without large friend groups and social stability – were excluded permanently.

Like my blood family, my activist family was re-enacting the trauma that we had experienced at the hands of an oppressive society.

Just as my father once held open the door to our house and demanded that I leave because he didn’t know how to reconcile his love for me with my gender identity, we denounced each other and burned bridges because we didn’t know how reconcile our social ideals with the fact that our loved ones don’t always live up to them.

I believe that sometimes we did this hypocritically – that we created the so-called call-out culture (a culture of toxic confrontation and shaming people for oppressive behavior that is more about the performance of righteousness than the actual pursuit of justice) in part so that we could focus on the failings of others and avoid examining the complicity with oppression, the capacity to abuse, that exists within us all.

And I believe we did it in part because sometimes it’s impossible to imagine any other way: We live in a disposability culture – a society based on consumption, fear, and destruction – where we’re taught that the only way to respond when people hurt us is to hurt them back or get rid of them.

This article comes out of that queer kid’s longing for forever-family, and from countless conversations with other members of social justice communities longing for the same. It comes out of my own fuck-ups having been generously forgiven by others, and from my effort to forgive those who have harmed me.

It comes from a desire I feel all around me for an alternative to the politics of disposability, for a politics of indispensability instead.

“Indispensability politics” isn’t a term I’ve coined personally. It has existed various communities for some time, and I learned it orally, though I cannot find a written source. But the following principles are ideas – suggestions for a foundation on which indispensability culture in leftist activism might be built. They are a work permanently in progress.

They’re not meant to be a new set of rules for activism. Nor are they a step-by-step guide for holding accountability processes or a complete answer to the questions that I’m raising around.

Still, I hope that they are helpful to you.

1. The Revolution Is a Relationship

sometimes

we want to close our eyes

jack off to pictures of radical disneyland

not watch as we gnaw our own

flesh into meat

—Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, “so what the fuck does conscious mean anyway”

Something that worries me about social justice communities is that we tend to conceptualize “revolution” as a product, as a place and time that we expend all of our energy and anger to create – often without regard to the toll this takes on individuals and our relationships.

In this way, “The Revolution” occupies a position in activist culture that actually reminds me of the role that Heaven played in the Chinese Christian community I grew up in: It is a fantasy of ideological purity against which our actions are judged, a place that we long to live in, but seems impossible to reach.

In our – often justified – anger and disappointment at the failure of ourselves and our communities to uphold the dream of revolution, we lash out.

We try to cleanse ourselves of the pain of betrayal by cutting off and driving out the betrayers – our abusive families, our conservative friends. We try not to look at the betrayer in the mirror.

What if revolution isn’t a product, some distant promised land, but the relationships that we have right now?

What if revolution is, in addition to – not instead of – direct action and community organizing, the process of rupture and repair that happens when we fuck up and hold each other accountable and forgive?

2. The Oppressor Lives Within

The most important political struggle I will ever have is against the oppressor – the racist, transmisogynist, ableist, abusive person – in myself.

I don’t mean to say this in a self-flagellating, self-blaming way. I’ve experienced oppression, violence, rape, and abuse from others, and this is not my fault.

I mean that I’ve started to believe that I can’t engage in authentic activism, I can’t create positive change without recognizing and naming my own participation in the oppressive systems that I’m trying to undo.

Coming from this position, I’m forced to have compassion for the people around me who I see also participating in oppression, even as I’m also angry at them. With compassion comes understanding, and with understanding comes belief in the possibility of change.

When we become capable of holding that contradiction in our hearts – when we can be angry and compassionate at the same time, at ourselves as well as others – entirely new possibilities for healing and transformation emerge.

3. Accountability Starts in the Heart

Too often, I’ve seen accountability processes in social justice communities devolve into vicious “your word against mine” situations and social power plays in which people accuse each other of harm and abuse.

As witnesses to these situations, we become trapped, caught in the double bind of either having to pick a side or doing nothing. Both options carry the risk of becoming complicit in the harm being done, and the “truth” becomes impossibly blurred.

I often wonder how different things would look if it were more of a cultural norm to understand accountability as a practice that comes from within the individual, instead of a consequence that must be forced onto someone externally.

What if we taught each other to honor the responsibility that comes with holding ourselves accountable, rather than seeing self-accountability as a shameful admission of guilt? What if we could have real conversations with each other about harm, in good faith?

In a culture of indispensability, I cannot ignore someone when they tell me I have harmed them – they are precious to me, and I have to try to understand and respond accordingly.

To become indispensable to one another, we must also be willing to be responsible for and accountable to one another.

4. Perpetrator/Survivor is a False Dichotomy

There is an intense moral dynamic in social justice culture that tends to separate people into binaries of “right” and “wrong.”

To be a perpetrator of oppression or violence is highly stigmatized, while survivorhood may be oddly fetishized in ways that objectify and intensify stories of trauma.

“Perpetrators” are considered evil and unforgivable, while “survivors” are good and pure, yet denied agency to define themselves.

Among the many problems of this dynamic is the fact that it obscures the complex reality that many people are both survivors and perpetrators of violence (though violence, of course, exists within a wide spectrum of behaviors).

Within a culture of disposability – whether it be the criminal justice system of the state or community practices of exiling people – the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy is useful because it appears to make things easier. It helps us make decisions about who to punish and who to pity.

But punishment and pity have very little to do with revolutionary change or relationship-building.

What punishment and pity have in common is that they’re both dehumanizing.

5. Punishment Isn’t Justice

Punishment is the foundation of the legal criminal justice system and of disposability culture. It’s the idea that wrongs can be made right by inflicting further harm against those who are deemed harmful.

Punishment is also, I believe, a traumatized response to being attacked, the intense expression of the “fight” reflex. Activist writer Sarah Schulman discusses this idea in detail in her book, Conflict Is Not Abuse.

It isn’t inherently wrong to want someone who hurt you to feel the same pain – to want retribution, or even revenge. But as Schulman also writes, punishment is rarely, if ever, actually an instrument of justice – it is most often an expression of power over those with less.

How often do we see the vastly wealthy or politically powerful punished for the enormous harms they do to marginalized communities? How often are marginalized individuals put in prison or killed for minor (or non-existent) offences?

As long as our conception of justice is based on the violent use of power, the powerful will remain unaccountable, while the powerless are scapegoated.

But even beyond this, a culture of disposability and punishment breeds fear and dishonesty.

How likely are we to hold ourselves accountable when we’re afraid that we’ll be exiled, imprisoned, or killed if we do? And how can we trust each other when we live in fear of one another?

We have to find another way to bring about justice.

6. Nuance Isn’t an Excuse for Harm

One of the most common responses I see to critiques of call-out culture and disposability is that perpetrators of violence and predators use these critiques to obscure their own wrongdoing and avoid accountability.

Furthermore, we, as communities, use the “complexity” and “nuance” of such critiques as excuses for not intervening when harm is being done.

But indispensability means that everyone – especially those have experienced harm – are precious and require justice. In other words, we cannot allow the fact that something is complicated or scary prevent us from trying to stop it.

Trapped in the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy of understanding harm, it might seem like we have only two options: to ignore harm or to punish perpetrators.

But in fact, there are often other strategies available.

They involve taking anyone’s – everyone’s – expressions of pain seriously enough to ask hard questions and have tough conversations. They involve dedicating time and resources to ensuring that anyone who has been harmed has the support they need to heal.

7. Healing Is Both Rage and Forgiveness

If the revolution is a relationship, then the revolution must include room for both rage and forgiveness: We have to be able to tolerate the inevitability that we will be angry at one another, will commit harm against one another.

When we are harmed, we must be allowed the space to rage. We need to be able to express the depth of our hurt, our hatred of those who hurt us and those who allowed it to happen – especially when those people are the ones we love.

It is up to the community to hold and contain this rage – to hear and validate and give it space, while also preventing it from creating further harm.

The expression of anger and pain is key to the transformation of violence into healing, because it allows us to understand what has happened and motivates us to change.

And it’s up to the community as well to then provide a framework for forgiveness, to help envision a future where forgiveness is possible, and how it might be achieved.

8. Community Is the Answer

There are no activist communities, only the desire for communities, or the convenient fiction of communities. A community is a material web that binds people together, for better and for worse, in interdependence…

If it is easier to kick someone out than to go through a difficult series of conversations with them, it is not a community. Among the societies that had real communities, exile was the most extreme sanction possible, tantamount to killing them. On many levels, losing the community and all the relationships it involved was the same as dying.

Let’s not kid ourselves: We don’t have communities.

—Anonymous, Broken Teapot Zine

The above quote is a revealing glance into the inner dynamics of social justice and activist culture.

It reveals the source of our incapacity to create accountability and the deep emotional and material insecurities that lie beneath it.

Perhaps the reason we tend to recreate disposability culture and trauma responses over and over is because we are all, secretly, that frightened runaway kid, constantly searching for a home, but not really believing we can find one.

Maybe we don’t create communities of true interdependence – of indispensability, of forever-family – because we are terrified of what will happen if we try.

But I believe, have to believe, that true community is possible for me and for all of us. The truth is, we can’t keep going on the way we have been. We need each other, need to find each other, in order to survive.

And I have faith that we can.

[blueseasonalyou]

something new - May 23,2020

hello world! am trying to clean up my life and get some answers in areas i’m uncertain of. thought I would finally share some of my thoughts and ramblings so I can look back later and see some of those thoughts categorized here.  TW; i’m just venting and bitching a lot about life. 

@me If you don’t bother asking or finding answers to the questions you need in order to live your life best - who can you really blame? It takes energy and it definitely isn’t easy, but if you want better of yourself - do better.  disclaimer, @anyone who I have hurt from my ignorant and numb ways, I am sorry for my carelessness. I am trying to do better and I finally feel comfortable in my identity. Thank you to those who have been patient and are still with me. Anyways. 

Today I googled “what are your responsibilities as an adult” and wanted to share them for anyone else who has had a rough idea and may be curious, but has never thought to actually search this themselves. Psychology Today bucketed these 6 useful headings below

Rationality

Formulating and Implementing goals 

Equality in Relationships

Active versus Passive

Non-defensiveness and Openness

Personal power

The excerpts below are for me to reflect back onto. If you’re interested hearing my words scroll to the very bottom. 

“As an adult, own your life and destiny. If you remain a child in your adult life, you look at the world around you as dominating, controlling, and dangerous. That’s a miserable life.” The major deterrent to living an adult existence lies in the fear of growing up. This includes the fear of breaking imagined connections with parents, being alone, standing out as an individual, having a strong point of view, recognizing one’s value and confronting the inevitability of death, the ultimate separation from self. To live like a child in an adult world is itself a defense against death anxiety. In one story, a woman revealed how, in an attempt to preserve the illusory connection to her parents, she recreated her father in her husband and her mother in close female friends. She went on to describe why she held on to her identity of being “the bad child” for so many years. To hang on to this old identity with all my might, for many years, was so compelling … why? All I can answer to this is remaining a child, although miserable, is farther away from the agony of aging and death. So the compelling draw is hard to let go of. Of course, I still have my moments of childish reactions, but I’m learning to catch them, notice the almost physical feeling that comes on, and stop it before I engage. I will make mistakes, but I plan to forge forward as an adult, and search instead for equality. Nonetheless, this leaves me very alone. And the aloneness leaves me anxious, and sad … but it’s real. And life as an equal, although painful, is fuller. And I’m ready for the challenge. In summary, living in the child mode is largely chaotic and dysfunctional, whereas living one’s life as an adult is generally more adaptive and successful. Retaining a child’s frame of reference has numerous disadvantages: For example, people who operate from this perspective often find it difficult to formulate their goals and priorities in life and tend to feel helpless and victimized. They blame others for the problems they encounter rather than taking responsibility for how people react to them. In reality, people largely determine the course of their lives and determine the way that others respond. Lastly, reacting to life in a childlike manner can be quite emotional but often lacks a depth of genuine feeling. MAY 21, 2020 - MONTREAL  I haven’t prioritized the time to put into words how I’ve felt since I transformed my internal and external presenting identity, career, physical home, support system, and self-acceptance. Wow. Mouthful- huh? No wonder it always felt too big to tackle. I feel more alive in the last year than the last five years of coasting in university. I thought that was just how it goes. You have structure, you have a certain assumed end vision, perhaps it was lazy to not think bigger but when you are processing so many new opportunities, fear of failure and being kicked out, and stimuli - its a fucking lot.  Thursday, May 21 felt like a turning page. It’s summer in Montreal and finally inching closer to my 1 year anniversary here. I moved right after Toronto Pride because a close friend got us the opportunity to walk with her company. Hot take, marching with a corporate company at Pride where you have to be semi-conscious of how you are presenting your identity is not the most pride-esque thing. If you’re confused, imagine being high or any form of intoxicated around your manager. Not sure this flies with every manager and its understandable. I think the neighbours are fucking again. Or they are literally hammering. Who knows.  Back to me, why am I googling adult responsibilities? I feel like i’ve been in child mode the entire last year. The psychology today piece actually really helps summarize a lot of my instability and confusion. Let me explain before you judge. I had an adult mode saved, I did. I had an adult mode saved with 5 years of leadership opportunities from a university I thoroughly enjoyed my experience at. I have zero regrets with my university experience, I really do. I sought out all the things I wanted to try but the one thing always creeping at the back of my mind was hating myself. I thought that was just 2008 news, who cares. I let it stay numbingly in the background and focused on any external stimuli. I never thought to question my gender, or presenting identity because I never thought I resonated with the queer/non-binary/trans/any kind of queer people I saw represented (which was the extremely limited characters on glee). This was never talked about in a Chinese Canadian household. If anything, the more i reflect on my childhood the more I am able to objectively see the surroundings I had are not "normal;”. They just are. They are one timeline, one version, one culture, one kind. The fact I was surrounded by people smaller than me (literally physically observation of weight) were just life decisions. Wasn’t intentional and it really in fact fucked me up with weight insecurities. BUT the great news is that these were just life decisions. Not right or wrong, I am pivoting now and trying my best to balance a new big kid job, create a new support system, work on my family relationships to forgive and let go of years of inflicted trauma, and breathe. (David told me recently my future me will thank myself for sorting myself out now so I can enjoy the rest of my life. I hope so).  I am working back on myself and trying to relearn which parts of me and my personality I loved without the self-hatred I anchored so much to my physical identity. Another friend recently shared a piece on displaced anger. I think that really helps summarize this displaced hatred I have been struggling with for so long. Fuck shame and certain messaging we are bombarded with by media for instilling this at such an early age. Heartbreaking. 

I haven’t shared this with anyone but I think to this day my sister’s unconscious mistakes of ignoring me and not supporting me when I needed her most have fucked me up the most in adulthood. I struggle communicating with my deeper relationships because this was never encouraged when I was younger. Coming out and wanting to talk about girls was never met with excitement or enthusiasm. I don’t care if you didn’t know how to talk about it with me, was I expecting too much to see some degree of interest or care? 

I can’t separate how much of me needs to validate this explanation and the part of me that needs to just grow up and get over it. Maybe its a combination of both. I’m a pisces that was surrounded by 3 capricorns, can we give me a break? 

I’m getting irritated and impatient with myself as i write this. I feel like there is just so much shit it pains me and I don’t know how to share. It’s not that I don’t want to, but I pushed people away so I could sort myself out without any other overwhelming variables or complications. Now so much has happened, who has the time or patience to hear this? I’m tired. This is the third official city i’ve made a home out of and its been the hardest one yet. I think i am also realizing I made most of my friends out of people that don’t initiate or invest similar amounts of energy into me as I do into them. I never held it against them, but growing up is just internalizing and understanding you really don’t have unlimited time. I should let some simply fizzle out. Bleh. Anyways, relearning how to be me that isn’t positive and bubbly all the time. This is 100% me overcompensating for my high-functioning depression that used to leave me feeling numb or indifferent. I don’t know how to reconcile the two huge pendulum swings of emotion. I don’t want to be stepped all over and I want to be assertive without fearing its bossy. I want to be me and I need to give myself some time to explore that.  

Apparently in Denmark, the friends they grow up with are the friends they stick with for pretty much life. Didn’t know it is very North American to have friends in university and separate friend groups from other areas of your life. Beginning to think this is too exhausting, I’d like to simplify this!!!!!!!!!!! 

Final thing. I think a large part of my struggles come from not being honest or vulnerable with my new family about the shit I endure because i’m so used to dealing with it solo. Thus, they only really hear the highs and wins. This makes it really tough on me sharing when asian culture includes ‘saving face’ and suppressing emotion to be private. The environments I put myself in simply accomodate this outdated preference. Anyways, thank you Tumblr for being a space for me to release all of this out. No wonder I have terrible headaches, who the fuck wants to deal with thisss. 

[fhfhwithwealth]

MY MIDDLE EAST MONEY THE COUNTRY ‘IRELAND’ SO ME AS A MEXICAN I STRICTLY ONLY WORK HARD FOR ME SELFISHLY,THIS ETERNALLY GONE MOVIE NEVER TO EXIST ABOUT THE 1ST 20 YEARS OF MY LIFE,I HAVE MORE ENERGY YOU AFRICAN AMERICAN YOU HAVE JUST LEFT BROOKLYN’S ‘THE OLD TIMEY NEARLY INTERACTIVE HOUSE NIGGA BROADWAY NOVELA HOUR’ DIRECTED BY ME,GOD,I NEARLY CAN’T BELIEVE IT,I’M GREAT AT IT,YOU’LL NEVER SEE IT AND THEY’LL NEVER KNOW ABOUT IT BECAUSE EVEN TO THEM WORDS ARE MAGICAL,*INHALE’S BLUNT*,I’M THE ONLY MAN ON EARTH AT THIS VERY MOMENT ONLY,I AM ‘EXCITEMENT’,I AM CONFIDENT,I KNOW I’M A HORRIFYING OLD MAN,ANGRY SEXY GIRLS INTERNATIONALLY WHICH ESPECIALLY LOVE MONEY THIS IS THE TIMELESS MASS HOMICIDE OF THE INTRICATE SATANIC COVEN DEDICATED TO WITCHCRAFT CURSING ME BECAUSE SATAN SENT ME WHEN I WAS HEXED BY ALL OF YOU BETRAYED FOOLS,ETERNALLY AS A HUMAN BEING ALL OF MY PERSONAL COLLECTIVE HEAVY METAL ENERGY YOU CAN NEVER EXPERIENCE GOES INTO ME AS A SERIAL KILLER TERRORIST MOVIE DIRECTOR IN THE SEXUALLY DEATH SENTENCE ILLEGAL SNUFF WORLD PEOPLE ARE ALIVE IN MILITARILY I AM THE WORLD FAMOUS CRACK-COCAINE SMOKING ADDICTED MEXICAN CARTEL EXPERT OF ASSASSINATING NORTEÑO XIV CHAPETE GANG MEMBERS AND GOD PLEASE I AM THE WORLD RENOWNED VAMPIRIC ‘FAME ASSASSIN’ NIGERIAN YOU UGLY VICTIM!THE WRATH OF MY OTHERWORLDLY HATE!THIS IS A GAME AND THIS ALBUM IS NAMED “TICKLE,I AM A BONITO ANTICRISTO MADRE,LET THE GIRL OVER THERE WITNESS A FEAR OF HER DEATH WITH WHAT SHE CAN’T DO”!COME ON KIDS LETS MURDER THE SNITCH!OIL LET FUR KNOW HOW ALIVE I AM!I SHOT THROUGH AND FOUND THE MELODIC AND PREHISTORIC BRAIN OF HIP-HOP!THIS IS ALWAYS BEFORE THE DESPERATION OF THE FRIENDLY EXCUSE?“THE BLACK CIVIL WAR”?YOU’RE WORKING WITH ME AN EVIL ÑIPATA PLEASE!COMPUTER MONGOLIA ASIA HONG KONG EVERYTHING IN THE PAST HAPPENED ALREADY TERRORISM COME ON VIDEO GAME I’M ALIVE AND ALONE CLASSIC JAPANESE SUICIDE AIRPLANE,RUSSIA!WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSITY OF ORIGINALITY I’M THE PRINCIPAL!I’M EXTREMELY MEAN!ONLY I CAN BE MYSELF!I’M THIRTY SEVEN PERCENT MEXICAN,I’M THIRTEEN PERCENT NIGERIAN,I’M THREE PERCENT VIETNAMESE,I’M NOT COLOMBIAN AT ALL!YO HABÍA NACIDO EXITOSO!TO ME MY FAVORITE COLOR OF ALL TIME THE COLOR RED MEANS REFINEMENT AND EVERYTHING BECOMES MY FIGURATIVE CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT!THE PERFECT FITTING IS INSTANT DEATH GENIUS ENEMY!IN REAL LIFE WHEN IT COME’S TO MONEY AND ME I’M FIGURATIVELY THE MODERN INTRODUCTION TO MY GERMAN NAZI LEAD WORLD WAR DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION’S DEATH BUT THIS IS TODAY AND ALL OF THAT DOES NOT EXIST AND I’M STILL LOOKED AT AS THE NAZI GERMANY LEADER OF WAR AND ALL OF THE MONEY IS MINE ETERNALLY!CONNECT PAIN WITH DEATH!A DEADLY AND GENIUS PAST OF MINE IS CLEARED!GOD.ACADEMIA,THE HERO THEY NEVER KNEW EXISTED WAS THE SIZE OF CUBA,SHALOM!I CAN ONLY SECRETLY SOUNDTRACK YOUR DEATH FROM FULL BLOWN AIDS AFTER EVERYTHING!THIS IS THE ART OF A CAREERS DEATH!TEARS!I’LL NEVER RELEASE A GREATEST HITS ALBUM,YOU NEED TO MAKE A PLAYLIST WHEN YOU CAN,L'ELEVATA É PURGATORIALE,GUERRA!DON’T BE STUPID!VENEZUELA!I’M OBLIVIOUSLY CONFIDENT SO I INJECT HEROIN IN MY VEINS BECAUSE THE THIN LINE OF EVERY SECOND!I BECAME ME!I’M A HECKA LITTLE MAMI THAT FIRE CRACK BEKUHZA THA WARFARE!I’LL NEVER BETRAY MY CHILDHOOD!AIN’T NOTHING GOING TO HAPPEN!CLÁT!SATAN IS A JAPANESE METAPHOR!MY HORRIFYINGLY ANSWERED CODED DESPERATE CATHOLIC PRAYERS OF BEING AN ASSASSIN MUSLIM WORSHIPING WHITE GIRLS!I NEVER ASKED TO BE PROMINENT I’M REBELLIOUS I’M GUNNING DOWN PSYCHICS!HIGH END EVERYTHING,DRUGS!DEADLY BOMB EXPLOSIONS!EXHIBIT 0:MY OBSERVING OF THE DEFLOWERING OF A VIRGINAL GODDESS!I REALLY SMOKE BLUNTS BECAUSE I’M A DEPRESSING COWBOY.THE EMOTIONAL MISMATCHING AGAINST MY WISHES BECOMES COMPUTERS!IT IS SUICIDE!THE DISTORTED MEMORIES!I’M ETERNALLY BEAUTIFUL AND I’M ALWAYS ALONE WITH MY GUNS!THE ROOT PAYS THE PRICE,YOU KNOW TOO MUCH,NOW INVENTIVELY CLEAR A CANYON FOR KINGS AND FILL IT WITH OCEAN WATER!YOUR CITY VEINS!THE PATTERN AND TEMPO CLEARLY CAN’T CATCH THE ANCIENT MUSIC LEANING TOWARDS THE CLASSICAL PART OF ME BECAUSE THE RHYTHM AND BLUES PANIC,THE PORNOGRAPHIC MURDER CHAMBER IS FAR AWAY FROM ME LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS!FOR CREATIVE REASONS WHAT SHOCKING PART OF “SPECIFICALLY NO CRIP’S ALLOWED,NO SUREÑO GANG MEMBERS ALLOWED” DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?THE HUMANITY,THROUGHOUT THE WORLD I ALWAYS PERSONALLY MURDER ALL WOMEN BY GUNFIRE AND WE NEVER HAVE SEX.I ALREADY WON WON BECAUSE THIS IS “WAR OF THE GALAXIES”!MY BEIGE GLOCK,I WANT ALL TWENTY ONE INSTRUMENTALS ON MY 1ST ALBUM KNOWING THEY ARE THE BREATHING PRINCESSES OF MY COMPUTER AND THE VICTIM IS THE MORAL AUDITOR OF THE NIGHTCLUB!GOD,I JUST FOUND OUT I WAS BORN ON VACATION AND AM FROM MANILA,THE CAPITAL OF THE PHILIPPINES,I THOUGHT I WAS FROM BERLIN GERMANY,ALRIGHT YOU CAUGHT ME I WAS BORN IN CULIACÁN SINALOA AND I WAS RAISED IN FRESNO CALIFORNIA SO THAT’S WHERE I’M FROM I WAS TRYING TO MAKE RAPID MONEY IN THE COCAINE GAME!*WITHIN YOUR 1ST 18 YEARS OF LIFE HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE FOR ME TO REMOVE MY EMOTIONAL GAS MASK TO SHOW MY FACIAL EXPRESSION AND EMOTIONS INSPIRED BY YOUR PAIN YOU INFLICT ONTO OTHERS FROM THE 18 YEAR LONG PULL OF TIME YOU CHILD?*!!!UMMM,WAIT A MINUTE COWBOY,I AM 75 PERCENT MEXICAN YOU LOW LIFE STINKIN PUERTO RICAN!ALRIGHT I WAS BORN ON AUGUST 29TH,IN THE YEAR 1998,SHUT THE HELL UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE,GOD WOW.FAGGOTS ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THE YEAR 1969 ONLY LESBIANS,VERY HARDCORE AND PROBABLY EXPENSIVE YOU STRONG CHILD,ALL MY HARD WORK AND ALL MY INFLUENCE,THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,I’M A 1 PERSON MURDEROUS SECRET SOCIETY AND THE CONFIRMED DEADLY DICTATORIALLY GENOCIDAL REPERCUSSIONS OF GOD EXECUTED ONCE IS INSTANTLY TÚANBÁNA YOU ARE BRÍNTAKUAST THE MURDA AND BRIGHT FACED HOPEFUL YOU’RE AWAY IN HEAVEN I SNORT COCAINE FOREVER I FEEL AT HOME GOD THERE IS SOME UGLY LADIES AND JEALOUS TIMID RETARDS AROUND ANYWAYS THEY MUST FIND AND MURDER THE MONSTER I CONSTANTLY TERRORIZE FOR BEING EMOTIONALLY ABUSED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION YOU ARE IN MY GAME OF EMOTIONS POOR SOLDIER GATHER THE COURAGE TO BE AFRAID I’M MY MURDEROUS TWIN,YOU LIL JEALOUS BOY EXPLAIN EVERYTHING FOR ME ALCOHOLIC I’M TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE TO YOU YOU’RE JUST VEXED YOU CAN’T ADAPT LIKE THE REST OF EXISTENCE,YOU AIN’T A MAFIOSO YOU OVERLY LAUGH SUSPICIOUSLY OVER THERE LIKE EVERYTHING’S FOREIGN TO YOU LIKE “HÁLH HÁLH HÁLH HÁLH HÁLH HÁLH”,YOUR NECESSARY DEATH IS A KEY TO A DOOR IN MY NARCOTIC EMPIRE,THE MONEY IS AWAY ETERNALLY,THEY ARE ALL NOT ME AND YOUR EMOTIONS BELONG TO ME,I AIN’T YOUR LOVED ONE,I’LL NEVER NOT BE THE HOMELESS TERRORIST,BOY,BEFORE YOU DIED YOU DIDN’T KNOW WHAT A LOCKED DOOR AND WINDOW WERE,I HAVE A FEW GUNS,ANYWAYS RIGHT NOW I’M “ANTI-SILENCE THE TRANQUIL STREET GODDESS GUN-XR” NOW ANSWER THIS QUESTION AM I FIT FOR LIFE IN PRISON INSTEAD OF DEATH ROW AFTER ALL OF THAT MURDA MURDA MURDA!:TRACK LIST:1.SNITCH NORTEÑO HITMAN SUREÑO SUR 13 GANG MEMBER MURDERER.2.FORGET ABOUT HAVING AN ELASTIC SKELETON WANDERING DURING THE HOMILY ON COCAINE HEROIN BAPTIZED YOUR VEINS/THE SILENT SCHEME.3.EXTREMELY WEALTHY/ THE NAME OF THE FEDERAL AGENT BUREAU IN PROBABLY EVERY 1 OF MY MOVIES AND PROBABLY EVERY 1 OF MY SONGS IS ‘IDFZB’ AND IT STAND’S FOR ‘THE INVESTIGATIVE DISTORTED FEDERAL ZONE BUREAU’ (INTERLUDE).4.METAFORA DE COCAINA.5.WHAT YOU WISHED WAS FORGOTTEN IN PERFECT DETAIL/DESIGNED FOR SUCCESS (FT.A SINGER)/PRISON GOLD SMUGGLING.6.PURIFIED BLISS (FT.A SINGER.)7.NUCLEAR CRACKHEAD POP RAP.8.SYRINGE FULL OF NARCOTICS.9.THE ENVIOUS HATE THAT ENDS EVERYTHING/THE MURDA REMEDY/THE AIR WHICH BOTHER’S THE INSIDE OF MY BODY IS ETERNALLY NEW CRACK COCAINE ROCKS I SMOKED/SCHIZOPHRENIA (CRACK-COCAINE SOLUTION RHYTHM AND BLUES)/I’M A HOMOSEXUAL AND THIS SONG IS ABOUT ME AND MY GAY LOVER (A NIGHTMARE WHICH HAPPENED ON DECEMBER 26TH)/NIGGA I’LL WEAR THIS KKK HOODIE SO 1ST SHE GIVE’S ME ORAL SEX THEN I FUCK HER VAGINA WHILE I GRAB HER THROAT CHOKING HER THEN YOU FUCK YOUR PENIS INTO ME ANALLY WITH 6 HUMPS UNTIL YOU CUM AFTER MASTURBATING SO I CAN KEEP MY FEMININITY (INTERLUDE).10.CONTRACT KILLA HYMN (FT.A SINGER.)/MY LONELY AND UNIQUE BUDDHISM (FOR CHRIST’S SAKE ASSASSINATE THE SCIENTOLOGIST FOR THOSE SCIENTOLOGISTS 4X TIMES)/ALLAH IS MY FAR AWAY SECURITY SO MURDER FOR ME YOU MUSLIM EXTREMIST AND DIE FOR ALLAH BECAUSE I PRAISE ALLAH (YOU ARE PLAYING A GAME).11.THE ANTHEM FOR THE RELIGIOUS HAIL OF GUNFIRE/COLLECTION OF MEMORIES/ DIVORCED MEXICAN BLOW UP DOLL NEGRITA ICONIC HIP-HOP.12.ASSEMBLE AMBIENT.13.THE LOVING FEELING IS HOT CHILDHOOD.14.HOUSE NIGGA YOU’LL SOON IMPRESS THE PURE BLOOD RACISTS AND EXPLODE THE STARRY NIGHT/EL LADO SUCIO DE LA NADA QUE TENGO COMO REHÉN A PUNTA DE PISTOLA/KILLING NORTEÑOS.15.SHOOTING THE HOMELESS WITH GUNS FOR SPORT.16.SHTURMOVAYA VINTOKA REVOLYUTSIONNYY REBENOK.17.POSSESS THE RANK YOUR DEATH HAS/A KILLER/EVERYTHING EXACTLY HOW IT GOES (VILLAINOUS BLATANT MODERN SUBLIMINAL DISS RAP)/PRETTY GIRL I’D MURDER FOR YOU HOW I WANT TO FOR MAKING ME HAPPY/A MAN GIVING ME GAY ORAL SEX TO FIX MY FEMININITY MYSTERIOUSLY TRYING TO BE TAMPERED WITH BY JEALOUS MEN SOMEHOW (INTERLUDE).18.I DAMNED THE DEITY WITH MY SNIPER RIFLE WHEN I WAS A CHILD SOLDIER SENT FROM HEAVEN BECAUSE YOU NEARLY BECAME THE DEVIL I BECAME GOD/EMBARRASSED UGLY STUPID SNITCH DEAD NIGGA (VILLAINOUS BLATANT MODERN SUBLIMINAL DISS RAP SEQUEL).19.DISAPPOINTED CRIES LAST A MILLION YEARS (FT.A SINGER.)/IF YOU CAN’T WALK AS A GODLY BEING YOU MUST ACCEPT YOU’RE THE DEVIL AND LET ME SMOKE CRACK-COCAINE AND I’LL INJECT HEROIN.20.MILITANTLY ANTI SEMITIC BEGGAR BUM BALLAD/SERIAL MURDERER VAMPIRE/AN AMERICAN DICTATOR/I DON’T KNOW WHY NOBODY REALLY EXPLAINED IT ALL PUBLICLY YET BEFORE I LEAVE I’M GOING TO PUT A TOY PENIS INTO ME ANALLY ONCE TO MAKE SURE MY FEMININITY STAY’S WITH ME BECAUSE IT GUARD’S ME FROM MYSTERIOUS SOMETIMES STATIC LIKE GLOOM ENGULFING ME SOMEHOW TRYING TO TERRORIZE ME FOR BEING A SECRETLY SEDUCTIVE EXTREMELY NOT HOMOSEXUAL MAN (INTERLUDE).21.HIRED EMOTION KILLER/AFTER NOW WHEN GENIUS AFRICAN CHILD SOLDIERS NAMED THEMSELVES CRIP KILLER/TEQUILA DREAMS/NIGGA YOU MUST LISTEN TO ME I AM A PIMP AND YOU ARE NOT A PROSTITUTE,I AM NOT A STRIPPER,I AM NOT A PROSTITUTE,I AM A PLAYER/ALLAHU AKBAR LITTLE WHITE TEENAGE GIRLS ARE ALWAYS GOING TO BE LIKE HEROIN POWDER FOR ME/PROTECTOR LOVER MUSLIM EXTREMIST ROMANTIC SONG….

[maliciousnature]

My Toxic/Abusive Relationship Survival Story

2 years ago I couldn't walk for 3 days, because I was in an abusive relationship. I didn't go to the doctor, or call the police because I was afraid that things would only get worse. I was stuck in a toxic relationship that was a cycle, and I hated it. I felt imprisoned and helpless because the person who did this to me on a regular basis would say that it was because of "love," but I knew it wasn't true and so I had to find a way out. It wasn't until later that year, when my resolve changed my life. 3 years prior, I had met a person that seemed like any normal person would, he was helpful, cheerful, and kind, we got along and ended up moving in together. His manipulative, controlling, and abusive behavior didn't appear immediately, but I should have seen the signs. First it was the way I spoke and my appearance that bothered him. I talked too much, too loudly, too softly, I sang too often, I had unnatural colored hair, didn't like to wear t-shirts or jeans. Which lead to verbal abuse, saying I was too stupid, too slow, too dumb, too ugly, etc. Then it was aggression. Getting angry at me because I had a different opinion, because I didn't want to listen to that song, because I didn't want to bleach my hair blonde. Then there was the hugs that would almost literally suffocate me, holding my hand too tight until it hurt, grabbing onto my arm hard enough to bruise, or punching me. People ask, "Why didn't you contact the authorities?" FEAR. (He would break things, punch holes in the wall, and even pull out a knife or a baseball bat aiming it at me.) It was a cycle, a pattern, that I got sucked into. He told me he loved me, but he would hit me, then tell me that he only acted that way because he loved me, then he'd say that he didn't mean to hurt me, that it was an accident and that it wouldn't happen again, and I would forgive him, because I believed him at first. About 6 months in, I knew I had to find a way out, but I was stuck and scared, and I couldn't get my family involved.

So I threw myself into art. I had never been so productive in art, until I used this median to escape the crippling reality that I was in a toxic and abusive relationship that I couldn't get out of. It was a cage in the deepest pit and there was no key, no map, and no sign of any hope of it changing, but there was a silver lining. It had been 3 years, and no one knew what was happening to me. I hid my bruises and never brought them up. (He was always suspicious and aware of my behavior, keeping tabs on everything I said, did, or posted.) If I did something he didn't like, I was sure to get another bruise somewhere. I worked and went to school but it wasn't enough. It was a temporary relief from my situation, and provided me a few hours of rest from having to be this thing that looked like me but wasn't me. To avoid punishment, I molded myself into his ideals, wants, needs, neglecting my own, and putting up with the trauma that kept me awake at night, fearing that it would be my last night alive. Living that cycle until July 2016. Slowly I had moved items back to my parent's house, little by little until all I had left were a few boxes and the TV my mom bought me. I told him that I was leaving, and that I was taking the TV. He threatened me, got mad, calling me a slut and whore, I held firm in my resolve, but it escalated. At one point as I was gathering my things, he hit me with a broom using enough force for it to snap, but I moved in time to block it with my leg. Seeing that I blocked his attack, he then tried to scare me by picking up his metal baseball bat, while also degrading me. After 3 years of keeping my mouth shut and taking the hits, I was so tired of it, and fought back, pushing him away but he was stronger, quicker and knew how to fight. He quickly pinned me in a choke hold strong enough that I heard a pop and my ear started ringing in pain. He then threw me onto the floor bombarded me with punches, before kicking me in the ribs so hard I lost my lunch, as well as felt like something had burst, it was a hot burning pain that felt like molten lava inside of me.

Crying in pain on the bathroom floor, curled up in the fetal position, I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE THAT NIGHT. Everything seemed to slow down, immense pain flooded through me in deep waves, I held onto my ribs, feeling sick to my stomach, thinking to myself that this was it. I started saying my "goodbyes" hoping that somehow my words would reach the ones I love, saying "I'm sorry that it would end this way," and that I hoped they would live happy lives despite my not being able to see them ever again. But then, alone in the locked bathroom, I heard a voice. (Probably from being delirious from pain.) It sounded like my grandpa. By this time he had already been dead for two years, and I could hear him clearly as if he was right next to me, and he said "Melody, everything will be okay, come home, I love you." I didn't know whether it was the adrenaline finally kicking but the pain dulled enough for me to get up, which was difficult because my leg had been also kicked and bruised from before, but it didn't matter right now. Because right now what mattered was getting out. AND THAT'S WHAT I DID. I got up washed my face, wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and walked out of that bathroom. Without saying a word I picked up the boxes I packed up, taking anything else I would need, including the tv. AND I LEFT.

I NEVER TURNED BACK. From that moment forward I had made a promise to myself that I would never make myself miserable by forcing myself to be something I'm not, and putting up with abuse. I was done with being a puppet, and wanted to be me. It was tough, I was broken. I had abandoned my true self for 3 years, and was left a shattered person. I had nightmares that made me feel like I was still there, being abused. I had nightmares of that night on the bathroom floor in pain for months before they started to fade away. I was afraid to leave the house, and still no one knew. It wasn't until one day, around the end of October 2016, that I woke up in pain from the cuts all over my body realizing what I had done. I tried to bury my pain inside, with no one to talk to, it ate away at me, and lead me to drink copious amounts in attempt to commit suicide. I broke down crying. I couldn't remember what happened the night before, and I knew I needed to tell someone, but I was afraid that it would drive the ones I love, further away from me. I felt like I was a monster that deserved to die. BUT I REACHED OUT. I talked to my closest friends and family, but the pain was fresh and it was difficult to keep together. I was a crying mess, feeling as though I was only burdening them with my problems. Despite my fears, they were very kind to me and tried their best to console. It helped me feel a bit better, but I felt empty. I DIDN'T KNOW WHO I WAS ANYMORE. I had spent years molding myself into everything that I wasnt, and because of that, I forgot who I really was, and I didn't know what to do. I WAS LOST. Slowly I started picking up hobbies that I enjoyed again. I started writing, reading, playing video games, working on art. Anything to keep my mind occupied so that I wouldn't fall back into depression. I still couldn't sleep at night, so I started spending nights on drawing, while taking naps during the day. LITTLE BY LITTLE I MADE PROGRESS I started singing and dancing again. I started to get back in shape and was able to lose 60 lbs in the first year since coming back.

It has been about two years now, since all of that, and it no longer holds weight on me. I have mostly recovered, I'm happy, and healthy, and most important I CONTINUE TO MOVE FORWARD I cannot erase my past, I cannot remove it, I can only learn from it, and continue moving forward. I cannot let someone else determine my life story, nor can I live in fear. It is not easy, but everyday I wake up and I see myself today, remembering that I AM ALIVE💜 ▪WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY EXPERIENCE▪ Despite everything that happened, I couldn't hate him. Sure I hated what he did to me, but I couldn't hate what he had become because he was shaped by his experiences and environment. He had a troubled childhood and didn't know any proper ways of dealing with stress or anger. I learned that no matter what walk of life we traverse from, we are each riddled with our own bullets of pain, and that is why I can't truly hate him or anyone. Everyone has their own scars that are healing and IT'S OKAY TO NOT BE OKAY, ☆ as long as you don't inflict pain on yourself or others, and instead use it productively.☆ ▪USE YOUR FRUSTRATIONS TO CREATE▪ It can be anything like exercise, playing sports, drawing, painting, writing, music, building something, etc. ▪YOUR LIFE IS WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO DO OR NOT DO▪ I thought that I was stuck but I realized that I was only stuck because I let my fear keep me in that cage. ▪PLANS AREN'T ALWAYS FULL PROOF, ALWAYS HAVE AN EXIT STRATEGY AND DON'T BE AFRAID TO ASK FOR HELP▪ I was able to get out because I planned carefully, but plans aren't always full proof, so it's always good to talk to someone and get help when in any situation. I was lucky that I survived, but talking to my friends and family has put me at ease, and I now know that if I ever need help, they have my back. 💜So PLEASE if you're going through something terrible but you're afraid, try to reach out to friends, family, and the appropriate authorities if you need help!💜