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happiest-hotch · 1 year

Text

3 AM

part one

Summary: Aaron shows up somewhere he shouldn't be with some words for you

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader (Angst/Fluff)

Word Count: 1.4k

Content Warning: mutual cheating

You go home to a house that doesn't feel like home, which isn't anything new, but today, it upsets you. Maybe it's too late, and the case drained you too much. Your self-preservation instincts refuse you to consider an outside factor.

Thankfully, your need for sleep trumps any chance of facing an existential crisis, so instead of staring at the ceiling wondering how your life got to this point, you're asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow.

It doesn't last long. Too soon, a knock on your door wakes you, and you reach for your phone to check the time. 2:52- great. If it were BAU-related, Penelope would have called and left messages before pounding on your door in the early morning. You run through who it could be. Maybe your pathetic excuse of a husband lost his keys, but nothing would inspire him to come home unless he learned of your affair and was hypocritically mad. Or it could be much more mundane; police, firefighters, a neighbor.

Speculation gets too exhausting, so you get up and walk to the front door, checking your gun is sitting on the side table before opening the door.

It's one of the last people you expect. You wrap your robe tighter around yourself, defensive and hyper-aware that he's in jeans and a shirt, and you're in a tank and sleeping shorts.

"Hotch." You greet him coldly, colder than the chilly DC night air.

He didn't expect a more positive reaction. "Don't call me that." He says slightly too pathetically.

"What can I do for you?" You ask, unsure what's compelling you to continue the conversation and not just slam the door in his face.

He shouldn't be here.

He knows it, you know he knows it, and you know it.

"Let me in." The Unit Chief tone, commanding authority, is nowhere to be heard, no matter how hard he tries to muster it up.

You sigh, momentarily weighing the pros and cons before stepping aside. Aaron follows you in carefully. Houses, thus far, have been off limits, like there was some unwritten rule neither of you would show up at the other places, knowing the consequences, but he's here, and you're still not sure why.

As you lead him down the hallway, Aaron keeps his head down, obviously trying to avoid being nosey. It's amusing since the personal pieces he assumes you have and refuses to look at don't exist. You wonder if he's drawing similarities between you and where you live, both beautiful on the outside and empty on the inside.

"Is he-" His question quickly gets reframed. "Are you alone?"

"I was." You answer. "He's in Pierre, South Dakota."

"Our case was in Pierre, Sou- Oh." Unsurprisingly, he put it together quickly. Pierre, South Dakota, is not a big enough place for you not to have run into your husband.

You laugh humorlessly. "I know. It's smart to have an infallible lie, but maybe not that specific." You remark. "He's actually in Miami. I checked the credit card and told him our case was there, so he always has to look over his shoulder."

Aaron doesn't smirk at what you consider a wonderfully devious plan. Instead, he looks concerned. "You still have joint credit cards? Are you keeping any money he can't touch?"

"Surely you didn't come here to discuss my financials." You shoot back, but he raises his eyebrows, and you know you can't progress the conversation without answering his question. "Yes. I've been to a lawyer and an accountant. He's only running himself into massive amounts of debt." You assure him. "Although, I'm not sure when this became your business."

His answer doesn't come quickly, and when he speaks, it's inadequate. "It's not."

"Okay, so what are you doing here?" You prompt. "Because you look like hell, Aaron, and you could really do with some sleep."

"I went home and sat there for an hour just thinking." He tells you. So, he didn't get lucky enough to fall asleep and avoid dreadful spiraling thoughts.

"You want to talk about your feelings?" You ask incredulously, unsure how he conjured the audacity to come here. His lack of answer is an answer. "No." You shake your head firmly. "You don't get to do this. Whatever we are, we don't discuss feelings."

"We could," Aaron begs desperately. It's not hard to profile that he keeps his emotions bottled up until he's bursting, so you know Aaron's here for a different type of release, for you to drain yourself listening to his problems and leave before he can consider that you have feelings.

You could hit him hard enough that he stops talking, and it's tempting.

"I'm okay with running to you when you want to have sex, but I can't be who you run to when you want to talk to someone about your day." You explain it as simple as you possibly can.

"I don't think of you like that," Aaron assures you, his eyes softening as his words fall short of being stern.

Frustrated, you huff. You're tired and wound up, easily upset, and Aaron shouldn't be here. "Well, I have to think of you like that... or I can't sleep with you and not feel anything."

"You're not hearing me." He argues, a tiny flicker of the fire you saw before appearing in his eyes. "I want you to feel things."

You bit down on your bottom lip to avoid crying. You've become so callous to everything around you, bottled so much of it up that it's difficult to let any emotion show without breaking the floodgate.

"You don't." You fight back, although it comes off far weaker than you expected. "I'm messy, my whole life is just one disaster after another, and I'll never excite you if we're not sneaking around."

Aaron's hands come to cup your cheeks, surprising you completely. It's a soft touch that has your lips closed in a second. "Don't say that." He instructs, speaking firmly but gently. "You're not a mess, not at all."

"Look at where we are, Aaron!" You remind him, throwing your arm at your side. For a detail-orientated person, he's only focusing on the big picture. "I'm married, you're married, and this is so damn messy."

"I know, I know." He nods. "It's... less than ideal, but we can get through it." He promises, holding you tighter now, like he's worried you'll slip away. "I want to be there for you. I don't care about any mistakes from your past. And please, please don't say that you won't excite me because I will always be excited every time I see you." It's enough to have you in gentle tears, not angry, heavy sobs, and he does his best to wipe them up delicately. "But if you don't feel the same way..."

Aaron's waiting for your decision, and he isn't about to add more pressure, but he will stand there for as long as you need to decide.

"I do." You affirm. "God, Aaron, I want to be with you more than anything, but I'm not sure I know how to." Being married is just a technicality now, and a divorce is something you're fiscally ready to do now.

"Tea." He decides, his permanently furrowed brows relaxing.

"Tea?" You repeat.

He moves slightly away from you. "Where's the kitchen?" You're still confused about why now is the right time for tea, so you wait for him to explain. "I'm going to make you tea, and we're going to drink it while you tell me how you're feeling, and then whatever you want- a drive, breakfast, you name it, it's yours."

You pull away from him, offering your hand to take him to the kitchen. "Sleep is what we're doing after this." You tell him. "I don't say it to be mean, but you do look like hell."

"Wait." He stops you before you're in the kitchen, turning to hold your hands in his. "You need to know that I don't care about anything in your distant or soon-to-be past, but it's always going to be my privilege to be part of your future."

Aaron isn't meant to be here, and you aren't either, but wherever you're meant to be, it's with him.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds angst #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds family

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five-rivers · 3 years

Text

Danger First

Chapter 9

@pocketramblr

Banjo took Hikage to the side while the other ghosts were still wading through their existential crisis.

"Man," he said, "Hikage, bro. You know I love you."

"You do?"

"Like... at least eighty-five percent of the time."

"Ah, continue."

"But next time you think one of us has a secret relative out there, you've got to say something so we don't get blindsided."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Alright, then. I couldn't help but notice that both Ninth's mother and 'Tomura' share a strong resemblance to Nana."

"... I've changed my mind."

Although Midoriya Inko had abandoned the tech conference as soon as she heard about the attack on the USJ, she, unlike the mist villain, could not teleport. Therefore, Izuku was stuck in the nurse's office even after he had woken up and paramedics had confirmed that his injuries began and ended at bruises and quirk exhaustion. (And a potentially fractured bone in his foot, but that wasn't worth mentioning.)

Sitting next to the police officer with nothing to do was... awkward. Very awkward. His hands itched for his notebooks, but everything they brought to the USJ was evidence, and he hadn't been allowed to go back to the classroom. He wanted to know what happened to his classmates and Mr. Aizawa, who he hadn't seen since he ran away from the plaza and left him with the hand villain, and Mr. Yagi, who had really taken a beating from Nomu. Danger Sense was quiet, relatively speaking, but Float was just waiting to be used and tested.

Plus, he really, really had to talk to Mr. Yagi about that. Loads of his classmates had seen him use Float. How was he supposed to explain having Float right after telling them he probably had a sensory quirk?

Plus, if he got Float, it stood to reason that he'd get all the other One for All users' quirks as well. So he had to figure out how to make Danger Sense, Float, Smokescreen, Blackwhip, and a strength enhancement all look like the same quirk. Which, maybe they were, technically, considering that Monoma had sensed One for All as a single quirk but whatever was going on with the mist villain as multiple quirks...

Point was, One for All definitely functioned as multiple quirks.

Would his friends think he was lying? No, he'd definitely proven Danger Sense existed by predicting, however loosely, the attack.

"Hey, Tamakawa."

Izuku and the officer looked up at one of the detectives who had come to take initial statements. His name was... Tsukauchi, Izuku thought. Mr. Yagi (as Mr. Yagi) was standing behind him.

"I can take it from here. I have a few more questions for Midoriya."

"Yes, sir. Midoriya." He nodded at them as he left the room.

"How are you feeling, Young Midoriya?" asked Mr. Yagi, taking the officer's spot with a slight groan.

"Uh, better than this morning, actually," he said. "But, um, but what about you? That Nomu guy kept, um..." His eyes trailed towards the detective.

"Ah, this is Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa. He's an old friend of mine. He knows... well, just about everything about me."

Izuku nodded slowly. "So, he knows about, um..."

"I know about One for All," said Tsukauchi.

"Oh," said Izuku. He rapidly gathered together his thoughts, trying to decide what the most important piece of information he had to impart was. "Do you know what happened to Mr. Aizawa? And Ingenium?"

That was most definitely not a piece of information. Stupid brain.

"The portal villain, Kurogiri, teleported Aizawa off UA grounds, but he was able to get help quickly after that. Ingenium had some injuries that need a specialist, so he went home. They'll be alright, but they'll probably have to take a few days off."

"Yes," said Tsukauchi, giving Mr. Yagi one of the driest looks Izuku had ever seen. "Because you heroes are so good about that."

"Teaching isn't exactly strenuous, Naomasa."

"Remind me again how you got injured this time."

Mr. Yagi made a face Izuku would have found hilarious under other circumstances. "That's different," he said, plaintively.

"Is it though?"

Mr. Yagi coughed. "Now, Midoriya, my boy... I'm sure you have things you want to talk about... I think I glimpsed you soaring through the air, earlier. Did you unlock the enhancement aspect of One for All?"

"No," said Izuku. "Not exactly."

"Well," said Mr. Yagi. "That's, hm. Certainly something."

"Sorry," said Izuku.

"You have nothing to apologize for, my boy," said Mr. Yagi, patting his knee. "In fact, it's a good thing that you got Float this time. I'd be at a loss about what to do with Smokescreen or Blackwhip. But I'm fairly familiar with my master's quirk, and, well, there's someone else who I should... get back into contact with..." Mr. Yagi force the words out as if they had physically pained him to say.

Which they might have. He did have the whole... coughing... thing. Maybe he was just trying to hold one back?

"Mr. Yagi? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Okay, are you sure?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to bring the next part up if Mr. Yagi wasn't feeling well.

"Yes," said Mr. Yagi. "I just, hm. It's just... history."

Izuku nodded. "So, um. Did you hear Monoma say that the mist guy - Kurogiri? - had multiple quirks, too? Like Nomu?"

The mood plummeted.

"Yes," said Tsukauchi. "He told me, and I told Toshinori. It appears that Kurogiri's warp quirk is actually several different quirks working as one. Merged together, almost."

Izuku nodded. "I was just wondering... One for All can be passed on, so... are there other quirks like that? Like, if the first person with One for All had family members or something? Or..." Izuku trailed off. Mr. Yagi now looked actively ill. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Toshinori," said Tsukauchi, "you mean you didn't tell him already?"

"In my defense, I thought he was extremely dead."

"What- Who are you talking about?"

"My boy... I think it's time to tell you a story of two brothers..."

"So, One for All comes with a built in nemesis? Who may be immortal?"

"That- He's not... It would appear so."

"I am somehow both surprised and not."

"There's one more thing I wanted to ask you about before your mother arrives," said Mr. Yagi.

"Please tell me it's not something worse, like me being a descendant of the guy," requested Izuku, picking the worst, most ridiculous thing he could think of.

Tsukauchi snorted, then covered the noise up with a cough.

"I seriously doubt that All for One could maintain a romantic relationship of any kind," said Mr. Yagi, "and even if you were, it wouldn't really matter. I mean, his own brother hated his guts."

"That's a bit extreme..." murmured Yoichi.

"Considering some of the rants we've gotten you to go on," said En, "it really isn't."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But the rest of it-" Yoichi promptly left to harass Second and Third.

"How can you two be so close and yet so far?" mourned Nana. "How are you so smart and so dumb at the same time?"

"In Ninth's defense," said En, "he doesn't know what All for One looks like."

"Surely he knows what his father looks like. He sees his picture almost every day," said Hikage.

"Admittedly, I could have phrased that better, but are you rubbing that in, or are you serious? I've known you for, like, half a century and I still can't tell."

Despite the example being a joke, Izuku felt much better after hearing that.

"But, no, this subject is relatively neutral and nothing so dramatic. I was hoping to get your permission to tell young Aizawa about One for All."

Izuku opened and closed his mouth several times. "H-huh? Why? And why do you want my permission? You don't need my permission."

"One for All is your quirk, now," said Yagi, "and your secret. It's up to you who knows about it. Outside of an emergency, I suppose. As for why in general..." Mr. Yagi sighed. "There are things young Aizawa needs to know about the villains with multiple quirks and All for One. I can't tell you the details right now, but with how One for All is manifesting in you, if he only knows about All for One, it would be very easy for him to make incorrect assumptions."

"Oh," said Izuku. He could certainly see how that could be dangerous. He didn't want his teacher to associate him with a villain like that.

"Also, if he knows what's happening, it will be easier for him to help you," finished Mr. Yagi hopefully.

Izuku thought about it. "I guess that would be alright. But... He's not the only person who'll know about my quirk being weird and All for One, right? I mean, the Hero Commission, at least..."

"To be entirely honest with you, I tell the HPSC as little as possible about All for One and One for All."

"What? Why?" asked Izuku.

"Well-"

"Izuku!"

"Mom!"

"I'll explain later," said All Might quickly.

Kurogiri passed a damp washcloth over the burns on his neck. The metal of his collar was a conductor, and the charge the young man with the electricity quirk had sent through it had been significant. It was only natural for it to get hot, for it to burn.

He should go to the Doctor... Some of the collar's functionality seemed to be damaged. He brushed his mist covered fingers over the cool metal.

Tomura wouldn't tell the Doctor. Kurogiri cared deeply for Tomura, but the young man was certainly shallow and unlikely to realize the extent of Kurogiri's injuries. He was more likely to focus on his own, not insignificant, wounds.

In contrast to those, Kurogiri's paled. He wasn't nearly as important as Tomura, after all.

It should be fine to let his wounds and the collar be. It would do what it was supposed to and protect the vulnerable areas of his body, internal damage or no. He just had to be careful of the burns becoming infected, especially since he couldn't see them.

Sometimes, he wished his body was like it was before...

Kurogiri frowned at the thought even as it faded from his consciousness. He had been created by All for One fully formed. His body had always been like this.

Hadn't it?

Shouta had been in and out of consciousness the past few hours. Apparently he'd never been in serious danger of dying, except from shock, which was just his body being dramatic and didn't count. All his major organs were free of serious damage. He just had to regain his stamina so that Recovery Girl could heal him up, and then he'd be fine.

Unlike Tensei, apparently, who had cracked one of his engines, which needed specialist help and surgery to realign the pieces. Or All Might, who had taken hits to his old injury, and needed to take time off or lose more time from his hero form. Or his students, who hadn't been seriously injured but who were probably traumatized.

The last time he had woken up, though, Hizashi had been there. Now, All Might, Nezu, and Detective Tsukauchi were there.

"Thought I already gave my statement," said Shouta.

"You did," said Tsukauchi.

"We're here to give you more information about the attack, I'm afraid," said Nezu.

"Information I won't like?"

"It can wait until you feel better, of course."

"That's illogical," said Shouta. "The sooner I get the information, the more time I have to process it."

All Might, Yagi, sighed. "Nomu and the portal-using villain both had multiple quirks."

Shouta frowned. "You mean, they had quirks with multiple aspects?"

"No," said Nezu. "As Yagi said, they had multiple quirks. This was confirmed by both the villains' comments and by Monoma, who made contact with the portal villain and was able to copy multiple quirks."

"Kurogiri," said Shouta. "That's what the other one called him. Shigaraki."

Nezu nodded. "Indeed. We weren't sure you had heard that." He tapped his paws together. "What we are about to tell you is classified. We are only sharing it with you because of your unique position and history."

"In the wrong hands, it could cause a lot of damage," said Yagi.

Only two things kept Shouta from leaping out the window and escaping: the fact that he was basically immobilized in plaster casts and the fact that his students were already involved in whatever this was.

"Great. What is it?"

"To begin," said Tsukauchi, "Monoma said he was able to copy three quirks from Kurogiri."

"That's up from what he could do before," observed Shouta. Stress did push quirks to improve, sometimes, although Shouta hated for the improvement to be associated with trauma.

Tsukauchi nodded. "He made note of that as well. He said he picked up a quirk that allowed him to turn his body parts into portals that led to other body parts, a quirk allowed him to temporarily teleport his body parts, and..." he trailed off.

"And a quirk that at the very least bears a strong resemblance to Shirakumo Oboro's Cloud."

"What are you saying?" asked Shouta, ignoring the way his heart had almost stopped.

"At the moment? Only that it is very strange that Kurogiri had a quirk like that, and sent you to the place where Shirakumo Oboro died."

"Oboro would never-"

"We're not saying that," interrupted Yagi. He coughed into his hand. "There's more context. Have you ever heard of the quirk bogeyman?"

"I can't wait to never sleep again I'm my entire life," said Shouta.

"Wait," said Tsukauchi, "it gets worse."

"How could it get worse?"

"Naomasa, you're supposed to be on my side," complained Yagi.

"I am. That's why I'll stop Eraserhead here from trying to kill you after you finish explaining."

"Well, it has to do with young Midoriya's quirk..."

"Let me get this straight, you gave the quirk with an immortal supervillain archenemy attached to a child... and didn't tell him that the supervillain existed."

"When you say it like that, it sounds really bad-"

"It is really bad-!"

"If I'd known he was still alive-"

"What part of immortal do you not understand?"

"Shouta, I, too, believed that All for One-"

"Shut up, Nezu! I don't have the energy to be mad at both of you right now!"

Yagi, Tsukauchi, and Nezu were all shown out by an irate nurse while a different but equally irate nurse replaced the plaster cast on Shouta's arm.

It had definitely been worth it.

Just because school was canceled, that didn't mean training was canceled.

... except it did, both because Inko was too stressed to let Izuku out of the house, and because Mr. Yagi had a meeting to go to about the attack.

But the second day after the attack was a different story!

That morning, Mr. Yagi pulled up in front of Izuku's apartment in Hercules (still so cool!) and picked him up.

Izuku bounced enthusiastically into the car and then froze. "Oh my gosh, what happened to your eye? Was it a villain? How hard did they hit you?" his hands fluttered. "I have some cream-"

"Oh," said Mr. Yagi, "no need, young Midoriya! I, er, sort of deserved it. It's a sort of reminder to take it easy, too. People would be disturbed to see All Might with a black eye, after all!" He smiled, then winced.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, very. You should buckle up, my boy."

"Oh, right," said Izuku. "So, where are we going? You said there was someone you wanted to introduce me to."

"Yes," said Mr. Yagi. "My old teacher. It's been a while since I've seen him. Hopefully he won't make up for lost time with a kick to the face..."

"What?"

"Don't worry about it."

When Mr. Yagi spent most of the way over muttering about kicks to the face and head, Izuku decided that he should, in fact, worry about it.

The broken-down building was not what Izuku had been expecting.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" asked Izuku.

"Absolutely," said Mr. Yagi, who was shaking somewhat. "This Pavlovian response only confirms it."

"Um." The building looked condemned. "Maybe he moved."

"One can only hope," said Mr. Yagi. "Maybe you sh- No. I have to see this through." He steeled himself visibly, squaring shoulders. "Please not a kick to the face," he said, under his breath.

"Is he really that bad?" asked Izuku.

"My boy, I guarantee you that he's worse."

"Poor kid has no idea what's coming," said Banjo. "Although we wouldn't have believed it either if we weren't riding along and watching."

"Nana," said En, "I just want to reiterate that I'm very glad you never thought about giving One for All to Gran Torino."

"Come on. Sorahiko isn't that bad," protested Nana.

"We know," said everyone else, "he's worse."

They walked up to the apartment building door. Mr. Yagi sighed heavily on seeing the door was hanging open, which was a radically different reaction than what Izuku would have expected.

"Is Danger Sense doing anything?"

"I don't think so?"

"Let me know if that changes."

"R-right," said Izuku. Mr. Yagi pushed the door in, and Izuku followed cautiously after him.

They went down a few hallways, peeking in rooms. Then they got to the kitchen, and Izuku covered his mouth with both hands with a gasp at the grisly, bloody scene. Gran Torino laid on the floor in a pool of red liquid. "Oh my gosh, he's-"

At the same time, Mr. Yagi said, "At least it's not a kic-"

The supposedly dead hero was suddenly airborne, and flying towards Mr. Yagi, foot first. Specifically, at his face. "You thou-"

Danger Sense spiked. It was a tiny spike, but still.

Izuku reacted. Specifically, with nerves shot by the USJ attack, he reacted violently, lashing out with a fist, swatting Gran Torino out of the air and back into the puddle of what was, in retrospect, probably diluted ketchup.

For a moment, everything was silent.

"Oh my gosh," wailed Izuku. "I assaulted a senior citizen!"

Gran Torino bounced back to his feet. "I like this kid, Toshinori!"

"I'm... glad?"

"Now show me what you've g-"

"Gran, please, we're only here for quirk help, not battle training."

"What's the difference? You're going to want to use it in battle eventually, right?"

"I mean," said Izuku, hesitantly, feeling like he had whiplash several times over, "yes?"

"See?"

"Just help with controlling Float. Please." Mr. Yagi pressed his hands together. "Please do not pick a quirk fight with a civilian teenager. Please."

"We are on private property."

"Assault is still illegal on private property."

"He's the one who hit me!"

"I know! I'm so sorry," said Izuku, doing his best to bow in the cramped space. "It was a reflex."

"After you attacked me!"

"Yeah, but you knew I was going to do that!"

"That doesn't make it better!"

Gran Torino turned to Izuku. "Kid, I don't know how you did it, but it looks like you made this big softy grow a backbone. Next step is to see if you can get him to do this with Mirai, too."

"Um," said Izuku. "I think he already had a backbone? He's All Might, after all."

"Nah, he's just a giant spindly amoeba who needs to take better care of himself."

Mr. Yagi slumped.

"But back on topic," said Gran Torino, eyes much sharper than before. "Do you really have Nana's quirk, kid?"

"Y-yeah. I think so. It was only a little bit, during the attack, but... yeah."

"Let's see what you can do with it, then."

"Um," said Izuku.

"Gran, maybe you should get cleaned up first? Young Midoriya and I can take care of the kitchen..."

"You don't know how to turn it on, do you?"

"Not really, no," said Izuku.

"We've got our work for today cut out for us, then, don't we, you zygotes?"

Wow. Gran Torino really did call people zygotes.

Wild.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #danger first #danger first au #fic #fanfic

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persephone-plasmids · 3 years

Text

Nuka-World

A Deacon X Sole Fanfic

[AO3]

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Nuka-World

“I guess I’m just confused about why they dedicated an entire section of the park to their space theme. Why not just a ride?” MacCready asked, eyeing the Star Port tower in the Galactic Zone at Nuka-World.

“To get the youth excited about space exploration,” Danse answered in his usual serious tone. “They wanted to recruit potential cadets young.”

MacCready pulled a face at this explanation. “Do kids really like space, though?”

“Seriously, MacCready?” Sole asked. “You have a kid. You should know this.”

Deacon listened to the group theorizing over the chosen aesthetic of Nuka-World while he slid a Cappy shirt over his head with a grin.

“I know Dez sent us here to recover the kidnapped synth, but all this free merch is going to be incredibly distracting,” Deacon said.

At his words, Sole’s eyes grew large. “Where did you get that? I want one!”

Deacon nodded to the merchandise rack behind him and smiled as Sole scampered over with pure joy in her eyes. Danse watched with slight disapproval while MacCready continued examining the Star Port in confusion.

Bringing the tin can and the grumpy sniper along hadn’t been Deacon’s idea. Dez had said they’d need more than just Deacon and Sole on this mission since they had so much ground to cover. When Deacon had suggested Tinker Tom, Dez had just laughed and told Sole to ask some of “her people”. Whatever that meant.

Apparently, Sole’s “people” were a self-hating synth boy scout and MacCready, whose skill Deacon respected, but he still didn’t like the idea of someone honing in on his mission.

“This entire park seems wildly unsafe for children,” Danse said, his thick brows knitted together in a line.

“Nuka Cola has always been a bit shady,” MacCready agreed. “Makes sense that their park wouldn’t be quite as kid-friendly as it should be.”

“All right, I’m ready to get this show on the road,” Sole said, walking out from the back room of the merchandise area with a Cappy shirt and cowboy hat.

“No fair! I didn’t see the hat!” Deacon whined. “I would have taken it for myself.”

“We can share custody,” Sole promised with a grin in Deacon’s direction.

Deacon screwed up his face as he thought this over. “Fine, but I get weekends and holidays.”

“Deal.” Sole gave him one of her smiles that reminded him why he needed to keep his distance from her emotionally. One of the smiles that made him want all the things he couldn’t have.

He ignored it.

“You’re both wrong,” MacCready said, snatching the hat quickly from Sole’s head and placing it on his own. “This baby’s coming with me.”

Sole laughed at this, making Deacon feel that familiar pang of jealousy again. He prided himself on making Sole laugh. He didn’t love that someone else was currently taking over his favorite job.

“You two are going to Dry Rock Gulch, I guess it’s only fair that you get the cowboy hat, RJ,” Sole said, straightening the hat on MacCready’s head with a familiarity that made Deacon feel much less in control of himself than he normally was.

“We should get going before it gets too dark,” Deacon said with a forced smile. “We don’t want Danse rusting from the evening dew.”

“Negative, soldier, “ Danse said. “My power armour doesn’t rust.”

“At ease,” Deacon responded with a little salute at the former Brotherhood of Steel Paladin. “Try to enjoy yourself a little Danse. Despite what they told you in the Brotherhood, it won’t actually kill you.”

Danse gave him a look like he wasn’t amused by his joke before turning away and heading towards Dry Rock Gulch with MacCready.

“Geez,” Deacon said. “Never send that guy on a stealth mission. I swear we’ll be able to hear his power armor clomping around through the whole park.”

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing we already cleared out those raiders, huh?”

“No thanks to the tin can and grumpy pants over there,” Deacon said, now smiling at Sole.

“That one was a Deacon and Sole special,” Sole answered. “We didn’t need any outside assistance.”

Deacon nodded at this, watching Sole for a moment too long before realizing he was being weird. He realized that a lot around Sole. He had to constantly remind himself how he acted around people who didn’t make him feel the way Sole did. It was exhausting.

“I say we head over to that old junkyard. If I was a Synth in hiding, that’s where I’d go,” Sole said.

“You got it, boss,” Deacon answered, following her as she began walking.

The two walked in silence for a long time. Deacon guessed that Sole was thinking about the mission. Deacon, of course, was having another mini existential crisis regarding Sole. But he was also attempting to lie to himself about his feelings, which turned it into a whole thing. He could be a very convincing liar.

When the two rounded an old abandoned building, Deacon was shocked to see a crowd right in front of them.

“Whoa, hold up,” Deacon said, placing his arm straight out to stop Sole from walking.

It was too little too late though. The group of people in space suits standing had clearly seen them. How had Deacon missed them? They were literally a handful of weirdos in space suits.

Sole had distracted him with her very existence again. This was why he had to stop letting himself explore any potential feelings for her. They just got in the way of their missions. They made him sloppy. And sloppy could very well mean “dead” in this situation.

“Greetings,” one of the space-suit-clad people said, taking a step forward.

Deacon placed one hand behind his back where he kept a gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. The other hand was wrapped tightly around Sole’s arm, keeping her in a safe position slightly behind him.

“Listen, we’re looking for information on--” Sole began, but the woman who appeared to be the leader of the odd group before them interrupted her.

“Are you here to help us get the spaceship up and running?” the woman asked. Her slightly crazed eyes were wide and bloodshot.

Sole furrowed her brow and looked at Deacon who was still trying to understand what he’d just heard.

“The great power above told us they would send someone soon. You, my weary traveler, must be the one to help us rebuild our spacecraft.”

“No,” Sole said slowly. “We’re just here too--” but again she was interrupted, this time by Deacon’s hand placed clumsily over her lips.

“Wait just… shush for a second,” he whispered with the widest grin she’d ever seen. “This is amazing.” He looked like a kid on Christmas. “Yes, my fair… uh… lady. We were sent from the head honcho in the stars to come offer our support for your interstellar travels.”

Deacon’s voice had adopted a grand tone and he released his concealed gun to instead gesture widely at the group in front of him.

“Excellent news, kind sir,” the woman said. “I am Dara. Come. We don’t have much time. Follow us.”

“Lead the way my most excellent and esteemed priestess,” Deacon said.

Sole looked over at the spy incredulously, mouthing a quick, “What are you doing?” to him.

She wasn’t sure if Deacon hadn’t understood her question or if he was just willfully ignoring her, because he simply clapped his hands together and mouthed back, “I know, right?”

The space-suit-clad group led them through the old junkyard to a red metal object that looked an awful lot like an old carnival ride. It was supposed to look like a UFO, but anyone could see it wasn’t any kind of actual aircraft.

“Ah yes, a fine specimen indeed,” Deacon said when they approached the ride. His voice was still serious as he spoke, though Sole knew him well enough to hear the pure glee behind it. “And what, pray tell, can we do to get this up and running for you again?”

“We have the fusion cells we need right here,” Dara said. “But we don’t know how to install them. If you can get our craft up and running, I know we’ll be on our way to our higher forms soon enough.”

“You’ll be on your way somewhere,” Sole scoffed under her breath, obviously not enjoying this nearly as much as Deacon.

“Well then step inside and get comfortable,” Deacon said with a grin. “I’ll get these fusion cores installed… uh… posthaste.”

Sole snorted at this, to which Deacon elbowed her. He didn’t want her giving him away just because she found him amusing.

Dara led the group of space cadets into the UFO ride and shut the door behind her, leaving Sole and Deacon alone.

“Okay, what in the actual world is going on?” Sole asked incredulously.

“I know! This is seriously amazing,” Deacon said, barely able to contain his joy. “These people actually think this is a spaceship!”

“I’m pretty sure this is a Gravitron,” Sole said. “They had them at the local carnival every year before the war. I used to love this ride.”

Sole’s eyes adopted that distant look they got whenever she talked about her time before the Vault-Tec incident. It made him feel sad for her, before he selfishly realized that if Vault-Tec hadn’t frozen her, he never would have met her.

“Will it be safe for me to fix it for them?” Deacon asked, Sole. He wanted to mess with the space cult, not kill them.

“They might get a bit motion sick,” Sole began. “But they should be fine.”

At her words, Deacon’s face adopted a mischievous grin that made Sole’s cheeks flush. “Excellent.”

Deacon installed the fusion cores Dara had given him without much effort before holding his hand out to Sole.

“Shall we?”

Sole let a grin spread across her full lips, taking Deacon’s hand in her own. “I can handle this ride, but I’m not sure you really understand what you’re in for.”

“You don’t think I could handle your ride?” Deacon asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively at her.

Sole took a step closer to Deacon, leaning close to him so that her lips were against his ear. “I know you couldn’t handle my ride, stealth boy.”

Deacon shivered involuntarily at her words and the feeling of her breath against his ear, but as quickly as the moment had happened, it passed. Sole pulled Deacon into the UFO ride with her, leaving him with a lingering mental image that he’d have to examine more thoroughly when he was alone later.

“This impeccably dressed harbinger of your more superior forms has successfully repaired your vessel,” Sole announced loudly, holding up Deacon’s hand. She looked over at him with a grin that set his heart on overdrive. “Not only was he able to repair your vessel, but he’s also promised to personally make sure his work is beyond reproach by coming along with you.”

“The star angel speaks the truth,” Deacon said, making Sole snort laugh again, though she was a bit better about covering this one up. “Sole, if you’ll do the honors.”

“Everybody up against the wall,” Sole said, watching as the space cult obeyed. “Deacon? Up against the wall?”

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to say that to me,” He said with a grin.

Sole just rolled her eyes and pointed at the wall, waiting for him to oblige. When everyone was in position, she took her place in the middle of the metal room and flipped the switch.

In an instant, the ride began to hum as the floor started to vibrate. At first, nothing moved and Deacon worried he hadn’t actually managed to fix the ride. But as the humming grew louder, the room began to spin.

Sole stayed in place in the center of the room and Deacon tried to keep his eyes on her, but as the rotations became quicker and quicker, he had to close his eyes. The force of the rotating ride crushed him against the padded wall of the room and he had to press his lips together to keep from getting sick. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the ride began to slow down until it eventually stopped.

When Deacon opened his eyes, the world was still spinning. Sole was watching him as if waiting for him to speak to the cult, but he couldn’t form a single thought.

“The mission has been a success,” Sole finally said, seeing that Deacon was completely useless at the moment. “Your craft has been repaired and will be ready for your final voyage once your preparations are complete.”

“Bless you,” Dara said, looking at Sole. “Bless both of you.”

Without another word, Dara and the other cultists left the UFO, leaving Deacon clutching the wall and breathing heavily. In an instant, Sole was beside him. She supported him as Deacon tilted his head down.

“Told you you couldn’t handle this ride,” Sole said, her voice lined with amusement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deacon said. “I feel fantastic. Think I might go run a marathon with Hancock later.”

Sole placed her hand on Deacon’s cheek gently, lifting his eyes to hers. He still felt sick, but the more she touched him, the less he seemed to notice the motion sickness.

“Hey lightweight, what do you think Danse and MacCready will say when they find out an old carnival ride floored you?”

“That question is irrelevant because if you tell them I’ll just deny everything,” he responded. “And of the two of us, who’s the better liar?”

Deacon was grinning at Sole again, but she didn’t smile back. Instead she was watching him curiously, her eyes roaming his face. He was confused by her expression before he realized just how clear she looked to him. Clearer than normal.

Panicked, Deacon brought his hand up to his face to find his sunglasses missing. He’d always been good at putting up walls between himself and everyone else, but he had a hard time doing that with Sole. The sunglasses were the only way he could keep some semblance of distance from her. Without them, he worried she’d see right through him. See who he really was. See how he really felt about her.

Deacon looked around himself for the sunglasses before Sole held them up wordlessly.

“You win, Charmer,” Deacon said with a nervous laugh. “Time to give them back now.”

Deacon reached out for the glasses but Sole held them behind her back with a wicked grin.

“I don’t know that I want you to put them back on. I’m enjoying finally seeing you,” she said, her eyes seeming to bore into his soul.

“No one wants to see this hot mess, trust me,” Deacon said, reaching for the sunglasses but failing to get them. All he managed to do was somehow get even closer to Sole.

“How did I not realize your eyes are blue?” Sole asked, her voice soft. “They’re… stunning.” She instantly blushed at her own words but didn’t back down. And she still didn’t give Deacon his sunglasses back. “They’re not just blue… they’re like… ice blue.”

“Must be all the surgery,” Deacon joked, even though his voice sounded flat.

The truth was, Deacon changed his appearance all the time. But his eyes? His eyes were his own. Always had been. They were the one thing he didn’t change about himself. So to have Sole admiring them in such a personal way felt… amazing.

And dangerous.

Sole bit her lip as she watched him and Deacon swallowed hard. “Why don’t you want anyone to see you?” she asked.

He wanted to tell her that he was scared they wouldn't like what was left after all the lies were stripped away. But he didn’t say that. Instead he said, “Because I don’t want them to fall in love with my beautiful face. It just wouldn’t be fair to destroy some unsuspecting wastelander like that.”

At his words, Sole laughed softly, just like he hoped she would. If she was laughing then she wasn’t asking him questions that hit too close to home for him.

“I mean, now that you’ve seen the full effect of my icy blue gaze, you surely must understand that I wield an ungodly amount of power.”

“I really don’t know how you manage to fit yourself and your ego into your tiny sleeping quarters in the Railroad,” Sole said with a roll of her eyes.

“There’s enough room,” Deacon said, his voice now teasing. “More than enough room if you ever want to join the two of us.”

And that was it. The truth of the matter. Deacon could flirt with Sole all day long if it was all a big joke. But if he ever told her that he’d dreamed about what it would be like to wake up next to her, he’d lose the small amount of control he still pretended to have in this partnership. He couldn’t tell her that he longed for the casual and familiar touches of two people who trusted each other so completely that their physical contact was expected and normal.

“Do you really want me to take you up on that offer?” Sole asked, a challenge in her eyes.

Deacon still hadn’t learned that he couldn’t tease her about their flirtation for too long. She’d always make it real. And as Deacon knew, real was dangerous.

“Or should I just hold onto these sunglasses for you?”

Deacon leaned forward, sliding his arms around Sole’s waist. He hated himself for the fact that she actually closed her eyes as he got closer to her, obviously expecting him to make a move. But instead, he grabbed the sunglasses that she hid behind her back before pulling away from her with a forced grin.

“Got em,” he said.

Sole opened her eyes, and when Deacon saw just how much disappointment they held, his heart broke. When he heard Sole try to cover up her disappointment with a joke the way he always did, his heart broke even more.

“Well then I guess it’s just you and your ego in your bed tonight,” she said. “Let’s go find Danse and MacCready to see if they’ve had any luck locating the Synth.”

“Oh right, we’ve got an actual reason to be here,” Deacon said, quickly putting his sunglasses back on and feeling immensely more comfortable behind his wall of protection.

“We actually have two reasons to be here,” Sole said as she walked towards the door of the UFO ride. “We need to find the Synth, but we also need to go to the fun house in Kiddie Kingdom.”

“Did I miss that part of the briefing, Charmer?” Deacon asked, following Sole to the bright junkyard outside.

“Dez probably just forgot to tell us how important it is that we go to the funhouse,” Sole said “But you and I are professionals. We have to check everything thoroughly.”

Sole raised her eyebrows at Deacon as she walked away and Deacon was left wondering how Dez ever could have thought it was a good idea to send Sole and himself to an amusement park together.

They’d never get anything done.

[Part 4]

Based on the time my OC and Deacon ran into that crazy cult in Nuka-World :P

#fo4 #fallout #fallout 4 #deacon #fallout deacon #sole survivor #deacon x sole #deacon x sole survivor #fo4 fanfic #fallout fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #fanfic #deacon fanfic

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ask-fantasy-sanders-sides · 4 years

Note

Hey Roman, Logan! Side note: we just found out you guys are Fate Touched. So. That explains quite a bit. Ask her radiance if you wanna know more :) - 🗡

”So I can assume you already know about Virgil's situation?" Logan asks, frowning slightly as he tries to puzzle out what all he should say in this situation. Goddess or not, he's not sure if it's safe to tell her the extent of what he's seen…

Eilistraee nods, "I know about his Sorcery. —Do not worry, Logan. I wouldn't tell the Sisters or their cults unless I had to. If I was planning on handing him over to be executed by the Gods, I would not have helped you save him."

Logan finds himself believing her. But, before he can let the existential dread of what they’re discussing — Which amounts, most probably, to interplanar treason — settle in, he has to comment,

"I don't remember telling you my name."

Eilistraee smiles at that, like she knows something he doesn't. Which, Logan will reluctantly admit, is possible in this specific circumstance.

"Virgil has told me about each of you. —And, of course, you and I are already acquainted." She smiles at Roman, who nods.

"I hope you aren't insulted that I haven't visited in… over a century?"

"We were both busy~" She teases, as if a century is anything to a Goddess.

"I'm not sure what is going on." Logan admits, getting them back on track once he's come to terms with the fact that he is, in fact, doing this.

"By all means, almost everything I've seen him do over these past few days should be impossible. He's wielded Mythal magic, changed the flow of time, and experienced more frequent Wild Surges than any wild magic Sorcerer I have ever heard of. I thought, initially, that he had been born with the power... But, if those spell-scars are any indication, he was not. Still, I've never seen spellscars of that shape or size."

"And they're angrier than before!" Roman cuts in, "I had seen his arm under those bandages a few nights ago, and they didn't look nearly that bad. But we didn't encounter any wild magic between then and now, so I don't know how they could have gotten worse…?"

"Virgil's current power is not something he was born with, that much is true." Eilistraee nods, "He was born with magic latent within him, but he purposefully pushed it down and ignored it. What he can do now stemmed from a disastrous encounter with Nethermancy, in which he was mutated by the Far Realm."

Roman and Logan gasp, and Patton is hopelessly confused. He looks between the three spellcasters in the room, hoping one of them remembers that he is but a regular, mundane person.

"...Ne...cro...mancy?"

"No, Nether. Dark Magic." Roman stage-whispers, looking frightened.

Well, that clarifies nothing at all, Patton frowns, then turns to Logan,

"Lo, you didn't mention that one the other day. I thought you said there were only eight?"

“That is because Nethermancy no longer exists." Logan frowns. Eilistraee sighs and shakes her head,

"As most things you will find tend to be… That is not entirely true. You know your magic comes from the Weave, yes?"

All three of them nod at that, and Patton knows the beginning of a lecture when he hears one. He tries his best to keep listening as Eilistraee continues,

"You can visualize the Weave as a spiderweb. Many threads tangle together to form it, more densely interconnected in some areas and more sparse in others. When you cast a spell, you are plucking on the web. Lesser tricks only jostle one string, while great feats of magic pull on the points where many threads are connected.”

"So, the less strings we pull, the lower the spell's level?" Roman muses. She nods.

“Mystra is the spider who sits at the center, building and repairing the web, feeling the vibrations of all those who touch it and biting away those who pull too hard. After all, if you pull too harshly, the web will unravel… But the web is not the source of magic in the Universe. It is just where you mortals can syphon it from. Magic is something that has always existed, long before the gods, and will continue long after us.”

Logan nods, "The early humanoids who tried to hone magic before the Weave was woven were all destroyed, and turned into the first liches."

"So Mystra, with some help from my Father, created the Weave as a blanket." Eilistraee smiles, "A safety net, that holds raw power back and converts it into something manageable -- something mortals can access."

Logan smirks, “Which is why Elves were the first humanoids to master magic. They had an insider.”

"So like a sieve? For flour?" Patton asks, and the goddess grins at the visual. Logan nods, almost impulsively taking over the lesson,

"Sure. Now, imagine pulling a wire on that sieve out of place. There is a hole for more coarse clumps to fall through, yes?” Patton nods, and Logan smiles at him, “That is what we are doing when we cast spells. When you pull on a thread, a bit of this raw power seeps through, but the gap only releases as much as that thread once covered. The less you ask for, the less you will receive. And if you don’t cast a spell correctly, the thread isn’t pulled at all, and no magic happens.”

...Now Logan frowns, beginning to catch on to Eilistraee’s point.

"But, Nethermancy was not like that.” Logan muses aloud, “It stemmed from the Shadow Weave; the warped copy of the Weave Mystra's sister Shar invented, by mixing magic with corruption from the Far Realm."

"The Shadow Weave is the space in-between the windows in the spiderweb. The darkness between the threads. Hence, it's name." Eilistraee explains, "When you reach into it, there is nothing to decide how much you take out. And, since you have not disturbed the strings, Mystra cannot even sense that you’re there. It is lethal to reach your hand into raw magic like this, in the same way it was lethal to cast before the Weave was constructed."

"Which is why it was never active." Logan adds, cautiously, waiting for her to correct him. "Supposedly, the Blue Flame burned it out during the Spellplague, before it's creator ever used it. Or, so everyone was led to believe…?"

Eilistraee nods, "The Shadow Weave was never destroyed. Shar lost control of it, but it still exists alongside the original. A spiderweb without a spider... And, by now, you are aware that my brother's kin do not follow the same rules when it comes to the lethality of raw magic."

"So, he was exposed to this Shadow Weave somehow, and now he keeps tapping into it on accident?" Roman frowns.

"Yes. Without either Sister Goddess's influence to limit him, Virgil has tethered himself to the spaces between. Now he pulls at it without trying, weakening the weave around him and accessing magic Mystra outlawed decades ago."

Eilistraee turns to Logan, suddenly very serious,

"You've done well to teach him control, but it is still something he will have to learn. He is the only thing moderating his contact with raw magic. He has no safety net to protect him if he takes too much, and no way to stop himself from doing it. This is not your usual pupil whose spell will fizzle out if they fail, his will combust. He must learn to hone his ability."

"I can teach him." Logan nods resolutely, already determined to see this through to the end. Eilistraee frowns.

"There are already many in your world who know about his mutation. Many wish to use him as a weapon on a scale you cannot imagine, and many more wish to destroy him altogether. People who will show no mercy when they come for him, and anyone who would protect him.”

Eilistraee turns to address all three of them, making an imposing figure where she towers in the middle of the room,

“You will face more peril at his side than you have ever read about in your history books, and his powers will bring untold destruction if you fail. Are you so sure you wish to involve yourself in this?"

"You'll find I already have." Logan stares her down, hoping he is more stubborn than she is, "I am not going to give up on him now. I knew it was going to be difficult when I first asked him to join me."

(So, that might be a little white lie. He didn’t know it would be so difficult that a literal Goddess would warn him to pack up and go home, but… Well, no one is going to tear him away from a project he’s already started, nor a friend who needs his help. And, after all, Logan doesn’t know anyone more qualified than himself to teach Virgil how to use magic.)

Eilistraee seems to mull over his words for a moment. Roman and Patton are keeping quiet, either letting Logan speak for them as the group’s leader or too exhausted/shocked to say anything.

...And, after an excruciating several minutes, the Goddess smiles.

"Very well then. I entrust his safety to you, Professor Logan." Eilistraee — the Goddess. What is today?! — smiles, as if as amused by the situation as Logan is winded by it.

"Don't fail him."

"We won't!" Patton cheers, elbowing Logan's thigh to shake him out of his surprised stupor. Eilistraee grins.

"We?"

"Yep! We're a bit of a package deal~" Roman nods, smiling at the other two. "And, I mean... if Logan goes on some sort of super perilous adventure and doesn't invite his resident literal Celestial, I don't even know what I would have to do! The sheer disrespect? I would throw a fit."

"You are both cordially invited to the 'super perilous adventure.'” Logan rolls his eyes, “Not that either of you ever need an invitation to insert yourselves into my travels..."

Logan tries his best not to smile, ignoring their laughter at either side of him.

"You will need more than just the three of you, I'm afraid." Eilistraee smiles,

"I have full confidence in you, but the fact remains that Virgil will also need a mentor who is, themselves, a Sorcerer. There are some skills that can only be taught from experience."

"Where are we supposed to find another Sorcerer?! It's rare enough that we found the one!" Roman whines, making Eilistraee grins.

"You are willing to aid a man you just met last week in a plot against the natural order, but you don’t think you can find one measly sorcerer?”

“Those are two totally different tasks! —Protecting people is my very specific skillset!! Finding them is not my job!” Roman blushes and pouts, and Eilistraee downright laughs. She shakes her head,

“Oh, I was just teasing, d'anthe~ Don't worry: I think he will find you, soon enough."

Eilistrae lays a hand on Roman’s cheek, “And speaking of you... I sense something is troubling you?”

Roman frowns for a moment. He sends an uneasy look at Logan and Patton...then sighs.

(If they’re all getting involved in Virgil’s surprise cosmic destiny, he supposes he might as well let them in on his…)

“It’s my Mother.” Roman sighs,

“I know she’s been ailing for a long while now, but… Something’s happened to her while I was gone, I can feel it. Something’s wrong. But my powers don’t seem to have changed at all, so...I can’t really tell.”

Eilistraee frowns, and Roman hops in again before she can speak, “I-I would contact her, but she still can’t speak to me! I don’t know how I’m supposed to help! I assume Mama has more information once we get to town, but it’s been killing me to wait in the dark. I know there are rules about how much you can meddle, but… Throw me a bone here?”

That gives the Goddess pause. She seems to debate something for a moment… Then nods.

“I can lend my aid to you for tonight, so long as you remain on land under my blessing. But, Sune is still in a very weakened state... Expect one of your Dreams tonight, little Prince.”

Roman smiles softly, trying to mask his spark of disappointment.

“...Thank you. Anything is better than no contact! But… I was never very good at deciphering those things.”

“If you need help deciphering your visions, you can always ask one of my Dark Ladies, or one of your Heartwarders. But, your Mother is a goddess of emotion; It is unlikely any of them will be able to help you more than yourself…”

Eilistraee gives him a sympathetic smile, “...Or, maybe, your usual companion in that place?”

“I doubt that.” Roman smiles back, more amused than he is dejected.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a dream with my brother. I’m starting to think he’s purposefully ignoring them… And, to be honest, I wouldn’t put that past him.”

“That may be so, but you two must reunite soon.” Eilistraee warns him with an unexpected sincerity, “Your Mother needs you both, now more than ever. You are aware that your Fate is joined with these three, but he has a part to play in all of this, too. He always has.”

“My conversations with the whispers always seem to stem back to him, that much is for sure!” Roman grumbles, to himself more than anything. Eilistraee pats his shoulder.

“The guards will lead you back to House De’anonen. The road ahead of you is long and perilous, and I don’t expect to be the last to tell you so… Now, get some rest!”

Roman nods, much too tired to argue on that point. Some young women in silver robes come to lead them out of the temple, and Roman and Patton meander after them out of the room. Logan follows behind them slowly... But, he pauses at the door.

He turns back to Eilistraee, and asks lowly,

“Nethermancy from the Far Realm…” he hums, still not quite sure what he’s trying to remember when he asks,

“That he encountered here? Outside of the Underdark?”

...Eilistrae doesn’t answer right away.

A sour look crosses her face for a moment. She sighs,

“Your curiosity is your greatest strength, Logan. It always has been.” She smiles, turning her back to him to exit the room through the farther door, “But you, of all people, should know that poking at what writhes in the grass is a dangerous game.”

She walks out of the room, her voice echoing behind her as she disappears down a long, shadowy hallway,

“Be sure you are prepared for what’s hiding there.”

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Ask 97 ( @sjrose1217 , @snowydragon10 , @amazonprimebox )

Game Start

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Rules

Most Recent Recap, in case you feel like you missed something!

Available for questions: Logan, Roman, and Patton! (Virgil is asleep)

Eilistraee makes her exit as the party gets ready to sleep for the night, with few hours of night remaining and little energy to keep their eyes open any longer.

Now they have some hints for what is to come, but will they be able to put the pieces together? Or will the dangers she warned them about get the better of them...?

#(translation) d'anthe -- an affectionate term for a child or suboordinate #please tell me if i need to tag anything else!#lets roll #ttrpgau art #ttrpgau Eilistraee #ask rpg sanders sides #asks open #sanders sides rpg au #game lore #Her Luminous Imperial Majesty Empress Shri'Neerune Q'Xorlarrin of Drathireiv'dre #long post #long answer

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having-a-hyperfixate · 3 years

Text

The Final Day’‘

This is absolutely going to be long and rambley af so I’mma just put a cut here. This is just one massive post for the entire rest of the game.

Rindo is back in the RG somehow. Which makes less than no sense. What was that crazy beam. Shibuya is GONE there isn’t an RG to send him back to, even if someone did want to send him back?

That beam reminded me of the Jesus beams not gonna lie.

But… Fret. Presumably Nagi and Beat too. They’re. Gone. Poor Rindo… That’s the worst kind of gaslighting. Reality itself is gaslighting this poor kid. ‘Your best friend in the world is gone, so gone that no one remembers him. You don’t even get to mourn properly because there is no one TO mourn.’ I am also not okay.

I assume this random talking to us at Hachiko is the dude I saw a brief glimpse of in a screenshot from the final trailer. Hazuki Mikagi, okay. Everything about this is supremely weird.

Leading this weirdo around and he asked how we feel about emotions? Um, what?

Was he responsible for that beam of light?

This whole thing is extremely unsettling, I don’t think I like it. The music is all… serene, this guy keeps asking existential questions, who even comes up to some kid clearly having a bad day and demands a tour of the city.

He knows Rindo’s name even though we never told him. Not sure if that was a slip or an intentional nudge that Something is going on but there we go.

‘I should take this chance to apologize for Kubo. He’s a real piece of work.’ WHAT. YOU SEND HIM TO SHINJUKU?!?! IS THIS KID GOD!? WHAT!??!

‘Exorcised’. Like a demon. Which is a psychic rank you can get in the first game, and probably this game, ergo, a thing that exists in this universe.

Okay. So this Hazuki guy is Something Else. I dunno if he’s an Angel or higher or WHAT. He’s something. And he “exorcised” what Fuckwad had Fallen to when he decided not to stop at Shinjuku and continue on to Shibuya. But he only did this after Rindo faught so hard to stop it. And then he gave Rindo what he thought Rindo wanted. And now he’s here trying to understand why Rindo is miserable. Which to us, as humans, is obvious: the people he loved, the connections and family he had made through the game are all gone and worse, no one remembers they ever existed.

And now he’s being offered the chance to try again. This feels like a double edged sword. And I don’t care.

Okay I actually kind of appreciate the thing Hazuki is pulling here. He knows what it is that Rindo wants, I’m pretty sure he’s listening to his thoughts, actually, and in order to make Rindo own up to it he’s arguing the ‘no’ position. Giving Rindo someone to argue against so he can convince himself.

WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAPPEN AT UDAGAWA.

Bruh some of these clips were in the announcement trailer.

(I can’t wait to read the secret reports. That’s gonna be a wild ride.)

Oooooh that’s what ‘exorcised’ means. That is hardcore. He definitely deserved it but that is uh. Slightly inconvenient.

Can we actually contact Rhyme this time PLEASE. Oooh Rindo worked out Kaie is waiting for Rhyme. :O I’M FINALLY GONNA GET MY MASSIVE COUNTER OFFENSIVE FUCK YES. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I’M PUMPED LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOO!!!!

Who’s gonna protect them. Beat. Really. Just give them the damn pins at this point. They both know their ways around a fight and Kaie might need the backup. If we lose, we’re all toast regardless, and if we win everyone gets put back where they belong.

AAAAAAAAAAAH SHE’S HERE!!! RHYME!!!! Aw… She can’t see Neku and Shoka cuz they’re actually dead. That’s really depressing. Makes sense but like. Oof. Especially for Neku.

I love that Rhyme still has a saying for everything.

This timeline is going to be a mess by the time I get everything positioned correctly lmao

Beat’s ‘How do you know about my sister?! Right, future.’ is never going to NOT be funny. It’s very refreshing to have a time travel plot where people just listen when he tells them shit needs to happen.

Is it acutaly Shiki time ohh my god. I might cry. Please tell me she has a face now. If her face is still illegal I will actually scream.

I’m offended. We didn’t get to go see Shiki. The betrayal. OH but now we might be? Stop playing with me, game. GIVE. ME. SHIKI.

Rindo was freaking out that we weren’t gonna be able to get rid of all the Noise around the café and I definitely threw my hands up and yelled when I saw the word ‘zeptogram’. And I read it before he said it, cuz I read v. fast. Nice to see you again, idiot. Please don’t go berserk again.

I am. Very impressed that Minamimoto managed to work out where the Dissonance Noise are coming from, down to the exact energy source that creates them. He nailed it. Well done sir.

I think… he’s proposing we awaken the city and use the energy generated by the thoughts and emotions of the living people to neutralize some of the Dissonance Noise that are waiting in the pin. Erode some of its power.

“How about this: I’ll talk, you type.” Lmao.

I got denied Shiki again. Part of me is annoyed. The other part of me is like ‘are they saving her entrance for when she can see Neku again properly because I can live with that’.

OH the Hishima cutscene is voiced now OKAY. Guess that means this is the one. Rhyme is voiced too. This is gonna be it.

And she speaks Minamioto. Coo.

Huh. Neku’s power is to sync with people. Which he learned to do in the first game. From Mr H, with the harmonizer pin. (Twister is playing and I have Emotions help) And now he’s gonna do it on an absolutely MASSIVE scale. This is insane. I am 1,000% here for it. Sync, Dive, Remind. And if I had to guess, we’re doing this atop 104.

Alright Shiba. ‘Mere. Tsugumi’s eyes aren’t all freaky anymore yay. Oh snap. He’s gonna unleash the Plague Noise against the Dissonance ones. Nice. Turnabout is fair play. I’m kinda sad Fuckwad isn’t here to witness that.

Alright. Change. Our. Fate.

SHIIIIIIIIIIKKKKKKKKKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I gave myself a headache ow.

“07734.” “Ew. Hey! Don’t just spout off numbers and walk away, you jerk!” That was amazing.

FUCK ME SIDEWAYS. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. NO. NO WAY. I DIDN’T THINK THERE WAS ANY WAY. OH. MY. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. This is the first time Neku’s seen him since Joshua failed to stop Coco from killing him. I’m. A puddle. Help. Neku looked so happy. My cat is slightly concerned haha.

Neku still holds his hands like he’s got the headphones. The same pose as in the first game when you scan. This gives me all the feels.

“They’re just mindless thoughts” Okay so I’m mentally exhausted at this point and I processed that as ‘thots’ and it was hilarious. BEGONE THOTS.

Okay this thing right here? This is a final boss. And it is cool as fuck. Too bad it’s trying to END ME. So cool. SO. COOL. Here comes phase 2 lol. I died and had to redo it. FML.

That. Was awesome. A worthy successor to the epic final strike of the first game. 999% eh?

I continue to not like Shinjuku rules. Once you’re a Reaper, leaving means you get erased once the game ends? Disrespectfully, fuck that. Oh don’t you dare, Shoka. Don’t. You. Dare.

Oh, Joshua is here. PLEASE. Lmao Shoka’s reaction. I’m sure he appreciates that, the drama queen.

*facepalms* Joshua strikes again. I’ve missed you, you little shit. You are terrible, but I missed you. Rindo, I’m pretty sure she’s fine. I think captain helpful over here reincarnated her for you. Since you saved him and his city. I guess I’ll see though.

Uzuki and Kariya continue to be adorable. I love them. And yeah, good luck calling in that debt from Minamimoto, Coco. Gooooood luck.

I’m having a lot of Joshua centered emotions right now there is too much Joshua all at once help. “I should have known I could trust you.” You are killing me dude. You really, really should have. I’m going to turn that line over in my head for way too long, I just know it, but let’s try to get through this before my brain turns off completely. “Let’s not keep her waiting.” OKAY THANKS I’M GONNA CRY AGAIN.

What Hazuki was saying about ‘purifying’ as opposed to ‘destroying’ Shinjuku makes me think that restarting it in some form was always part of the plan, so hopefully they’ll have luck with that. It’s still profoundly fucked up that any of that happened, and even more so that it was sanctioned. I’m. Going to be hung up on that for a while once it sinks in.

This poor idiot hitting on Rhyme is about to get got oh no XD

Shiki is breaking my heart. Aaaaaaaah!!! Reunioooooon.

Ooof it’s been a month since Rindo saw Shoka. Big oof. Joshuaaaaaa.

And then they almost got hit by a car lmao. OMG HE MISSED HER FRIEND REQUESTS AHAHAHAHAH YOU GOOBER. Neku really should have warned them that Joshua is Like That lol. Even when he’s being helpful it’s in the must backhanded way possible.

I would very much like to know why on earth Shinjuku needed to be obliterated though. Like. Does that… Happen often? Maybe the secret reports say.

Speaking of, time to get those, along with the rest of the trophies.

!!!! The title screen updated, NICE. Can’t let anyone who hasn’t beaten it see that but NICE.

There’s another Another Day. Oh boy. I am not ready for that madness yet.

Random thought as I was moving this from word, where I typed it: I’m really, really fucking glad they didn’t decide to deal with Mr H the way they dealt with sleezy mcfuckwad. That would have been… I don’t have a word.

#let's liveblog: neo twewy #w3d7''#neo twewy spoilers

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puckbuddies · 4 years

Text

24 hours

Andre Burakovsky x reader

2282 words

Warnings: one swear word I think

This was based on the prompt ‘A love story that begins and ends in 24 hours’

Sitting at a bar at half past eleven at night was not how you imagined your second to last day in Denver to go. The past day had been so filled with saying goodbye to your friends and family that you felt completely drained as you sat on a slightly sticky bar stool. Leaving was harder that you thought it would be. All your life, you’d dreamed of moving somewhere far away and starting your own life but now that it was actually happening, you were scared. Scared to be alone. Scared that it wouldn’t be as good as you’d imagined it to be.

Sitting on the bar before you was your second drink of the night. You regretted ordering it already, suddenly realizing getting drunk would not be a good idea. Your apartment was already packed so that wasn’t a problem, but you didn’t want to spend your last day nursing a hangover. Even if you would probably just spend it crying in your bedroom which wasn’t all that much better.

You watched the clock intensely as the last seconds of this Thursday were ticking by, cheering sarcastically as the clock hit midnight. You were actually starting to pity yourself now and though it best to just head home when a stranger took a seat on the stool next to you. quickly looking over, you gave him a closemouthed smile while you continued packing your stuff. What you didn’t expect, was the stranger to start talking to you. you were so stuck in your head that you almost missed the hey he directed at you.

Looking up at him again, you saw that he was now full on smiling at you. while you were very confused as to why this man was paying you any attention, you still answered him, giving him a hi of your own. Yours was said in a confused tone which he didn’t seem to pick up on.

“I’m Andre.” was all he said. You waited for a moment, expecting something else to follow but nothing came.

“I’m Y/n, can I help you with something?” You weren’t interested in being picked up tonight so you decided that if that was what he wanted, you had to be clear.

“I saw you sitting here by yourself and I wanted to keep you company. You seemed kind of sad.”

You were surprised and a little embarrassed that it was so easy to pick up on your mood. The whole bar had probably been staring at the weird lonely girl by the bar and your cheeks reddened at the thought.

“No not in that way!” Andre let out when he saw your reaction. “It wasn’t that obvious, I was just already looking at you so I saw.” Your cheeks now lit up for a different reason. Even if you weren’t planning on going home with him -which you realized was his plan-, Andre was still very attractive and you were flattered.

Putting you coat and wallet back on the bar, you turned to him fully.

“Look Andre, you’re very attractive but I’m not planning on going home with you so you can just go back to your friends.”

You were frustrated. Your day had been shit and you didn’t want to deal with this right now, wanting nothing more that to just forget about everything and be sad by yourself.

“We can just talk.”

He was not giving up at all.

Staring at him with hard eyes did nothing to stop him from smirking at you so you just decided to go with it. You didn’t have anything else to do after all. Sighing heavily made his smile even wider somehow.

“So what are you doing here by yourself at midnight on a Thursday?”

“I’m celebrating my last day in Denver before I move to the other side of the world. And by celebrating I mean hating my existence.”

You rolled your empty wineglass in between your hands while you waited for Andre to process what you had just said. You shouldn’t spill your problems to a complete stranger at a bar, but he asked for it and you needed to vent.

“It’s your last day?” His head was slightly tilted to the side in a questioning manner and he vaguely looked like a puppy. Feeling like an answer wasn’t necessary, you just nodded your head.

“Well what are you doing in a bar then? Surely there are better ways to spend your evening.”

“Like what?” You couldn’t deny that his enthusiasm was making you feel better. He looked like a person that found everything excited and to be honest, you desperately needed that right now.

“I don’t know, walk around the city. Go exploring or something. Honestly anything would be better than sitting here.” At this point Andre was pretty much shouting. A few people had already turned around to look at you two but you didn’t really care. All your attention was on the man in front of you who was really tall you just noticed as he stood up.

“Come on.”

It was accompanied by Andre holding his hands out for you to take. You shouldn’t have taken them but you did figuring that if you got murdered, at least you didn’t need to get on a plane for eleven hours.

Before you could leave, Andre had to get his coat from his original table. you stood back, not wanting to intrude in the group. But even standing at the exit, you could hear him calming down the shouts of encouragement his friends were giving him. You didn’t really care that they thought you were going home with them as you would likely never see them again.

Andre walked up to you with somewhat of a blush on his cheeks but it didn’t stop him from grabbing your hand after he opened the door for you.

At first it was kind of awkward. You were just walking in silence while Andre was googling the best places to visit in Denver. You didn’t want to pay too much attention to the fact that he was still holding your hand, so you just ignored it.

“Ooh, we could go to the botanic gardens. I’ve never been but it seems cool.”

You started laughing so hard you had to stop walking and by the confused look on Andre’s face, he had no idea what was happening.

“Andre, it’s quite literally the middle of the night, how would we ever get in?”

“Ow oops I didn’t think about that.”

He was adorable. You could tell he really wanted to make tonight fun for you even if you were just a stranger and you really appreciated it. If it wasn’t for Andre you would be crying into your bag of chips right now.

“Maybe you should lead the tour, you’ve probably lived here longer than I have.” He continued.

You thought about it. What to do in Denver at one am. The answer was nothing.

“To be honest, I don’t think anything is open right now. Maybe we should go home.”

Andre turned to you in protest. “No we can’t do that, I promised you we’d go exploring.”

After a while of arguing back and forth, you both came to the agreement to just walk around the city. In the whole time you lived in Denver, you’d never really walked at night, having never felt safe to do so. With Andre however, you didn’t need to worry about someone kidnapping you. He might’ve had the personality of a golden retriever, but he was tall enough to tower over the average person.

During your exploration, you talked. He told you about hockey and his life back home in Sweden after you mentioned his accent. You talked about your new job in London and your worries surrounding the topic. He was a good listener, only butting in when he felt like he needed to reassure you about something.

You would’ve liked to have met him sooner. Everything about Andre made you feel good. Looking back, it had been really reckless to just leave with a stranger, but it had turned out so much better than you could’ve ever imagined. You couldn’t help but think about how things would be if it wasn’t the last time you’d ever see him.

It felt like you had only just left the bar when the sun started coming up. You didn’t feel tired. On the contrary, you felt more energized than you had all week. Something in Andre brought out the best in you.

When the sun was all the way up and the city became more alive, you started looking for a place to eat. You chose a small brunch place at the edge of the city that Andre swore had the best French toast.

Finally sitting down on the terrace, you realized just how long you had been walking. Your feet were absolutely killing you.

“So when’s your flight?”

“I need to be at the airport at two pm, but my stuff is still at my apartment.”

“That means we have about four more hours to fill.”

The clock above the door did indeed show eight am. You’d been walking since one. You still couldn’t really wrap your head around how crazy the past day had been. You’d gone from existential crisis, to being as happy as you could remember. And it was not only your day that had changed, but also your expectations of the future.

While you were still scared about how London was going to treat you, Andre had done everything he could to make you feel more at ease about the situation. He told you about moving to Denver from DC and how scared he had been only for it to turn into the best year of his career. It made you realize that while you were happy here, you wanted more of a challenge and yes, that is scary, but you also really needed it.

“So I know we agreed to just walk around, but I have one place I would like to go to.”

You had been nervous to bring it up before but you weren’t now. The place you meant was a small park in the east of the city. It was relatively close to your apartment and you used to go there the time you fostered a dog. There were never any people in the park and it was slightly overgrown, but it reminded you of peace.

Andre agreed to go to the park you wanted and after having paid for your meal -which he did when you were in the bathroom, otherwise you would have never agreed- you were on your way again, walking slower this time as the night had really done a number on your legs.

As it was now a normal hour to be out in the city, you decided to go see at least one tourist attraction while you could, this being the zoo. You both acted like total tourists while you were there, taking pictures with all of the animals and even buying matching stingray plushies.

By the time you reached your park, you were completely exhausted. The constant walking and the all-nighter left you feeling like you would sleep through your entire flight.

You could see Andre was not impressed by your choice but he didn’t say anything. Most likely to not upset you. To be fair to him, it looked terrible. The grass hadn’t been mowed for maybe a month and the benches were most definitely not clean.

When you told him why you wanted to visit the place one last time, you could see in his eyes he understood. And while it was your last time being in this park, Andre insisted it would be you who pushed him on the swings.

Realistically, you knew you wouldn’t see him again. Tomorrow you would be on the other side of the world and it would be nearly impossible to stay in contact with time zones working against you. so you decided to not overthink for once and just do what you wanted to do.

With Andre still sitting on the swing, it was a lot easier to press your lips against his. He gripped your hips immediately, almost as if he was waiting for this moment to come. It was him who pulled away first and the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was his doped grin. The kind that made you want to burst out in laughter.

“Thank you Andre. You didn’t have to do this but you did and I’m so grateful. Today was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.”

He looked down. For the first time, you saw his usually happy expression change into one of pain. His response came after a minute of silence.

“You don’t have to thank me. For some reason I felt like we were just meant to meet in that bar.”

And it was true. You felt like that as well.

You walked back to your apartment in comfortable silence, his hand in yours like it had been when you started this adventure. It was bittersweet, meeting someone you connected with so well only to have them being taken away from you so soon but you were so so glad you had met Andre. He changed your perspective on a lot of things.

An hour later, you were on a plane with the only thing reminding you of him the pictures on your phone, the plushie in your bag, the sound of his voice still ringing in your ears, and the feeling on your lips.

#Things I write #Andre #andre burakovsky #andre burakovsky imagine #nhl imagine #colorado avalanche imagine

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grace-lost-in-space · 4 years

Text

Therapy - “What a Dum-Dum”

With anxious hands, I clutch the letter to my professor which my therapist asked me to write last week. I did it. I was brave—or at least that is what people often call me. The dictionary defines B-R-A-V-E as: ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage. Courage? There is that word again, creeping up from the pits of my stomach into the back of my throat. I can almost say it, but not quite. My entire life has been spent preparing to endure danger or pain—it is what I do best. I am best defined by that very sentence. Perhaps my mom should have been more creative in naming me.

I take a deep breath before using all of my energy to open the door to the lobby of my therapist’s office. Doing so forces my body to immediately retaliate with a loud wheeze. When people tell me to “take a deep breath”, they often forget that I have asthma and a dangerously low BMI, so this so-called simple therapeutic technique wreaks havoc on my body but, like the rule-follower that I am, I do it anyway. The door lets out a loud squeal as I concentrate all of my weight on pulling it open. A kind of foreshadowing, perhaps, of what is about to take place.

“Hi, Grace. I’ll let Legs know you’re here.” I hear from behind the reception desk. Ms. Rita recites the exact same line every Monday and Wednesday. I smile—although, I have no idea if it is visible through my mask. I respond by waving politely because I have not truly spoken in 11 months. Through the dizziness which insists on accompanying me to each and every appointment, I make my way to my usual chair and I sit. I begin counting soon after and I get to 137 before my therapist arrives in the entryway and says “Grace.” After one year together, I still only know her by her shoes and her voice. As I stand unsteadily, I wonder about this trend with social workers wearing riding boots. Is this an unwritten rule of their ethical code? Is there some sort of advertisement during NASW conferences? “Invest in THESE fine leather boots and you won’t BELIEVE how much progress YOUR clients will make! Order now for $10 off. You may qualify for an additional discount if you have feathered hair. Offer not available in Alaska and Hawaii.” I make a mental note that I must research this more and find an answer because it is a common theme of every social worker who has walked into and out of my life. Cue “these boots are made for walkin’…” lyrics. I stop myself before it gets too cheesy.

I walk slowly behind her and after what feels like an hour, I make my way into her dimly lit office and find solace in my usual black leather chair. Although it squeaks, it has been faithful for the past twelve months and it has seen me through many meltdowns, remaining sturdy as I hide behind it. Like clockwork, it squeaks as I sit down and I decide to give it grace since, after all, it has been the most consistent thing in my life for the past year. My feeding tube pump begins to beep, signaling a low battery, so I take out my charger and begrudgingly plug myself into the nearest outlet. “So, Grace,” she starts “how are you? Did you write the letter to Dr. W?” I respond by shoving the now crinkled papers into her lap, happy to rid myself of the trauma that haunts the wide-ruled pages.

Legs and I sit in silence (see what I did there?) as she reads the letter which took me three days to write. I look to my right, at the dusty mahogany brown bookshelf which is adorned with a mixture of exactly 42 stuffed animals, toys, and action figures—my doing, of course. There was a day where an exhausted Legs decided it would be best for me to organize the shelves rather than doing any sort of processing—so I did just that and, in doing so, ruined a perfectly good pair of fishnet tights. But, I digress.

After what feels like a less than sufficient amount of time to read this trauma-filled nightmare of a letter, she hands it back to me and says “Okay. Here you go. You can do whatever you want with it.” I look at her god-awful work boots as if I am looking into her eyes and I express obvious confusion. In true selective mutism fashion, I remain silent but my facial expression speaks volumes. I hastily shove the letter back at her and write on my note pad “you keep it.” I wait. What am I waiting for? That is a great question and one which Legs is also clearly eager to know the answer to. “So, how is pumping going?” She asks. Again, I glare at the hideous riding boots, wholly confused. Did I just spend three days writing this letter and disclosing mounds of trauma for her to read it and hand it back to me with no intention of processing it? Yes. Yes, I did.

I look back to the bookshelf and re-count each and every item which remains beautifully organized if I do say so myself. I follow the rules again and force a deep breath before writing “Why did he do it? Why did he pick me? Why did he do this to me?” Almost immediately, she shoots back with “because it made him happy. He liked it.” I decide instantly that another deep breath is necessary and I question my insanity because surely no therapist would say what she just said to me. I remain still—a defense mechanism which I have learned is often useless. Continued silence looms over both of us like the beginning of a funnel cloud—eerily still but preparing to invoke chaos—until she asks “Why do you read Harry Potter books and watch the movies?” More silence. I begin to question how those boots do not yet have holes in them from my hazel laser pointers. She finally answers her own question, as my pen remains frozen in my hand. “Because you like it. It makes you happy.”

My mouth gapes open which, thankfully, is hidden behind my Peppa Pig mask. I glance over to my right at the wall from which my feeding tube pump is getting its power. I realize that in order to run, I will first have to unplug myself which would surely be anticlimactic if I were to be so unlucky as to tangle the cord or trip over it. Unplugging yourself from the wall and leaving a therapy session seems simple enough but when you are accident prone and have a history of falling into bushes and rolling down hills, you learn to be cautious and question everything. I look around the room. No bushes. No hills. Only me and Legs and those atrocious riding boots. I stare down at my platform converse shoes. I wonder to myself why I choose to wear these shoes each week. These shoes are not optimal for running and I am a runner, or at least I am categorized as such in dusty medical charts which exist somewhere in what I imagine to be a damp basement of a two-star hospital. I make a mental note to never wear platform shoes to therapy again.

As I continue with my silent existential crisis, Legs takes an early exit ramp and asks about the sucker from our last session—the one she handed me on my way out the door during my last session. “Did you practice eating the sucker?” She asks. I nod and smile, with tears beginning to form in my eyes. When I cry, my eyes turn from hazel to green. It is an easy task to recognize when I have been crying. I wonder if Legs has noticed this. She turns slightly to her right and reaches into her candy dish which sits on another dusty brown table. She grabs a pineapple flavored sucker and holds it up in front of my face. “Here” she insists. Pineapple? Are there creatures that enjoy pineapple flavored Dum-Dums? And, furthermore, why are they called Dum-Dums? Who chose that name? Who thought, “Aha! We shall call these…Dum-Dums”? Again, I digress.

“You don’t want to be weird, right? You told me you don’t want to be called weird. It would be normal to eat a sucker. Normal people eat suckers.” Enticed by the idea of being called “normal,” (a rare occurrence in my world), I oblige. After 27 seconds, I manage to unwrap the sucker and put it against my lips. “Just eat it.” She says. Once again, I glare at The Boots. I manage to put the sucker—in all its sugary, pineapple glory—in my mouth and leave it there for exactly three seconds before the sensation becomes too much to handle. I smile as a steady stream of warm tears flows down my cheeks. I consider this progress, since it is the longest I have ever been able to keep a sucker in my mouth. My smile grows wider as I recognize this small victory and I feel truly proud of myself.

“Eh…that was…okay…I guess. But it wasn’t a good job. You could just eat it but you won’t. When you eat the whole thing, that will be a good job.” She says. I immediately break into a full fledged sob and I wonder just how green my eyes must be at this point. I sob, and I sob, and I sob. It feels as though the tears are endless. My Peppa mask is now heavy from absorbing tears and snot. This must be attractive.

And, at that moment, I manage to stutter over a word. “L_____.” If you are new to this circus, L is my previous therapist and a fellow boot-wearing social worker. “What?” Legs asks, obviously confused.

My sobs grow louder. My brain wants to tell her that she is acting like L but my mouth refuses to function properly. I manage a hurried glance at my pump charger and I consider making a now-or-never break for it. I somehow sputter three words like a lemon on a used car lot. “Please…be…nice.” I say. It takes exactly 14.5 seconds for me to vocalize these three words but, again, it is progress.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying but you are doing a good job with your words” Legs promises.

Still sobbing, I try again. “L______.” I stutter on the L but it comes out clearly.

“What?” She asks.

“Mean” I say, choking back tears.

“Did you say mean?” She asks.

I nod for “yes.”

“Well, I’ve got another patient, so I guess—“ she starts.

I interrupt her by yanking my pump charger out of the wall. I do so without proper planning and I let out a loud cry. I am not typically a loud crier. I am quite proficient in the art of “quiet tears.” Enduring many, many nights of various people hurting me has taught me to improve upon this skill. I try my very best to stop drowning in my own tears. I can feel it happening the same way it happened with L.

And I run. And I run. And I run.

Because I AM good at something: running.

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anthonyjoesison · 4 years

Text

Makers of Music

“To the makers of music - all worlds, all times.”

-The Voyager Golden Records

This blog post is not a formal or argumentative essay (which I would expect to be the dominant essay type in the upcoming weeks). Rather, this is an exercise in meditation.

I can’t sleep. Why?

I’ve been working on a short film for the past few days. My OCD and unwillingness to share anything short of perfection (yes, I am unapologetically anal about putting any piece of writing, video, etc. out into the public that isn’t the absolute best I have to give) has turned a project that was intended to be enjoyable and self-reflective into a stress-inducing and time-consuming commitment.

So I can’t sleep because I have an urge to return to my laptop and continue to narrate, film and edit. But I also can’t sleep because I can’t help but lay awake pondering the self-imposed questions I will have to answer if I want to see this short-film come to life.

I’ve taken to Tumblr because if I told my friends I couldn’t sleep, they’d assume a worst case scenario (which would typically be the aptly titled “Sad Boy Hours”) and if I told my parents I’d reinforce their concerns that I worry too much (which candidly, I do).

I wish not to reveal anything unnecessary of the short film, but I do find it appropriate to share the questions that I lie awake pondering.

If you had to choose the pictures, videos, sounds, poems, books, paintings, music, and knowledge that best represent you, what would you choose?

To some the question requires little to no hesitation. To others it is unanswerable, if among many reasons it is because it leads to many more questions and dilemmas. I am unsurprisingly a member of the latter.

How can you craft a fair representation of your past self…your future self? Do they not share equal fragments in your whole existence? Likewise, would you choose the pieces that exemplify your imperfect self? Or would you wish to only share representations of your ideal self?

The aforementioned question and the many that follow it are at the heart of what I seek to tap into through the course of this short film and is inspired by my favorite story of human finitude: the Voyager Program.

Briefly, the Voyager Program was a project by NASA that launched two space probes, Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, in August and September of 1977. The Voyager’s central mission was the flyby and scientific observations of the outer planets (and their respective moons, rings, etc.) of our Solar System.

The mission was successful in sending back hundreds of important measurements, data points, and photographs (perhaps most famously, is the Pale Blue Dot photograph that captures Earth as indeed a “pale blue dot” amidst the vast emptiness of space). Beyond this already exceptional body of work, NASA had the foresight that upon completion of the central mission, Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 would not cease drifting into interstellar space.

Thus, NASA appointed Dr. Carl Sagan as the chair of a committee that was tasked with creating a time capsule to represent humanity in the event that either Voyagers would be intercepted by intelligent, extraterrestrial life.

The result of Dr. Sagan and Co.’s efforts? The Golden Record. A collection of 115 images, 90 minutes of humanity’s greatest music, a plethora of Earth’s natural sounds, and human greetings in over 55 languages, all pressed onto a 12” gold-plated copper disk (complete with incredibly meticulous and well-thought instructions for playback).

I have gone over how difficult it would be to choose the creative media to represent just ourselves as individuals. Can one bring themself to imagine the unprecedented challenge that Dr. Sagan’s team faced?

Presiding over the entire project must’ve been the reality that it is improbable that such extraterrestrial life exists that hears, sees, and processes information in human-like manner. Further, one would imagine there must have been increasing pressure to include (and exclude) the appropriate facets of the human experience and the pinnacles of human creativity, in an ethical and responsible manner.

However, this wasn’t the case. In an article for the New Yorker in August of 2017, Timothy Ferris, producer of the Golden Record, reflects with fondness. In detailing the experience of selecting humanity’s music, Ferris writes: “We’d comb through all this music individually, then meet and go over our nominees in long discussions stretching into the night. It was exhausting, involving, utterly delightful work.” Sounds a lot like the late night music sessions I’d have with my friends.

It would dishearten me if my description of creating a short film and a Golden Record for my own life (“stress inducing” and “time consuming”) were taken out of context. While Dr. Sagan and Timothy Ferris worked in the face of bureaucratic deadlines and regulation, they did their job with a passion and care that is metaphorically represented in the enduring life of the records. (The records are expected to remain playable for over a billion years).

I work with no boss other than myself. As a good friend once reminded me, “You’re your own worst critic”. My project is stressful and time-consuming because I, like almost every human being before me has and every human being after me will, look towards the night sky with awe, asking in silence more questions about the meaning and purpose of one’s place and existence in the universe as we know it.

I am not exceptional. (One of my favorite college essays I wrote was for the University of Washington, detailing a trip to Yosemite National Park which doubled as the first time I had ever seen the night sky proper). When compared to the infinitude of space, our physical and temporal limitations are baffling.

While I don’t believe that this project will convince me otherwise, I am not appealing to the anti-humanists in the crowd. The uncompromising reality of a universe indifferent to the wishes of men must not be made analogous to remarks similar to philosopher John Gray’s in his 2003 book Straw Dogs: “If we speak of the history of the human species at all, it is only to signify the unknowable sum of these lives. As with other animals, some lives are happy, others are wretched. None has a meaning beyond itself.”

This is crucial because the Voyagers and Golden Records (and to a significantly smaller scale my short film and construction of a time capsule of my own) are exemplary of the very best in human nature. Humans at their best are curious, self-reflective, and wish to see new horizons. As Carl Sagan himself noted: “The launching of this bottle (Voyagers 1 and 2) into the cosmic ocean says something very hopeful about life on this planet."

Some may denounce time pondering the Voyager Program in the midst of the challenges we the human species face as wasted time. One may reference not only the global pandemic, but a difficult grappling with issues of race within the United State (where I write this), the blatant neglect for the Earth’s climate and natural resources, and rising xenophobia throughout even the world’s most developed countries.

In response, I feel a need to share that I too am acutely aware of the hardships we face. I recently read Richard Haas’ The World: A Brief Introduction (Think of the book as an Introduction to Foreign Policy/Globalization for Dummies). Each chapter ended with a section titled “Looking Ahead” in which he summarized the future prospects of the region, development, etc. Reading that book left me existential angst, for almost every chapter concluded with dreadful prospects for the future of humanity.

However, let us remember the message attached to Voyager 1 by then United State’s President Jimmy Carter. It reads: “This is a present from a small distant world, a token of our sounds, our science, our images, our music, our thoughts, and our feelings. We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours. We hope someday, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of galactic civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination, and our good will in a vast and awesome universe.”

Perhaps, in our most intimate moments when we acquaint ourselves with our uncertainty over the meaning and purpose of our existence, we may remind ourselves that like Voyager, we too are stewards to the future of humanity. And like Voyager, we too are encouraged to observe and remember the awesome music, sounds, peoples, places, and knowledge along the way.

-Joe Sison (July 4th, 2020)

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hokagee · 5 years

Text

Prompt: AU

Rating: T

The cheers from outside echoed through the empty locker room, the metallic red of the lockers faintly illuminated by the dim light of the single overhang bulb.

Alone on a bench, Naruto sat with hunched shoulders and bandaged hands limp between his knees.

“Well aren’t you the picture of positivity.”

Naruto doesn’t even look up to acknowledge his coach. With a sigh he asks, “Is the match done?”

Kakashi comes over and sits on the bench across from him, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his folded hands, watching him closely.

“It’s not,” he answers steadily. “There seems to be a major disagreement over a violation call.”

Naruto can’t help but roll his eyes. ‘Killer Bee’ always disagreed with the ref whenever he was called out, and the fact that he refused to speak without a rhythm only lengthened the already annoying ordeal.

“Are you still upset from last week’s match?” Kakashi asks plainly.

Naruto scoffs and toes the tiled ground with his orange sneaker.

“Hardly,” he replies in a low voice. “If anything, it’d be good if I was, because that’d meant I still cared about this shit.”

Kakashi raises a silver brow. “I thought boxing was your greatest passion?”

The resentment in him simmers back to the defeat he was feeling earlier.

“Is it?” he asks more to himself than Kakashi. “I dropped out of high school when I was 16. No parents, a best friend as if, if not more, fucked up than me, a girl I’ve loved since I was 12 that was in love with said psycho friend...Boxing started out as an escape from all that bullshit. But now? It’s become the bullshit.”

“Because you lost a match?” Kakashi questions patiently.

“Because there’s no point!” Naruto explodes, jumping up to his feet. He’s so angry it’s like he can feel steam firing out of his pores. “What can I say is the purpose of my life? Punch someone and be punched back? I’m tired, Kakashi! In the beginning, I could genuinely say I felt a true fulfillment as I got better and better, but what am I getting better for?”

“So your issue is not with fighting,” Kakashi comments lazily as he absentmindedly scratches his chin. “But not having something….or perhaps someone to fight for.”

Hmm. Now that Naruto thought about it, that was exactly his problem. Even Sasuke, that emo bastard, had found happiness with Sakura and was on his way to becoming a successful lawyer, while Naruto was still stuck at square one. Square zero if he was being honest with himself.

“Yeah,” Naruto grumbles, kinda annoyed that Kakashi was always one step ahead of him, in and out of the rink. “I guess.”

“What about your guardian angel?” Kakashi asks with a slight smirk.

Naruto doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. For months everyone has been teasing him over his mysterious “guardian angel”. Apparently, some pretty girl came to his every match and cheered him on, but every time he scanned the crowd, no girl really stuck out, and according to Kakashi she always snuck out right when his match ended.

He didn’t particularly care who she was since he wasn’t even sure if she existed, but he did hope she wasn’t one of the women who would sometimes throw their panties at him.

Shuddering, he’s pulled out of his thoughts when Kakashi stands up.

Giving him a cheezy smile and a thumbs up, Kakashi sends him off.

“Good luck. And try not to have an existential crisis out there.”

Why would he think about extra...teresticles? Whatever was the fancy word for aliens. Man, was he in a dark hole, surrounded by idiots.

Naruto barely dodges to the side as Juugo’s fist flies through where his head just was.

Pushing through the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, he takes advantage of Juugo’s outstretched arm baring his side and throws a punch with all his power to his ribs.

Juugo is able to block him, but Naruto still gets in a good graze. Watching the much larger man stumble back in pain momentarily thrills him, but all too soon he’s moving, dodging and jumping from Juugo’s merciless attacks.

The light’s are too bright. The cheers are too loud. The sweat that clings to his skin disgusts him. Blood from a cut on his forehead keeps pooling by his eye and he can’t wipe it away. He knows he’s breathing because he’s moving around, but his chest feels as if its shut in a vacuum.

As he stares into Juugo’s amber eyes, he wonders if that bloodlust in his opponent's eyes is always present, or if it only comes out when he was fighting. If only he could bring himself to feel such strong emotions during matches. Anything would be better than this hollow emptiness.

As his shoulder is brutally hit with Juugo’s punch, Naruto wonders if he’d have a career other than being someone’s punching bag if he wasn’t an orphan. He wonders if he wasn’t so stupid, where he could have gone with his life.

But no...he was a fucking moron with no one to love and no one that loved him. This life was more than fitting for such a loser like him.

Juugo makes a direct impact with his jaw, and Naruto is flung across the match box from the force of impact. He isn’t sure if he’s ever felt such crippling pain before; it felt as if someone had taken a pickaxe and smashed his face through.

He can’t even hear the roar of the crows anymore. His blood is pumping so loudly in his ears, that he wouldn't be surprised if it was simply leaking out of them like water from a faucet.

The trained boxer in him tells him to get up. To face defeat with dignity. Naruto tells the trained boxer in him to fuck off.

What dignity is in this? All my life...I’ve been beaten down. That’s just how things are.

“Naruto!”

Huh? Blearily, he opens his eyes to an unfamiliar voice screaming his name.

“Naruto!”

There was that voice again...what was that lady’s problem? Couldn’t she see he was giving up on life here...

“NARUTO!”

Finally, his eyes refocus, and suddenly he isn’t sure if he’s actually awake or not. Staring back at him are the lightest gray eyes he’s ever seen. They belong to a woman with a heartbreakingly beautiful face, and dark hair that flowed around her. Was she an angel?

It’s only after several moments of staring at her does he realize she’s saying something to him urgently.

“Don’t you remember what you said to me?” she asks him desperately. He notes with shock that she’s crying. “You said, ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you’re pushed down, what matters is how many times you pick yourself up!’.You can’t give up now, not when you’ve come so far!”

The memory of those gray eyes resurface in his hazy mind, and he realizes with a jolt that he’s looking at none other than Hinata Hyuuga herself.

Technically, he was supposed to be in biology class, but he freaking hated Mr. Orochimaru, that slimy creep, and slipped out to the faculty parking lot to have a smoke.

Just when he finds a good spot that hides him from the school’s view, a nearby voice interrupts his much-needed smoke break.

“That’s right, princess,” the nasal-y voice sneers. “Fork it all over.”

With a frown, Naruto drops his cigarette and crushes it with his heel before going over to see what was going on.

He was shocked to find his classmate from middle school, Hana? Well, whatever her name was, on the ground, her hair held tightly by one senior boy while the other looted through her backpack.

“Found it!” the nasal-voiced one declared as he took out what he assumed was her wallet. “I knew the Hyuuga-princess would be loaded.”

“Please let go of my hair,” the chick whimpers pathetically. That’s what sets him off.

About one minute and 45 seconds later, the boys sprint away from the scene, bruised and bloodied.

“Here ya go,” he says as he hands her the fallen wallet. “You ok?”

“I-I...y-y-yes, th-thank you,” she whispers as she wiped away her tears.

“How’d you even get robbed at school?” he asks somewhat incredulously, leaning against the car parked next to them.

“Th-those two...have a-always p-picked on me,” she whispers again, staring down at her hands as if she was ashamed. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t get off of the road.

“They can only pick on you if you let them,” he tells her kindly, crouching down so he can meet her gaze. He almost topples over when her eyes finally meet his. He’s never seen someone with such light eyes before. They nearly looked white.

“A-anyways, it's not about how many times you get pushed down,” he continues with a grin. “It’s about how many times you pick yourself up!

“B-but I-I’m not strong like you…” the girl confesses in a crushed voice. Her words left him shocked.

She thought he was strong?

“Well…” he pauses, wondering if he should tell her this. But one look at her sad face makes up his mind. That was an expression he wore himself too many times when he was younger. “To tell you the truth, it took me a long time to get where I am. It wasn’t easy, but I promise you, the only person standing in your way of becoming stronger is you.”

“H-how do I g-get stronger then?” the girl asks him breathlessly. He notices that she looks a lot less pale now, with a lot of color in her cheeks.

“Ha, a question I can actually answer!” he laughs heartily before offering her a hand to get up. She takes it shyly, and he’s jolted by how soft her skin is. It’s only when she stares at him expectedly does he realize that he hasn’t answered her question. Dropping her hand to rub the back of his neck, he chuckles kinda awkwardly.

“To get stronger you need to work hard, but more importantly, you need to believe in yourself!”

He returns to the present at the feel of something soft against his skin. Blinking, he realizes Hinata is cupping his cheek.

“You’ve worked so hard, Naruto!” she cries, the intensity of her voice starkly contrasting against how softly she stroked his face. “You need to believe in yourself!”

It takes him a few tries since his facial muscles won’t stop spasming, but slowly his lips stretch into a grin.

Reaching up to hold her hand against his cheek, he slowly gets to his knees. He’s aware that the crowds are shouting louder than he’s ever heard. Spitting out blood and a tooth, he locks eyes with Hinata, his grin widening at the sight of her awestruck expression.

“You’re absolutely correct,” he says, slurring through his words. He lets go of her hand and stands up fully, facing Juugo once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in Konoha history, we have found a boxer that was able to take a direct hit to the face from none of than the MIGHTY Juugo himself, and still stand up!” the commentator practically screams into his mic. The crowd's response was so loud, he could feel the match box vibrating from its intensity.

“Why get up?” Juugo asks with a sigh. Either Naruto had double vision currently, or Juugo has found a way to make a doppelganger. “We both know you’ll only lose.”

“Heh...maybe,” Naruto agrees as he begins to hop from foot to foot. “But winning isn’t everything, idiot.”

“Ow! Jeez, would it kill you to be gentler?”

“I have to disinfect your wound or it will get infected,” Kakashi responds evenly as he continues dabbing the cut on his forehead with an alcohol wipe.

“Can you hurry up then?” Naruto whines as he holds an ice pack to his jaw. “I gotta...go.”

“Are you meeting up with your guardian angel then?” Kakashi asks, his curiosity barely hidden by his cool tone.

“Huh?” Naruto finds himself blushing for no reason. “What are you talking about!”

“Well, everyone saw you two speak during the match,” Kakashi points out. Lowering the wipe, Kakashi looks at him head on. “What did she say to you, by the way? It must have been some pep talk if it got you to land a solid punch on Juugo’s solar plexus after taking a face shot.”

“Wait,” Naruto stands up and quickly regrets that move. God, he was aching all over. Oh shit. He dropped his ice pack. You couldn’t pay him to bend over and pick that up. “Are you saying that-”

“E-Excuse me?”

Naruto whirls his head so quickly he nearly faints from the rush of blood to his head, but he is rewarded with the sight of Hinata standing hesitantly by the entrance of the gym’s makeshift clinic.

“Hinata!” Naruto can’t help but exclaim her name. “I can’t believe you came to my match! How’d you find out about it? How are you? You look really nice!”

“I’ve been coming to a few of your matches for a while now,” Hinata answers shyly, her cheeks a pretty pink. “My cousin Neji has a friend that knew about you...and he told me where you have your matches. I’m fine, and...t-thank you.”

“Why are you saying thank you?” Naruto asks, confused.

“She’s responding to your compliment of how she looks,” Kakashi contributes with a smirk. Naruto feels his face grow warm. He hadn’t even realized he had said that. Damn his loud mouth.

“How did you and Naruto here meet, Miss?” Kakashi asks Hinata politely. Pfft. His courteous gentlemen act annoyed Naruto. If only Hinata knew how big of a perv his coach really was…

“We were classmates all the way till high school when he...left,” Hinata answers, fidgeting slightly.

“It’s been what, four years?” Naruto asks as he tries to do the math.

“Five,” Hinata corrects with a smile.

“I just remembered, I have some reading I need to finish,” Kakashi suddenly speaks up. “Miss, could you please finish dressing Naruto’s wounds for me? I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

“Reading?” Naruto repeats incredulously. “Do you mean those goddamn-”

“Tata~!” Kakashi waves as he leaves the room in a flurry of giggles.

What in the fresh hell…

“Is he always like that?” Hinata asks as she walks towards him.

Naruto sighs. “I don’t even know. He’s a freak.”

“Are you alright?”

Naruto glances down and realizes that Hinata stands right in front of him. With him standing, she comes only to his shoulders, but she’s close enough for him to see the worry in her eyes as she takes in his wounds.

“I’m fine!” Naruto exclaims enthusiastically, giving her a vibrant thumbs up, only to immediately wince from the pressure that puts on his bruised ribs.

“Sit down,” Hinata orders gently. “I’ll patch you up as best as I can…”

Naruto complies and finds himself eye to eye with her. She picks up the alcohol wipe Kakashi was using and returns to the scrape on his forehead. He hardly feels the sting.

He had a lot of questions to ask her, but now, with her so close he could smell the jasmine perfume she apparently wore, his mind was wiped clean of everything as he simply stared at her. He couldn’t decide if she had suddenly become beautiful in the five years they were apart, or she always looked like this and he was too stupid to notice.

“You have a cut on your lip,” Hinata says, startling him from his thoughts. “I’m afraid it will sting…”

“I can take it!” he assures her with a smile. She smiles back, though there is concern in her eyes.

Naruto’s breath catches as she takes a hold of his chin and tilts his face upwards. Despite the habit of fluorescents drowning out color with their harshness, her blue-black hair glowed. He wondered if she could see his pulse thrumming wildly in his neck.

She dabs his lip with a new wipe, and she’s right, it does sting, but before his mind can fully process the pain, she’s blowing cool air onto his lips, and it’s like his mind loses all ability of forming a coherent thought.

“Are you alright?” Hinata asks worriedly. “Did it sting a lot?”

“I-It helped when you blew on it,” Naruto responds hoarsely, clearing his throat and awkwardly averting his eyes. What was going on with him? He was never this out of it after a match…

“I’ll remember that,” Hinata giggles before wiping his lip once more. This time she cleans more of his lip before blowing, making the anticipated coolness so much sweeter. He can’t help but part his lips as his body relaxes.

“I think that should be alright,” Hinata says as she throws the used wipes away. “Are there any other cuts you need disinfected?”

For some reason, he wished he did. “Uh, no. Thanks, Hinata!”

She smiles sweetly at him as retrieves a box of bandages. “Of course, Naruto.”

His mind clears a bit and he realizes the woman before him is very different from the girl of his memories.

“You’ve changed,” he blurts without a thought. At Hinata’s confused expression, he hurriedly clarifies, “In a good way! I mean, it’s just...you seem a lot more confident with yourself.”

Hinata stares at the bandage box in her hands and Naruto is worried he’s offended her in some way, but she surprises him when she looks back at him with the widest smile he’s seen on her.

“I...couldn’t be happier you think that,” she tells him cheerfully. “To tell you the truth, it took me a long time to get where I am. It wasn’t easy, but someone helped me realize the only person standing in my way was myself.”

Naruto’s jaw falls open as he hears her words. He couldn’t believe…all those years later, she remembered word for word what he had said to her, and more importantly, she had taken them to heart.

“When I found out you had matches here, I knew I had to come and see you fight,” Hinata continues, though her face grows sadder. “But the Naruto I saw in the ring today...Naruto, is everything alright?”

Naruto could say confidently he had friends. Mentors. Fellow fighters. But in all his years of boxing and bonding with everyone at Konoha Gym...no one has ever looked so concerned for his well-being. He genuinely did not know how to respond.

“Uh…” Naruto trails off as he looks away from her. Confessing to a woman how lonely you were was extremely uncool, even by his standards.

“I know we aren’t exactly friends,” Hinata sighs, twiddling her fingers together nervously. “But you have helped me in my life more than you realize...the very least I could do is return the favor.”

“Don’t be silly,” he chides her gently. “I haven’t done anything, it’s all you. Give yourself more credit for your own accomplishments!”

Hinata smiles but shakes her head in disagreement.

“You’re wrong,” she says quietly. “Even when we were younger, I used to watch you. Seeing you...never giving up and always smiling, regardless of how others treated you...it gave me hope that one day I too could be happy despite how others t-treated me.”

“Even now,” she adds in a louder voice as her shoulders straighten. “I tell my first graders stories of you whenever they’re discouraged. To them -and me- you’re a hero Naruto!”

He doesn’t think when he reaches for her. All he knows is that if he doesn’t hug her right now, he’ll explode. Hinata, for her part, does not resist being pulled into his embrace but is undeniably rigid. After a few moments of having his arms wrapped around her, however, she finally relaxes into his hold and even embraces him back.

It’s the best hug Naruto has ever had in his life. She was so soft and warm and sweet, but most importantly she was there because she wanted to be here...with him.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, not even caring as he began to cry. “You have no idea...how badly I needed to hear that.”

“Wherever, whenever, whatever it is that you ever need,” Hinata pulls back from his chest to give him a watery smile, droplets of tears clinging to her long lashes. “I’ll do my best to give it to you, Naruto.”

He’s about to ask her why she would go so far for a near stranger, but she pulls one arm off of him and gives him a thumbs up as she shuts an eye in a form of an exaggerated wink. With a slight start, he realizes she’s mimicking his signature ‘move’ from back when they were kids.

“And I never go back on my word.”

It’s only after hearing his own words repeated to himself does he realize how far he’s strayed from his own mantra.

He sees Hinata a lot more after that. He’s also had an undefeated winning streak since his match with Juugo. He’s made so much money recently he seriously does not know how to spend it, so a lot of it goes to gifts for Hinata.

Maybe he should ask Sasuke if he should save up for something…

Going back to the main point, he simply felt more energized every time he saw his dark-haired...friend. Yes, that was what they were. Or were they? Wait, what was he thinking? Of course, they were friends! What else could they be? It was a wonder why Hinata tolerated his dumbass. I mean really... she was so pretty and nice and funny and smart, she could hang out with any guy! Why him? Not that they went out on dates. Though that restaurant they had dinner at the other day was pretty romantic...but that’s because they had her favorite dessert and he couldn’t say no! Not that he’d ever say no to her. Because he liked her. A lot. AS A FRIEND….

“You seem conflicted, my good friend! What troubles your youthful heart?”

“Hey, Lee,” Naruto greets his pal with a fist bump. “Here to train?”

“Of course!” Lee answers jubilantly. “But you did not answer the question, my friend.”

“Wellll,” Naruto draws out the word as he rubs the back of his neck nervously. “You know how I was kinda in a slump a few weeks back?”

Lee nods his head vigorously. “Indeed I did! I even consulted my friend Neji, who is most knowledgable in...well, everything. He suggested antidepressants, but by the time I got some for you, you were healed!”

“Wait, it was you who-! Ugh, forget it,” Naruto shakes his head, not even wanting to get into how Lee could be friends with Hinata’s mysterious cousin. “Anyways, yeah I’ve been a lot happier in terms of my personal life, but I still don’t know if boxing is what’s meant for me, you know?”

Instead of sprouting off an energetic answer as he expected, Lee simply smiles sadly at him.

“I see you are at a crossroads, my friend,” he states with a nod of his head. “All I can tell you is to pick what your heart tells you.”

Naruto purses his lips and considers bushy brow’s advice.

I wonder what Hinata thinks of me as a boxer…

“Aw, Hinata, are you sure you can’t do dinner tonight?” Naruto pouts as he balances his phone on his shoulder as he attempts to unlock his apartment door while holding groceries.

“I’m sorry Naruto, but it’s a family function I can’t miss out on,” Hinata apologizes earnestly.

“It’s ok,” Naruto sighs. “I just miss you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Hinata points out with a giggle.

“But not today,” Naruto counters petulantly. Meeting up with Hinata were the highlights of his days, and whenever he didn’t get to see her, he’d be terribly cranky until he saw her again.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” Hinata offers. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Meet?” Naruto repeats as he places his groceries on his sticky counters. Man, he needed to clean those...the last time Hinata came over, he had been more than embarrassed by his state of living. “Who?”

“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll really like him,” she replies mischievously.

Naruto frowns suddenly. “Him?”

“Yes, him. Listen Naruto, I need to go now. See you tomorrow!”

“Wai-” he’s too slow. Hinata’s hung up.

Suddenly in a foul mood, Naruto abandons his groceries (something he only really bought so Hinata could have something to eat whenever she came over), he stalked over to his ratty couch and flung himself onto it.

Who the hell was this ‘him’ Hinata was talking about? As far as he knew, the only ‘hims’ in her life was her cousin Neji and her stingy-ass dad.

He’d already met Neji thanks to Lee (truly one of the most awkward encounters of his life) and he didn’t think she would just spring a surprise visit from her dad onto him.

Which left the million dollar question: WHO WAS THIS GUY?

His phone suddenly buzzed and Naruto jumped towards it as if a fire had been lit underneath him. Maybe Hinata could do dinner after all!

Sakura: Hey Naruto! It’s been a long time since we hung out, how about we grab something to eat and catch up?

Naruto frowns at the text. Just a few years ago, he would have wept with joy at this offer, but now it further annoyed him. Was Hinata not eating dinner with him because she was meeting “him”?

Naruto: srry bzy 2nite

If this punk even looks at Hinata wrong, I’ll pummel him Naruto thought to himself darkly as he waited outside Konoha Gym for Hinata and Mr. Dreamy Mystery Guy.

He was wearing black pants and a white tank top that conveniently revealed his hard-earned muscles. He may have kept his boxing bandages around his hands on as well. It was always better to be prepared than sorry!

He was contemplating going back in to put some grease on under his eyes when he heard Hinata call out his name.

Taking a deep breath, Naruto turns around.

And sees Hinata. With a kid.

“Sorry we’re late,” Hinata apologizes breathlessly. “We had to make a quick potty break stop.”

“Um. Who is this,” Naruto asks, pointing to the kid with his chin.

This seems to set the brat off.

“MY NAME IS KONOHAMURU SARUTOBI!” he shouts angrily. “I’ll fight you if you show me any dis….dis..diz-ray-speck!”

“It’s pronounced, disrespect,” Hinata corrects gently, ruffling the boy's rowdy brown hair. “Konohamuru, this is Naruto, my friend that is a boxer. Naruto, this is Konohamuru, a big fan of yours.”

Konohamuru’s demeanor immediately changes upon learning Naruto’s identity.

“You’re Mr. Naruto??” Konohamuru squeals. Dropping Hinata’s hand and lurching towards him, Naruto is nearly toppled backward as he latches himself onto his legs. “Please please please teach me how to be a boxer!”

Naruto looks up at Hinata bewilderedly, but she simply gives him an encouraging smile.

“Well...I guess I could show you the basics,” Naruto chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you gotta listen to everything I say, ok? It’s important to always follow the rules in boxing.”

“Yes, boss!” Konohamaru chirps excitedly.

A warm feeling spreads in Naruto’s chest. He’s never had a child look at him so reverently before...It was something he could get used to, if he was being honest.

Konohamuru is a surprisingly good student, even gathering praise from other fighters at the gym, but he’s also only six, and after a good hour of training and another 15 minutes of snack time, he’s fast asleep in Hinata’s arms.

“Little guy’s got potential, I’ll give him that!” Naruto laughs, wiping away some of his sweat with a towel.

“You’re a good teacher,” Hinata praises him with a smile. Naruto blushes and waves off her compliment.

“Ah, don’t say that! It makes me self-conscience cause you’re a teacher, ya know?”

“Conscious,” Hinata corrects kindly.

“Hehe, right,” Naruto chuckles sheepishly before realizing that Hinata is holding a sleeping kid. “Um, what are you gonna do with it? I mean him!”

“I called his Uncle Asuma, he’ll be here soon to pick him up,” Hinata says, smiling down at Konohamuru and wiping away his hair from his face.

“Here, let me,” without waiting for her response, Naruto bends down and gently extracts Konohamuru from Hinata’s lap, holding him up against his chest.

“Are you sure you’re ok holding him?” Hinata asks worriedly.

“I got him!” Naruto reassures her with a grin. “Follow me.”

Naruto leads Hinata out of the main floor, but unfortunately, they have to pass by Suigetsu.

“What’s this Uzumaki?” Suigetsu cackles as his eyes go between Konohamuru and Hinata. “Playing house?”

“Shut up,” Naruto growls, grabbing Hinata’s hand to pull her along quicker. Thankfully, they’re able to the destination without further interruptions.

“Is this someone’s office?” Hinata asks as he slowly lowers Konohamuru onto the couch.

“Kakashi’s,” Naruto answers, straightening up. “It’s his dog’s birthday today, or whatever, so he won’t be coming in.

Hinata raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t comment. She takes a seat on the chair in front of the desk, and Naruto goes over and brings Kakashi’s chair over so he’s sitting next to her. They both do their best to ignore the Icha Icha and dog posters.

“I’m glad you brought Konohamuru today,” he says in a quiet voice, glancing over at the snoring kid. “It was fun.”

“I’m glad too,” Hinata replies. “Recently, Konohamuru lost both his parents and grandfather in a car accident...it affected him deeply. When I told him you are also an orphan, he begged me to take him to you.”

Naruto gapes at her and looks back at Konohamuru, feeling his chest tighten with a familiar pain. So that kid...was just like him, huh?

“Today was the first time in months I saw him laugh or even smile,” Hinata reveals. “You really helped him today, Naruto.”

“I-I didn’t do anything much,” Naruto protests weakly.

Hinata’s eyes meet his and in that moment, he feels as if she can see every thought he’s ever had.

“I know you have doubts about boxing,” she admits. “And I’m no one to tell you what you can or cannot do with your life, but trust me, Naruto, you could help many young kids just like Konohamuru through your work. It’s something to consider.”

It hits him. It finally hits him. Harder than any punch any boxer could throw.

Without warning, he leans forward and scoops Hinata into his arms, twirling her around. She’s just barely able to contain her shriek, and he has a much harder time holding back his laughter.

“I get it now,” he whispers, setting her down so she can look at him. “The very reason I started boxing in the first place...was because I needed an outlet for my anger, for my grief. But then it grew into something more. It gave me the ability to not only fight, but to protect.

Except for so long, I didn’t have anyone to protect. I have that now. I want to protect kids like Konohamuru. Give them a chance to channel their hurt into something good and strong. But more than that, Hinata, I want to protect you.”

“M-Me?” Hinata squeaks, face tomato-red.

Naruto nods and cups both her cheeks.

“Yes, you. The one who has stood by my side all this time, the one who understands and cares for me...the one I love.”

A/N: I apologize for the length, I got a bit carried away lol...But what can I say, boxer!naruto is my weakness!

#nhweek2019 #nhweek #naruhina #my fic

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aliceslantern · 4 years

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Beyond this Existence: New Life, short 24--Unsettled

Recovery is a tedious, nonlinear process. Demyx, Ienzo, and the others living in Radiant Garden's castle have to learn to come to terms with their pasts and their memories, learn to grow, and begin to understand what, exactly, it means to be human. While there is unexpected joy in this, there is also unexpected sorrow. A series of oneshots set after Beyond this Existence.

Current short: “Unsettled.” Troubled by the lack of purpose, Ienzo attempts to dispose of papers of the past, only to end up caught within it.

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

---

Ienzo was feeling restless. This was not an unfamiliar feeling, but rather one that had snuck up on him with increasing frequency. He felt as if he were at his wit’s end.

The garden was done, finished, left behind were empty gaps that made him realize that after all this time he still wasn’t sure who he was. It was something like existential agony. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, yet sleep eluded him. So did any notion of rest. He found himself, again, missing the days when thoughts would unravel so cleanly; he felt nothing but tangles, and his feelings resembled even less.

I feel as though I’m back at square one, he wrote early one evening. This sensation stuck with him. What awful, horrifically boring waffling. It certainly didn’t make him good company. Worse still than was that everyone else seemed to be in good spirits. He found himself dealing with another type of illusion; feigned laughter, a neutral expression, cheer and chatter where there should be none.

Not many seemed to notice this shift, and for this Ienzo was both incensed and grateful. Only Demyx did, but he was far too busy and exhausted from his own work (oh, to have the certainty of a calling); Ienzo just said that he was tired and that was all.

It did not feel good to lie to him.

But truthfully, how did he define this feeling? Was it the weight, the numbness of depression? He wasn’t so sure. Mostly, he felt the slickness of anxiety, like acid along his veins despite medication. He felt trapped within his own heart, within a remorse that was supposed to have eased. Would he carry this his whole life?

Did he want to?

Ienzo wanted to live more than anything. It was a desire that was nearly painful. He needed to get this feeling out of his body somehow.

“I don’t suppose you have anything you seek to get rid of?” he asked Even. “I was purging my papers in an attempt to get organized.”

“What are you disposing of?” He seemed distracted; he had a new project to keep him occupied, studying the long term impacts of darkness on trauma and the body. It was worthwhile work, and seemed to have reconnected Even with the real world.

“Nothing that hasn’t already been digitized and archived.”

Even gestured vaguely to a pile of file folders in a crate by the door. “I suppose you must need something to fill your days now, then.”

Ienzo paused, and just barely turned back. “That,” he said, “is putting it mildly.”

“Why don’t you continue your studies? It’s been a long enough time. They’ve kept you busy with such frippery.”

“...I would not call it that.”

He shrugged. “Most people your age seem to get caught in crises of existence. I should hate to see you become stagnant.”

Ienzo considered the irony of this. “I won’t--no less than you, anyway.”

Even scowled. “Go on then, will you? I need to concentrate.”

“Certainly.”

He took his papers to a courtyard, one shielded from the wind. What was left didn’t seem like much; Ansem had already shredded a majority of it, and the strings of paper sat heavily against the stone. For a moment he ran his thumb along the matchbox in his pocket. What was the point of this? He withdrew his hands and looked at them. It took a little bit of doing--magic was so much harder than it used to be--but before long he held a small flame in his palm. He studied the color of it, the bright red and orange. He picked up one of the pages and held a corner into his hand, watching it disappear into smoke.

It didn’t take long for the mess to burn. Curious, how quickly things could be destroyed. Ienzo watched the flames, perched on the lip of a derelict fountain. It didn’t make him feel much better, but it made him feel no worse. He nursed the brunt of a headache idly.

“...An attempt at catharsis?” He heard over his shoulder. Ienzo turned and saw Dilan facing him, his face alight with bemusement.

“I suppose. I figure there’s no need to keep this all, not when we have it in the computer.”

To his surprise, Dilan sat next to him. “Is it a pleasure to burn?”

Ienzo rolled his eyes at the reference. “Not quite. Good to know that I have some magic left, however small.” His head ached dryly, insistently. There were a few moments of silence; the fire cracked and popped a little, emitting some sparks. “You needn’t worry, I’ll clean up all the ash once it’s over.”

“...Saves me a bit of work. Yes. Our list of tasks seems to grow by the day.”

Ienzo glanced over to him. “...Does it?”

“Someone’s got to make this place habitable. And that committee is scattered enough as it is. I’d hoped Demyx’s membership in it would garner us some resources, but they seem to never have anything to spare.”

“...Well, town is growing. This place isn’t exactly a priority when we're the only ones who live here.”

“It was once beautiful,” Dilan said. “A shame, all of this finery, crumbling.”

Ienzo blinked quickly, feeling a touch dazed. “...Like so many things,” he mumbled.

“Are you alright?”

He forced a smile. “Oh, yes. Magic tires me. That’s all.”

“Are you certain? I know there was some--hesitation, as to whether or not to let you--”

“I am a grown man. Demyx and Even do not make decisions for me.” His tone came out sharp.

Dilan pursed his lips. “Of course you’re right.”

Ienzo shoved his hands back into his pockets, feeling cold now. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m more tired than I thought.” The pain in his head throbbed in time with his pulse. “This has nearly burnt itself out. I'll get to it in a few hours when it's all cooled.”

“Nothing nearby to burn,” Dilan said. “It feels nice to sit, admittedly. I feel as though I haven’t stopped moving all morning.”

He stood, and had to fight not to stumble at the sudden wave of dizziness. He clutched his head, felt at the space under his nose. No blood. Surely there must be something else wrong with him?

He heard gravel crunch as Dilan stood. “Ienzo?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but it sounded weak. “It’s just a little--”

Abruptly, his knees gave out, his vision darkening for a moment. When he came to, Dilan’s jacket was under his head. “Yes, you’re just fine, aren’t you,” he spat. “Do you always feel this need to lie?”

Ienzo was still reeling. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Someone has got to take a look at you, and he seems to know what he's doing. You’re not well.”

He tried to sit up, only to have Dilan ease him back down. “He’s going to kill me,” Ienzo said dazedly.

Dilan laughed. “Nothing like young love, is there? Ienzo? Ien--”

The smell of something bitter, and a touch of something cool on his cheek. “Oh thank god,” Ienzo heard. His eyelids felt leaden. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes…” He mumbled. He forced his eyes open. Demyx was crouched over him, one hand taking Ienzo’s pulse. He looked flushed; he must have ran here. The pain in his head was so intense as to be almost unnoticeable. “I… I’m sorry.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I… I cast one small fire spell… that’s all.”

Demyx rested a hand against his forehead. “You’re stable,” he told Ienzo. “It seems that the magic triggered a migraine--”

“Oh, is that all?” Ienzo muttered.

“When Dilan said you blacked out I--I figured…” He turned redder. “You’re going to be okay. Drink this.” He offered him a canteen. Whatever was inside was sour, and he flinched. “It’s for the pain.”

It did seem to help, but made everything a bit foggy. “Do you need help with him?” Dilan asked.

“No, I got it.”

Humiliation washed over him, and he felt his eyes water. “I can walk.”

Demyx hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes… just let me--” He sat up, the dizziness worsening.

“Oh, no. Let me carry you. I’m sure you can do it, it’ll just suck major ass when you feel like this.”

“No,” he snapped. “No.”

Demyx blinked. “Ienzo--”

Something was unraveling, a hot stab of nausea almost making him double over.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Ienzo pressed a hand to his face, feeling the tears spill over against his will.

“Baby…” Demyx trailed off. “I knew something was wrong. I knew it.”

“...I shall… leave you some privacy,” Dilan said. “Call if you change your mind.”

Demyx pulled Ienzo close. He felt like he could barely breathe, clinging to him with a pathetic sort of desperation. Demyx stroked his hair. “What’s really going on?” He asked.

“Nothing,” Ienzo insisted. “That’s the issue, there’s nothing wrong and I still feel this way.”

He kissed his cheek and handed him a handkerchief.

“I feel… purposeless,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m lost… I’m so used to… moving forward, to having a goal.”

Demyx wiped a tear from Ienzo’s face. “Do you think this could also be some kind of sadness?”

He sniffled. He was a bit woozy. “How so?”

“It’s… weird,” he said slowly. “Maybe this is how you’re letting go of it.”

“By feeling like garbage?”

“You took on so much pain that wasn't yours. Mine, the Heartless'. It has to come out sometime. Using magic could've triggered it.”

Ienzo touched his chest with a trembling hand. “...You may be right. These emotions… didn’t feel connected to me.” Such strange permutation of power.

“Let it go,” Demyx said gently.

“Cry it out?” he asked bitterly.

“If you have to.” He sat and crossed his legs. “Come here.”

Humiliation broke through the weird cool stillness within him. He let himself be pulled close, breathing in Demyx’s smell and the scent of ash, water oozing down his cheeks. “It’s been months,” he hiccuped. “I haven’t the slightest idea why this is happening now.”

“You’re good at pushing things away.”

“Deluding myself, you mean?” He was trembling.

“Maybe you weren’t ready.”

For a moment anger nearly broke through him, but he deflated. “...Maybe not,” he conceded. “It is so… strange… I feel like I’ve made some leaps and bounds, and yet, my heart is so tender… infantile, if you will.” He hated the way he sounded, thick and poorly. A thin, sharp pain redoubled behind his eyes. “You know I used to feel them, when I was younger.”

“The victims?”

His body was leaden. “Yes. I could hear them, even when I was nowhere near the lab. For whatever reason, I always had an acute sensitivity to darkness. Is it because I was nearly one of them?”

Demyx’s arms around him tensed just the slightest. “...You were?”

“Yes. I never… told that story?” The tears continued to run, cool and distant. “They were… keenly interested in the hearts of children. And I was… there. You have to admit it’s quite utilitarian of them." The ache in his heart was lessening, bleeding out. "I think this connection is fading.”

“Good,” he said woodenly. “But they… they never--”

Ienzo took some of his own weight back. He shook his head. “We became Nobodies first.” He touched his chest, the space above his heart. “I suppose that in and of itself was an experiment.” He could taste salt, when he spoke. “The slightest twitch of power, and it all comes up,” he muttered. “I am so very… tired. Demyx?”

His jaw was clenched tightly. He grit his teeth.

“Don’t hold it against them. We’ve all done bad things in our lives.”

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“...I’ve spent enough time dwelling on it,” he said tiredly. “What good would anger do? They’re in pain as well.”

Demyx took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he seemed to have composed himself somewhat. “Do you want to go home?”

“There’s nothing I want more.”

---

It took a long while for the tears to stop and the ache to fade, but once it was all over he felt lighter. He figured that settled it. Time to stop feeling sorry for himself and move on. The past was the past; nothing left to be done. He would study, pull the pieces of himself back together one by one. And then whatever happened next. No point fretting about it. Easier said than done, Ienzo knew, but at the same time it was completely necessary. Once he was feeling more himself, he might work with the committee. One day.

But all there was was the present.

#beyond this existence: new life #ienzo #demyx #dilan (kingdom hearts)#zemyx #beyond this existence

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perstephonebartusisyphus · 5 years

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Birthday Wavelengths Explored

don’t know how to describe what the character the perceptive field of reality takes around my birthday, but there are many impressions, feelings, and nameless associations that when translated into words attempting to communicate broadly, but crystallize inaccurately, come out like a slug turd slowly sliming its shitty trail from the sphincter of existential crisis in capitalism’s peculiar tendency towards isolation into the ether of existence: I SUCK and EVERYTHING SUCKS. But that’s only like a fleck of dust at the zenith of the glimmering cold Aquarian iceberg. That kind of phrase is kind of desperate. Because what can the myriad of responses to something like that be in response to a desire to not feel the way that “I” do?

No you don’t. You’re great, you’re awesome you’re (insert opposite of I Suck here)

And then if that is the choice of expression I use and that is the response I receive, I then in turn shut it down and then get convinced that that was toxic and attention seeking and pathetic.

This is the first year since I was 21 that on feeling the massive machine of the birthday depression hurtling towards and through and in me in torpid motion that I haven’t been using or scaling up my alcohol usage to deal with it, or also actively engaging going into bed and staying there somewhat helplessly amidst a swarm of critical comments thoughts and weighted adversarial comparisons to come take grip pull under in haze until the energy returns to get out of the bed, and then get to the nearest bar and drink it down until the exhaustion and actual need for sleep come in. And not quite deep restful restorative sleep, but what it may feel like to be a computer with no battery life that must be plugged in in order to run that suddenly gets pulled out of the socket and just turns off--that kind of sleep, not knowing when the plug will go back in and not even knowing when to know when just complete cessation of consciousness and contents therein or lack thereof. Mechanical, cause it’s the brain box part, there’s like bumping electrons or a broken neural highway so the glitches and treaded pathways keep gettin’ Groovier, baby. LOL But on a side tangent, that’s also frequently described as one of the parts of the word/sound/ soundword, sacred speak OM the dreamless sleep state of consciousness too.

There’s a petty part of me that keeps needling needling needle picking to stop talking about not drinking like it’s some narrative device to give meaning to my life. Like stop talking about your recovery, you’re just trying to get attention. that’s what it’s saying, anytime I try to make a peep or talk to someone, or the internet lol or anyone about it, except my therapist. like somehow this fucking voice feels okay and gives full permission to my mouth and the rest of my mind to talk about it on the condition that I’m paying someone else to talk about it. And then the battle ensues, the self enquiry, Am I? Is that what I’m doing? It doesn’t feel like that’s what I’m doing, but never know, maybe I am and just don’t know that I am. Writing from this place, today, right now, for a few minutes, I can laugh about it, as I’ve for this scant moment sublimated the needler, and this, this is one of those minor seeming yet major feelings recent skill.

In being sober, I have realized how relentless and multifaceted this shame-complex is, how fragmented and seemingly intelligent yet monotonously banal in its overall messaging it is, the many forms and voices it has, the guises it takes within. I’ve also taken to trying to tap into the expansive objectivity of dissociative states. Yes, I have them frequently, yes, I dissociate less than when in the midst of ongoing trauma, but have also starting to catch the brief time-warp/doorway/wormhole moment when they come on.

I can describe it something like the lucid dreaming training techniques. Like during the day look at hands and count fingers, turn the light switches on or off during the day with conscious observation to the point it becomes a habit and then the theory, successful for many (including myself) but also not a guarantee for every individual, during a dream hands will appear differently lights wont turn on and YOOO this is a dream! It’s kind of like that. Kind of. In that, for me thanks to therapy and lots of meditation and playing with the feelings and experiences of the passages of time as results, knowing activation stations of my emotional body or etheric body to triggers, can pinpoint when a dissociative wave is about to roll in and waiting for the crest of it before it swallows totally, and riding into it somewhat... lucidly.

There’s also in lucid dreaming sometimes or astral projection that the excitement of the awareness may kick or boot the consciousness out of the dream or awareness state altogether, and I’ve found similar to be correct in dissociations, but it’s not of excitement but of awareness. There’s the awareness of moving into a dissociative state for me that dissipates it altogether, but if I want to enter the state itself and use it as a tool to experience, I have to surrender completely to it with no expectations, and establish the emotional memory of this feeling to invoke it once it’s necessary for this purpose. This to me feels different than being swallowed by it at the full expense of experiencing, but I’ve come to an understanding of naming it of sorts, Like I understand this is a state that was originally installed to protect me (at first, and then later, again once no longer needed, became a bit hindering), and I thank it for its service to that endeavor. Then I ask (it’s not with actual words though, it’s with a feeling) if I have permission to be there to join it in observation. In there is a delightful distance from shame indwelling consciousness creatures, they are able to feast upon an avatar of a self, but are not given the psychic energy with which to continue gathering energy.

I have been able to transform them upon returning from these states. I have recently named them the “shit-eating nibblers” i think of the size of the bites they may be taking from me and then I am filled with some sort of affection at how small their teeth are.Because they’re taking bites, they seem to run away really fast after getting their food, and then come back for more later. They may come with a phrase like “You’re weak-willed and arrogant” and take the form of someone who hurt me before, which is such a shit eating spell-curse that becomes more and more true over time, giving them more and more to feast on the longer I let it drag me into bed or pull me from the world, or pick up a drink, name any of the ways in which I could continue to give that matter, be it brain matter, psychic matter, literal withdrawal of life force (by stopping eating altogether or only eating very very sporadically in voracious states of sheer hunger). To me it’s interesting how the associative dissolution of the boundary translates almost automatically into waking life with the material plane. In not wanting to feed them, I don’t eat. I become malnourished. I end up hurting myself to avoid being hurt by them, which is also either some part of myself that is not integrated, or some external unreal thing that I’ve internalized as my own and don’t know what to do with it. So the solution is there, but it’s applied in an unhealthy way.

So there’s multi-tiered approached to this for me. There’s being with a dissociative state, and then there’s also the experience of a depression,which can also be foretold long before it comes into residence within the body. Depression for me has a similar function to hack into and engage with all of this stuff in a way that’s healing. Say I start to feel the urge to drop into the oblivion of my bed at like 1 p.m. on a day off from work these days. Okay, there’s many ways to deal with it.

1) Don’t yield to the temptation to do so. That works out in its own way, sometimes drinking a glass of water, or going for a run. I have to identify whether it’s a temptation to get pulverized by the mechanical teeth of the shit eaters, maybe time to meditate or process etherc exhaustion from the zillions of inputs passing through at any given moment or

2) Try to understand it as an entryway or point of journeying into seeing what needs the attention and what it’s asking for, or what I’m asking for, or exploring any number of things.

In light of 2, there is a “real world” example

I got a text message saying “The world is passing you by.” I was at first confused by it because I’ve been consumed somewhat joyously enough in the contents of my psychic imagination field, exploring it, and engaging it with the hopes to effectually co-create with the divine experience of life (here emerges like crystalline insect the glorious idealism of my aquarian energies and hopes for the world and everyone in it- that we recognize and be in active relationship with that sacred capacity to love and be and create NOW! TODAY! EVERYDAY! ! HOW Gorgeous! And I’m a complete amateur at it), as opposed to say, huh wow, yeah, be taken in by any number of phantasmagoric meta advertising schemes of the manipulators and oligarchs and internalized messaging at large hellbent on destroying the entire planet. Yes, that world is passing me by but I feel like I’ve given it enough of my time. And for someone who’s been called crazy for their entire life, it’s striking me as odd this year in experiencing the willful engagement with (as opposed to say unconscious experiencer OF the unintegrated run amok aspects of myself) and re-animation of my inner landscape, that I usually let that deter me from knowing myself, and therefore, half-aware and becomin half vulnerable to whatever anyone else would say, living in no place fully at all. Hm.

So, the comment I deflected and asked politely to not say something like that to me (because I’m vulnerable to those kinds of statements or spell casts), but it did pass through. Today I made choice number 2, because that statement manifested internally as basically 5 or 6 shit eaters.

At a gardening center I was looking for biodegradable pots to transplant these artichoke seedlings that sprouted on Imbolc. Artichoke are in the thistle family, and the thistles are associated with the planet Saturn, so I experienced their sprouting as an immense joy and nod to and from Saturn, within and without (I can’t get into Saturn right now, because it will be like... okay so... four years ago and then it will be like 90 pages later and I’m already feeling bad for how long this is...) so I am excited to transplant them. I mean going to all the gardening centers and stores for supplies and talking with people about how to get simple things like soil is in some ways a deep blow to my ego because this kind of stuff would be deemed child’s play, but here I am back at square one, navigating the rigamarole of distributive and oppressive networks trying to siphon off everyone’s connection to the earth unless it’s through $$$$$$ facillitation and I’m feeling like such a failure and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit-eater though!!)

I go to call the agricultural extension because I’m hoping to get a load of compost delivered (because can’t make it here cause the neighbors are scared of raccoons and cats coming to an open air pile, so alas, but maybe I’ll get or build a compost turner or start a worm composter in the spring who knows) and I’m determined to find a way to make this delivery of it free of currency cost because where do all of the leaves go in the fall and I’m anticipating pessimistically that the ag extension is going to be a dead end for this (which is an unhealthy outlook to transfer to them) and hopefully they have a distributive network and if I can get it, I can tell other people about it too so they can also get compost to garden, but the phone lines are only open between 9 and noon everyday and I’m depressed because it must not be that busy if it’s only open for three hours a day and climate change and we’re all gonna die and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit eater though!)

I go to a hardware store and find biodegradable pots of the size I’m looking for and radish seeds that are from 2016 and get to the register and the seeds rings up for 10 dollars and I say but theyre two years old though? Turns out they were actually only 50 cents and suddenly im wondering what happens in this distributive network in place with seeds that are still viable (brassicas are viable up to 8 years in ordinary storage conditions) yet deemed old. Do they go into the garbage which gets mixed up with petroleum products and any number of mismanaged alchemy in this world off its hinges on climate change that goes to a landfill or the ocean and gets wasted. Then I’m like thinking of seeds and ovaries and connections to reproductive cycles and trigger and trigger and dissociate and the form of an infant and all of the children in the world who are hungry and the masses of food that goes to dumpsters because nobody paid enough money for it in time and its so infuriating and i am so useless and ineffectual and sad and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit eater though!)

That’s enough examples.

When I got back, I felt like I could hear my bed singing a lullaby and asking me to sink into it to the tune of “The world can pass you by, come sleep” Hesitantly, I go to the bed and lay down and then say Not going to sleep, but I would like to speak with the shit-eaters. So, some breathing, some reiki at the reproductive and heart areas, and then imagining preparing some delicious foods that arent shame or shit and inviting the shit eaters over for dinner. I go on and on about Saturn with them, and at first the majority of their responses are about the world passing me by and me being crazy and not doing enough, and not loving enough, and x, y, z in all of their permutations and the back and forth and the rabbit holes and winding paths and worlds and worlds within. They’re turning into endeavors I’ve been a part of that didn’t work out, jobs that went wrong, people that I fucked up with, but as the meal was shared around and passed around and the movie reel stopped playing in its exhaustive measure that became more like a tired and worn out advertisement for some product thats not even worth buying and turned into yarn to work into a tapestry of a story that is textured and nuanced and still vague, after a couple of hours of yarning and wrestling, I started writing this. So I’m feeling like today, maybe this is the birthday stuff to work out that I was so scared to work out for a long time because I was scarred that I was crazy and maybe so, but I gotta find the way it grows with me, however that may be. For anyone else who may not enjoy their birthday for any number of reasons, this one’s for you too.

#exploringinternalizedshame #birthday #psyche #wakinglife

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theliterateape · 6 years

Text

Picking at Scabs Prevents Any Sort of Healing

By Don Hall

I read somewhere about a man in Texas who was cheated by a group of men. I believe it was over a few hundred dollars but I can’t quite remember (and an exhaustive search on the internet gleaned no results, so maybe I just heard it). Regardless of the amount, the man’s sense of injury and injustice was so heavily defined, he spent the rest of his life and all of his fortune chasing these men down. He managed to get each one arrested but in the process, lost his family, his property and everything he had achieved up to the point of the theft.

The very definition of a Pyrrhic victory.

Binge-watching Cobra Kai on YouTube Red the other day while marinating in NyQuil, it hit me. This story of Johnny Lawrence and Daniel Larusso is a tale of arrested development, an inability to get over the past, and the repeating cycles we have in our lives. As I spent five plus hours reliving their rivalry, with both men dealing with a legacy of bullying and trials and victory or defeat, the fact that I am their age was not the only similarity.

Like Johnny, there is a portion of myself still stuck in the ’80s, that time when I came of age. The music is still the most badass, the ideas of masculine toughness still reside in my bones, the feelings of some sorts of injustices done to me still simmering just behind my eyes. The reminder of the successes of those who done me wrong and went on to thrive, burn like the billboard of Daniel does Johnny. Likewise, I am like Danniel, still riding high on a legacy of achievements long past, holding onto the past with a fevered grip yet unable to stop myself from unlearning all the valuable lessons that make me who I am.

When I watch Johnny look at a room full of kids signed up to learn his brands of karate and bemoan that they’re all “a bunch of pussies,” I get that. While I’m doing my best to unlearn that paradigm, I laugh because it’s true in my 1980s infused eyes. Yet, like Johnny, I do see the essential humanity in these weak but angry losers and question the wisdom of refusing to adjust my behavior to meet their demands.

On the better side of my nature, like Daniel, I struggle to remember the lessons my mentors taught me about balance and the values of hard work without recognition, allowing the past its place without having it take over my entire brain space.

I was never the bully that Johnny was and I was never the weak nerd that Daniel was but the amalgam of the two finds some sort of psychic purchase in my own assessment of self.

I remember, when I was fretting about my relationship with Alice (for something a bit more detailed, check out Peculiar Journeys Ep. 31), that I had incredibly itchy legs. Like, psychosomatically itchy. No lotion could quell the itch. And, at one point, I scratched a bloody divot in my left leg about seven inches long that stayed scabbed up for almost two years later. I felt like maybe I had cancer because the fucking thing simply would not fully heal. I knew I was likely picking and scratching at it at night but it seemed kind of ridiculous that it stayed for so long.

One day, I decided that the scab was indicative of my not getting over the anxieties of being with Alice. I went and culled every picture, every piece of memorabilia, everything that might inadvertently remind of that time. I got rid of the very notion that the relationship had ever existed. I moved on in some ways.

And the fucking scratch on my leg healed.

Let’s say, for shits and giggles, that a young woman gets into a car accident. She was driving and hit a patch of black ice, spun out of control, flipped her car and smashed her head up against the windshield hard enough to cause multiple lacerations on her scalp and a serious concussion. She is trapped in her up-turned vehicle for two hours until paramedics can pull her out. This is bound to cause some serious trauma. Certainly no one is to blame but the trauma exists nonetheless.

As the years pass, she still suffers from this experience. She can’t get in cars without feeling a sense of extreme panic. She won’t fly in planes. Subway? No way. Her entire life becomes an adjustment for her feelings of unsafely, of impending disaster, of the potential of losing control of that which she should be able to control. She lives in a near constant state of fear.

Her feelings are completely normal and understandable. They make sense. She is certainly not crazy but it is obvious that if she wants to continue to live what most call a normal American life, she needs to ultimately get over it. She needs to move beyond it. Yes, there are automobiles everywhere and the sight of them trigger her raw emotional pain. “Get over it” seems flip and unhelpful but “get over it” is exactly what she needs to do to function (unless she moves to a remote corner of Montana and buys a horse and wagon.) “Get over it” feels dismissive of the trauma but it is clear and specific language that offers a pathway to recovery. A goal. To move past the trauma. To let it go and live.

On the other side of town, another young woman is at an office party or a work function and a male colleague makes a pass. Perhaps a grotesquely specific one that renders her speechless and feeling diminished and helpless. She feels her powerlessness in a male-dominated business in a way that she had, up to that point, pretended to not mind, to not really see, to perhaps justify as “that’s just the way it is.” She goes to HR but is reminded “Human Resources” is soft language for “Corporate Damage Control” and receives nothing but platitudes and suggestions that she dress less provocatively. If she presses the issue, she’s labeled and ostracized. She lives in a state of constant anxiety and a nagging, unrelenting sense of injustice and fear.

As the years pass, she still suffers from this experience. The sight of men in power suits and ties, laughing over drinks, is a sinister reminder. Much of her life is adjusted to meet the demands of her trauma. The helplessness turns to anger and she feels angry all the time. She drinks too much but only alone where she cannot be unguarded around men. She starts to wear more provocative clothing just daring other men to pull the same demeaning shit on her again. Her every day becomes a referendum on this one experience magnified to see that specific act everywhere and in every interaction.

She is not crazy or wrong to feel this way. But, in order to begin to live a life without this trauma lording over her every moment, she has to “get over it.” She has to find a way, through counseling or mentorship or karate or fucking yoga, to move past the past. To unring the bell. It doesn’t help her to understand that this unwanted sexual advance is somehow less egregious than if he had actual grabbed her ass and certainly less offensive than if he had forced himself on her. Pointing that out only serves to minimize her own personal damage. Yet, despite the contextual truth, she still needs to find some way out of the existential woods.

My buddy (and fellow Ape contributor) Mike Vinopal, works for an organization that slogans “It’s OK to not be OK,” and I agree with that. I also believe that if that is the total sum up of the experience of trauma, there’s something missing.

“It’s OK to not be OK… but it’s not OK to accept it and stay that way.”

In Cobra Kai, both Johnny and Daniel deal with this concept in the slow recognition that both characters have as they try to recapture and resolve the rivalry that defined them. Daniel has to relearn the lessons he was taught by teaching them to another, and Johnny has to struggle with the boy he was as he trains the 2018 version of Daniel. Both characters are trying to evolve — to be better men than they currently have become rather than settling for the men they are. Unsurprisingly, only one gets it. But that’s why there will be a second season.

Scabs are the body’s way of healing a wound. If you continue to pick at that scab, it will never heal and become a scar. Scars are the body’s way of saying you survived the injury. The skin of a scar is denser and thicker than the skin surrounding it. Scabs signal that you aren’t done healing. Scars are a sign that you survived the wound.

I read somewhere about that man in Texas who, to make himself feel whole, destroyed his entire life picking at that scab.

#Cobra Kai #Daniel Larusso #Johnny Lawrence #scabs and scars

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jae-bummer · 7 years

Text

Take It or Leave It

Request: hey!! can i request 8 and 17 for wonho? tysm, and i hope you have a nice day! (this is my first time requesting idk what i'm supposed to do ahduxk)

8) “Why am I so afraid to lose you when you aren’t even mine?” 17) Your bias hires you to be their significant other

Member: Monsta X’s Wonho x Y/N x (ft. Minhyuk)

Type: fluff

“I can’t do it,” you muttered, attempting to turn around for the dozenth time. “But I have to...” You argued with yourself, spinning back around on your heel and continuing down the original route you were once traveling. “But I can’t.”

You paused again in the middle of the sidewalk and groaned, attracting several glances from businessmen passing nearby. You were in the midst of an existential crisis.

At two in the afternoon.

In the middle of Gangnam.

For the world to see.

“But you gotta,” you nodded, beginning forward motion again.

You kept your portfolio tucked securely under your arm as you traversed the pavement, making your way to the tall building looming in the distance. When you had moved to Korea, it had never been your goal to work for an entertainment company, but when the opportunity had presented itself, who were you to say no?

You continued to nod, whispering small affirmations to yourself as butterflies beat wildly in your stomach. “Position specifications,” you hummed, mentally reading over the job listing you had damn near memorized. “No age specifications. No specifications in physical appearance. May be male or female. Must have a firm grasp of languages and the ability to cook ramen.”

The position being scouted for was an English tutor, so the firm grasp of language portion hadn’t stumped you, but just about everything else had. What did cooking ramen have to do with your proficiency of the English language?

You pushed lightly on the door of the building leading to Starship Entertainment, leaving little hesitation in your motions as the structure’s shadow swallowed you whole. If you paused for even a fraction of a moment, you would have yourself talked out of the interview and nervously jogging back toward your apartment.

Glancing around the lobby, you instantly met eyes with a small, blonde woman situated behind a large, dark-wood desk. She smiled at you cautiously as she shuffled a stack of papers and gave a quick nod in your direction as you began to approach.

“Hello, I’m here for the job inter-”

“Yes, hello, hi, I’ve got it, don’t worry about it from here. Everything is a-okay. You didn’t see this person, nor do you know they exist - thank you,” an unfamiliar blonde boy squeaked as he grabbed you lightly by the shoulders and began to pivot you away from the receptionist’s desk.

“Wait, I had to check in-” you whispered, glancing up at the strange man.

“I told him not to advertise it as a Starship position,” he clucked, shaking his head. “This is a bad idea, such a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry, but what exactly is a bad idea?” you hissed, becoming more annoyed by the moment. You felt as if you were being abducted. “And who are you?”

“Oh, I’m definitely not going to be the one to break this news to you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And uh...I’m Changkyun, Im Changkyun, that’s C-H-A-”

“Ah! Minhyukkie!” a bright voice called from a corridor toward your right. “You intercepted the uh...interview?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” the boy holding onto your shoulders grumbled.

“Wait, I thought you said your name was-” you began, furrowing your eyebrows as you looked at him.

“You thought nothing. You saw nothing. I was never here,” the man you now knew to be Minhyuk hissed. “This is Hoseok’s train wreck.”

“I’m assuming you’re Hoseok?” you asked, turning to the handsome boy who had just appeared in the lobby.

“I am,” he grinned. “Care to take a seat?”

“You’re just going to talk to her about this in public?” Minhyuk gasped. “Shouldn’t you like...I don’t know...at least take her for an ice cream before you spill the details about your immense lie-”

“Minhyuk,” Hoseok cringed. “I think I hear someone calling for you. From the elevator. Twelve floors up. You should probably attend to that.”

“The less I see, the less I’m responsible for,” Minhyuk muttered. He sighed as he looked you up and down and shook his head. “Bless you.”

“Uh, I feel as if there is something that wasn’t conveyed accurately on the job listing?” you whispered, cutting your eyes at Hoseok. He nodded nervously as he began to sidestep toward a set of plush couches in the corner of the lobby. You followed his slow movements, growing weary with the thought of even talking to him.

He was lucky he was so good-looking. The thought almost caused a groan to escape from your lips as it crossed your mind. Were you really that easy to be coerced by a pretty face?

The answer was yes.

But in your defense, you had never seen a face like Hoseok’s before.

“So, you’re interested in the position,” he nodded, attempting to keep his face calm. You hadn’t known it at the time, but he had just as many butterflies in his stomach as you. “Now might be a good time to let you know...uh...well...

Starship isn’t looking for an English tutor for their artists.”

“Alright, thank you,” you hummed, gathering your things and beginning to stand. A hollow feeling hit low in your stomach. You knew it was too good to be true. “Have a wonderful da-”

“No,” Hoseok chuckled uneasily as he reached out to grab your wrist. He paused after your skin had touched and hissed slightly. “Not like the position has been filled...there was no position to begin with.”

“Yup, alright, got it,” you nodded, taking your arm from his grasp. This afternoon was growing stranger and stranger by the moment and you wanted nothing more than to flee from the situation. “I think we’re done here.”

“But we aren’t,” he groaned, shifting to better face you in your half standing, half crouching position. “There’s another position open...a...um...private position. That I’m hiring for.”

“That you’re-” you trailed, furrowing your brows in confusion. “Assuming you’re an artist here, which obviously explains why your face looks the way it does-”

“I’m sorry, what?” he chuckled, a smile easily finding his lips.

“Like you don’t know how good looking you are,” you muttered, plopping back down on the couch. “Of course you’re represented by Starship. If you’re a model or an idol, I don’t know how you can privately hire anyone.”

“I need a date,” he sighed, crossing his arms. His words felt like a splash of cold water across your face as he spoke them. “Events, family functions. I’m going back home for Chuseok and my mother expects to meet my partner. The one I’ve been telling her so much about...”

“And you thought...putting an ad on the internet...would accomplish that?” you whispered. You weren’t sure if you were angry or astonished. “An ad...that wasn’t even what the actual job was asking?”

“I wanted someone intelligent to apply,” he sighed. “I didn’t just want to put any old ad out there asking if someone wanted to date an idol.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in, trying to understand the quick turn in which the situation had taken. Granted, the terms of work had vastly changed, but at the end of the day, you did still need a job. Were you desperate enough to further explore Hoseok’s offer?

That was hard to determine.

“Right,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “Because this is so much better.”

“I know, you must look at me and think...why does a man, who is the pinnacle of beauty, need to hire someone to date him?” Hoseok continued. “I’ve wondered it myself.”

You took a deep breath, pausing a moment before you could find an answer. “Actually I was thinking...why does one man need that many accessories, but I assumed it’d be rude to say out loud.”

Hoseok’s jaw dropped slightly before he closed his mouth and smirked. “Well...now that my feelings are sufficiently hurt, let’s take Minhyukkie’s advice and go for a walk.”

“How do you fit feelings between all of those muscles?” you grumbled, beginning to stand.

“The same way you fit unnecessary sass between those curves,” he grinned. “And by the mere act of standing, I assume you aren’t necessarily ruling out this new development in the job interview.”

And he was right.

You hadn’t.

And that was how you spent two hours, walking around Gangnam with a Korean pop idol, deciding on the terms in which you would begin dating him.

You leaned against the counter, exhaustion flooding your limbs. Gripping onto the mug in your hands, you blinked heavily above the coffee you had been handed, and sighed in contentment.

You had spent the better part of your Chuseok helping out Hoseok and his mother at the cafe she owned. Just because most families in Korea were taking an autumn break did not mean her establishment would. She knew patrons would be coming home for the holidays and would want to spend their time at her coffee shop, and she couldn’t be more correct. People flooded into her doors with the cold breeze and consumed incredible amounts of her delicious food and drink.

You smiled as you met eyes with her.

She was an incredible woman. It didn’t take long for you to figure that out. You understood why Hoseok had talked about her so much in your short time together.

Oh, Hoseok.

After your initial meeting, you had both decided in order to make the relationship as authentic as possible, you had to start spending time with one another. It was difficult to accommodate to his schedule, but you treated it as a job, which it was, technically. Initially, you didn’t understand why Hoseok was so determined to not let his mother down. You hadn’t considered it much of a big deal if he admitted to her that he had never had a significant other. Or that maybe he had and they had simply broken up before the holiday.

But she wanted so badly for him to be happy.

And she wanted so badly for him to be loved.

He just didn’t have the heart to break hers.

Which you totally understood now.

You looked fondly to Hoseok’s face as he spoke quietly with his mother. The man who you had no initial patience with nor any trust had completely won you over. He was so kind and considerate. You never thought that someone as good looking and talented as him would have such a warm soul as well. It just wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t allowed to be a good person AND good looking.

Although you had met him under false pretenses, you quickly realized that Hoseok had never meant any ill will with his actions. He simply found himself in a difficult situation and came up with a pretty dumb idea of how to fix it.

Then again...how dumb could it be...if it had actually worked?

“You ready to head home?” Hoseok asked, standing from the table he had initially collapsed at. Breaking you from your thoughts, you nodded blankly, and yawned.

“Very tired,” his mom smiled. She stood as well and reached forward, patting your hand lightly. “You did well.”

You grinned up at her and sighed happily. “Thank you.”

She nodded before wrapping her arm around your shoulders and pulling you in close. “Thank you for taking care of my Hoseok. He’s a good boy. He deserves someone like you.”

Your chest grew tight as she stepped away and nodded again. “I think we all do.”

Any words you could possibly begin to speak immediately caught in your throat. All you could do was nod back, attempting to keep an expression of blatant shock from crossing your face.

Hoseok’s mom gave him a short hug before disappearing into the back kitchen of the cafe. Intertwining his fingers between yours, he tugged you from the counter and toward the front door, taking you on the short walk back to his family’s home and to the plush pallet you two had been sleeping on. You were ready to rest your sore bones, but even more ready to put distance between yourself and the situation you were in.

You remained silent for the majority of the walk home. Hoseok spoke quickly, lost in thought after thought as per usual. It wasn’t long before both of your tired frames found solace in the stacks of blankets you had been provided, laying only a few feet from one another on the hardwood floor.

“Hey, Y/N,” Hoseok whispered shortly after he had turned the lights off.

“Hm?” you hummed.

“Thanks for...you know...being here,” he hummed.

“No thanks needed,” you sighed, trying to keep a pang of emotion from flooding your chest. “You’ve been paying me after all.”

“Yeah, but you could have walked away after I told you the truth,” he sighed. “But you didn’t. You’ve put up with my crazy these past few weeks and have at the very least learned to tolerate me...and I appreciate that.”

“You aren’t that crazy,” you murmured. “You just love your family a lot.”

“And luckily they love you,” he chuckled. “It’s went well.”

“Hey...Hoseok?” you said quietly. This time it was your turn to ask questions. “What...what’s going to happen? I mean...when Chuseok’s over...are you going to tell your family we broke up?”

“Oh,” he breathed. The silence between you was near tangible as you felt the energy shift. “I...um...I hadn’t really thought that far to be honest.”

“You probably should,” you muttered. You tried to keep your emotions from entering your voice. You couldn’t let him know that you had grown so fond of him, so fond of his family. You would be at peace with continuing this...whatever it was. Even without pay. But you were too nervous to ever let that secret escape your lips. “Just tell them I dumped you and decided to join the circus or something.”

“Hmph,” he croaked, shifting in his pile of blankets. “So...does that mean we stop hanging out?”

“I assume so,” you hummed. You moved to face his dark frame, only lumps and shadows in the darkness. “Isn’t that how breaking up works?”

“Well,” he chuckled. “I never thought...why would I be...”

“Why would you be what?” you asked, a bit frightened of how he could possibly answer. You could never quite tell where Hoseok’s thought processes were heading, so conversations with him were always an adventure.

“Why am I so afraid to lose you when you aren’t even mine?” he said softly.

You bit your lip as he flopped back over in the darkness, turning his back toward you. “But I am yours...”

“Only because I’m paying you to be,” he muttered. “How can I expect you to be with me otherwise?”

“Before I get angry,” you whispered. “I’m going to give you a chance to explain that statement.”

“I’m weird, and a pain,” he sighed. “I’m high maintenance and have stupid schedules. No one wants to willingly date me. That’s how we got into this situation in the first place...”

“Hmph...well,” you said quietly, wiggling in your covers toward him. “Maybe...just maybe, this trial period has me sold.”

“What?” he grumbled, flipping again to face you.

“Maybe I’d be willing to date you without my time having to be rented, Hoseok,” you grinned into the darkness.

“I’m sorry, are you actually saying-”

“Gosh, are all of those muscles acting as a sound barrier? I like you, dork. Take it or leave it,” you chuckled.

“I take it!” he gasped, reaching over and grabbing hold of your hand. “I take it!”

“Good,” you muttered, tugging your blanket to your chin with your free hand. “You’re lucky I didn’t swoop in and try to charge a discounted rate.”

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crasherfly · 4 years

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Forgiveness, Anger, Absence and Processing

“Being angry doesn’t make the other person, it only makes me worse.”

The mantra plays for what must be the 20th time this week, and I exhale. I don’t meditate long- just 15 minutes a day, usually in the evening, but this mantra in particular has stuck with me this week.

That’s ‘cuz I’ve been holding in a lot of anger. More than I could possibly exhale.

I mean, what’s not to be angry about, these days?

Broadly speaking- the existential threats of political, religious and infrastructural change are all worthy of encapsulating rage over. Any left-leaning individual can be righteously angry for the next, say, 40 years. No court would convict ‘em.

Well, uh. At least, no court in prior times. But I digress.

But the past couple of weeks, my anger has morphed into something more personal, more raw than what the headlines on Facebook or Twitter capture.

If I had to describe this descent, I think I would simply say “lost patience”, which primarily manifests itself in the form of continuous sighs, chewed lips, and vigorous use of the “mute” button in my online circles.

Everywhere I turn, I see this simmering anger mirrored by my own acquaintances- most notably, my IRL friends, as our daily conversations shift from jovial memes and video game news to a slow drip of twitter links and frantic retellings of personal conflicts with folks of opposing ideologies.

Over time, the number of digital social avenues muted climbs as the number of invitations for gaming and simul-watching drops. The avenues themselves grow quieter and quieter, as we all retreat to our own corners, our own support systems, our own echo chambers.

“People are human. They make mistakes. Each of us always does the best we can in a moment of pressure, and I forgive myself and others for not doing differently.”

I exhale once more and open my eyes, my contacts sliding around on the surfaces of my eyes before finally sticking in place, the blurry light of my sakura candle finally coming into focus. I look at the flickering flame and do my best to focus, imagining the flame as the point of my breath where I draw peace and power. For a few seconds at a time, it works, and I’m formless. When my eyes close, I see into an infinite of pooled black. It’s the most peaceful place I’ll ever know- total, soundless, shapeless nothing. I call it the Great Silence. It’s what I hope the afterlife will be.

I wish I could say the source of my anger, disappointment and lacking comes from anywhere so righteous as a political or religious cause, but the truth is, I’ve never been an evangelist for anything so lofty as all of that. I’ve always been self-contained, more concerned with keeping myself upright for another day. It’s a privilege so obvious that I don’t have to tell you my demographics- you can guess what kind of person in America has the luxury of only worrying about themselves. Even so, I can barely imagine how others have the energy to extend themselves beyond their own well-being.

The truth is I miss my friends.

This is weird to say, ‘cuz never before have my friends been more accessible. I can find them on twitter, facebook, discord, line, or any given video game. Rarely does a day pass where I don’t hear from ANYONE.

Yet, the past few weeks, I’ve felt acutely alone, peering over a widening gulf that separates me from so many folks I used to rely upon for support- parents, siblings, friends. And in my guts, I feel like the source of separation is distinctly rooted in anger- not the existence of it, but how I’ve chosen to approach it.

“Forgiveness, like any exercise, takes time. I may not fully forgive myself or others today, but if I keep working, someday, I will.”

I’ve been warring to disconnect from my anger entirely, even as November approaches. It’s not unlike an alcoholic draining their bottles into the sink just ahead of the holidays. I’ve chosen the worst possible time to step off the ideological battlefield.

Even so, choose it, I did. Because we can’t schedule emotional meltdowns or mental health emergencies, and after my June-August, change had to happen, come-what-will. A few months back, I made several drastic changes to how I approach my life IRL and online.

IRL, the changes were smaller- I started tracking my weight and alcohol consumption, meditating regularly, seeing a therapist, and opted into a reduced work schedule. Online, however, my changes were more instant and pronounced.

I muted every journalist I followed, as well as every news handle. I muted a choir of voices that had ceased relevancy to me months ago, but I had kept around for fear of missing out. Even websites I paid a subscription to, like Defector, got pushed aside, the raw vein of anger required for accessing that media necessitating an immediate disconnect. I stopped posting personal updates to facebook and twitter, instead opening a Tumblr where I could “rough-draft” my personal thoughts.

I made new rules for myself online-

No posting in anger.

No attacking something other people enjoy.

Post only what brings you or others joy.

Leave criticism, even of things you enjoy, untouched, because the only ideas you own are your own, and no one is calling you defend something you don’t own. What you love will always be valid, regardless of what someone else posts.

Keep your personal updates in a totally optional forum where those who care can opt in, and those who don’t or who have no capacity for it can opt out.

Similarly, I drew up a simple mantra of priorities for IRL that I put on a post-it and placed under my monitor. It reads as such-

Keep healthy.

Keep growing in what brings you joy.

Keep employed.

Keep invested in your personal circle.

Any other positive development is a bonus.

I do not need to be big enough to house every voice, and I have the right to decide my own holding capacity.

“The scent of flowers -sandalwood, jasmine, and rosebay- doesn’t go against the wind. But the scent of forgiveness does travel against the wind; It spreads in all directions.”

All these bullet-points sound high and mighty. Anyone who knows me personally is likely scrambling to pick their eyes up off the floor, presumably after having them roll out the back of their heads.

Truth is, I fail at these points early and often. And lately, I’ve been failing hard, especially this past week, where I’ve felt my own personal anger swell at the continued silence of my social channels.

When channels weren’t quiet, they were political, contentious, and utterly consumed with demanding. Conversations carried an underlying accusation- why aren’t you as angry as I am? Do you see all this shit? I need you to be on my level, no excuses!

The brief, sporadic conversations left me feeling hurt, exhausted, and reproached. As distance and silence continued to grow, I felt a deeper lacking- as though I had failed some test, failed to be the support others needed, failed to echo the correct sentiment. It felt like being back in church, where I was always at arms length for failing to measure up to an ideology or shout loud enough to measure up to the brightest voices in the chorus.

It left me feeling very alone. And, yes, angry.

“Few are the people who reach the other shore. Many are the people who run about on this shore.”

My therapist tells me I have projection issues that source from religious trauma. Because I’ve lived the majority of my life in fear of an angry god, judgmental parents and deeply abusive teachers and bosses, I tend to assume the worst of unspoken intent.

This is a way I keep myself safe. I am secretive. I rarely speak my true mind. And the people I let in are closely vetted and kept to a high standard. The failure is that I don’t communicate this standard, and presume betrayal when often there is none. I’m working on changing this, but it’s tough to undo 30 years of programming in just a few years.

A few places I especially feel pressure, and how I react to it-

When I spend time developing a hobby or a skill, and share that in a chat channel, only to have it ignored or waved off, I take that personally.

When I send out an invite to play video games or spend time together, online or IRL, only be receive zero replies, I assume it’s intentional.

When I send out private DM’s, heartfelt attempts to share an interest and extend empathy, and don’t receive a reply, I immediately take the message to heart that I must not be that important.

Similarly, when I don’t hear from someone for days, or in some cases, weeks or months, after having established a strong, positive and regular rapport, I mourn that as rejection. There are people I’ve never met save for the online world, and I mourn our ceased conversations as much as I would a neighbor I’d see every day in my own building.

When no one tunes in to a stream or reads a blog I’ve written, or, hell, even when my twitter is getting fewer likes than normal, I feel that, acutely.

And yes, all of what I just listed is just...witheringly stupid and banal and completely self-centered.

But that’s what I feel.

This is where I encounter the moments of absence that fuel the anger I’ve been warring with the past few months. When I meditate, lift heavy weights, go on long runs, rant in therapy or write long-ass-posts like this, in an attempt to healthily dispel this anger- these are some of the places it sources from. These are the areas I feel pressure. And that’s valid and deserving of a voice.

Even at this very moment, I’m struggling against the urge to write a barb about how at this point in the post, I could share specific names and anecdotes and it wouldn’t matter because no one really reads this shit. Which. I guess I did just write that. So. Oh well. (it wouldn’t be true, mind you, there are people who do read this, so, thanks for that <3)

“Just as from a heap of flowers many garlands can be made, so, you, with your mortal life, should do many skillful things.”

Frankly, I don’t like my therapist all that much. She doesn’t take notes, often forgets what we discussed the week before, and is likely a mask truther. But she’s cheap, doesn’t try to make me take medication, and her hands-off approach has forced me to take more responsibility for our week to week conversations.

This past week, I came into our session knowing exactly what I needed to talk about.

“I’m feeling angry and resentful of the people close to me, because I don’t hear from them or spend time with them as often, and when I do, it seems like they’re always consumed by negative feelings and reject me if I don’t join them on their level. I’m taking their absence personally, as proof that I’ve failed them, or don’t have what they need. Proof that I’m not good enough.”

My therapist responds with a question- “What would you say to them, if they were here right now, and you could say anything you wanted?”

I was at a loss.

I’m not someone who enjoys confrontation. Again, it’s learned self-preservation from years of religious trauma induced by both family and institution. I’ll do anything to make it to another day without more damage. Like the protagonist of Catch 22, my motto is to live forever or die in the attempt.

I stammer for a few moments and manage to choke out a reply-

“I’d say that I’m still here, and that I care about them, and that I wish we could all be less sad and angry. I’d say that I empathize with them, that I feel horrible for them that the world we live in necessitates their righteous anger. I’d tell them I’m sorry for not being able to join them on their level, ‘cuz of my own personal physical and emotional health concerns, but that I support them and love them, even if they feel like my actions and energy don’t match that. And I’d say that even if it isn’t their intent, that their absence reads to me like I’ve failed them, and that hurts a great deal. But I’m trying to work through that. I’m trying really, really hard. But I miss you all. I don’t want to go another week feeling like anonymous people on the internet are more supportive and understanding of me than people I’ve know for almost 15 years.”

My therapist nods. “Do you think that would reach them?”

I don’t have an answer. Truth is, I can’t imagine blurting that out in public without sounding like a an emotionally volatile trainwreck that everyone would want to immediately avoid.

But I know in my guts that it has to find its way out somewhere. So Sunday morning, I go out, grab some coffee, sit down at my computer, and I start to write. Type, type, type, delete the last 15 minutes of ranting, type some more, and here we are.

My exhaled tension and frustration in page form.

“Hey friend, lately I’ve been feeling down. Nobody sees my efforts, what I’m trying to do. People judge me every time when I’m not around, but never text me when I’m feeling like I do. ”

In the future, I exhale, the final mantra of my meditation recording still echoing in my brain in same-step with the beat of a lo-fi trap song that immediately starts with the end of my meditation playlist.

My last tumblr probably wasn’t the model of restraint. A sage wouldn’t write all that. A wise person wouldn’t toss those kind of scents out expecting them to go against the wind.

But it was valid and important to share.

I toss in quotes from my mantra recordings and from the Dhammapada. I imagine friends reading the quotes and groaning, the heady content totally disconnecting with the chaotic writer they know IRL.

I leave it in. The inhale, exhale cadence is true to my day to day experience, my striving, my insular battle against depression and anger. Effort that I didn’t used to bother with, now deployed in a full-scale war that others rarely glimpse.

Don’t judge me against the wise quotations. Just know I’m doing my best by them, and even if I fail, I gotta hope the effort isn’t wasted.

I toss in the lyrics of a lo-fi trap song at the end of the post, and an english cover of a sad anime song for good measure. They aren’t eloquent words, but they’re true to what I feel. They’re honest. And maybe more in step with the person people know me as IRL.

But I couldn’t go on just saying nothing. I couldn’t keep holding all this in from the universe. Even if no one asked for my explanation, for my apology, for my disclosure, I still had to get it out somewhere.

SO, hey, tumblr.

“I refuse to weave you such a beautiful lie. I would rather feel the pain to be empty inside. How could be so blind as to ignore such a cry? I would rather watch that cold dream where I died.”

I doubt this post will be widely read. I doubt my inner circles will suddenly spring back to life or that my schedule will suddenly be chock full of busy chat notifications or invitations to play video games. I don’t think things will ever be the same, especially as we careen closer and closer to November. And I’ve gotta work through this, accept that this isn’t necessarily a me issue. It’s an us issue.

This change is necessary. This silence won’t be forever. These feelings of lacking and failure are my own, and don’t account for the emotional complexities that others within my circles are no doubt trudging through. Maybe someday I’ll be privy to that. But even if I’m not, I still have to learn to process my own projection issues and continue to build an emotional foundation that can stand on its own, even in the face of perceived rejection.

Three nights ago I’m sitting in a booth at my favorite sushi restaurant with one of my closest friends. Each of us is nursing a glass of sake as we wait for our food. Our once easy cadence is notably strained, but we’re still here, in thanks to persistence and patience and repeated invitations to go out together.

“I’m sorry for disappearing for a while,” she says, “-some wild shit has been happening lately, and I don’t wanna talk about it. But it wasn’t you, it was me.”

Hearing that, a reservoir’s worth of assumptions and misgivings drains. Just hearing the acknowledgment is all it takes.

“Hey, it’s all good, we’re here now, ya know? If nothing else, I’m always good for playing the distraction.” I lift my sake glass. Our glasses clink, we each take a pull.

“And I always will be.” Smiles. A silent acknowledgement of something stupidly simple. Nothing so dramatic as my therapy monologue is needed in that moment.

To the friends who read this to the end, just want to say, same offer, same glass of invitation goes to you as well. When you’re ready to come in from the shit, I’ll be here.

In the meantime, I’m gonna keep focusing on forgiveness. I’m gonna keep disconnecting from sources of anger. And I’m gonna keep openly processing. These are things I need to do. so when the day comes and you’re ready to welcome me back, I’m worthy of the moment.

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juushika · 6 years

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I try to do this every year: here's the best media that I encountered, but which was probably not released, in 2017. It’s long!! oops!!

Books

I read 176 books in 2017. My primary reading goal was to prioritize authors of color, ideally making them half of my reading material. This fell apart somewhat in the face of various and intense life stresses, but in the end 40% of the books I read this year were by PoC, up from 10%* from last year, and I'm proud of that. It's something I will continue to prioritize.

* a metric which may be somewhat out of date, as I discovered neato things while looking into Jewish authors!! but I'm too lazy for recalculations, so let's let it stand

Patience and Sarah by Isabel Miller. I love this book so much that it took me five months to write a review. Miller wrote it with precise, peculiar inspirations--the identity of a mysterious artist; sessions with a ouija board--and while I traditionally resist the idea that the author is a conduit rather than a creator (yes to authorial responsibility! boo on authorial intent!) I think there can be moments when an author reaches above and beyond themselves. I believe Beagle did this in The Last Unicorn:

A lot of things appeal to people out of their own histories in that story. I feel sometimes like Schmendrick, when the first time he actually casts real magic summoning up the shades of Robin Hood, Maid Marian and the Merry Men...people who never existed, really they’re myths, and yet there they are. And at that point he falls on his face, picks himself up, and thinks: "I wonder what I did...I did something..." Which is very much the way I feel about The Last Unicorn. Finally, fifty years later. (source)

And I believe that Miller does it here. This is an exceptional novel; its purpose and joy and energy is remarkable, and it may be safe to call it my favorite book of the year.

Graceling series by Kristin Cashore. The books stand alone and are all perfectly good; but it's Bitterblue that won me, and I think it benefits from reading the entire series. This uses a speculative concept to explore trauma and abuse in ways that are simultaneously metaphorical, literal, and unique to the worldbuilding. I admire a narrative that's able to capitalize on the potential of its genre in that way, and there's interesting narrative-in-absentia techniques at play here, and, crucially, it's thoughtful and compassionate.

Temeraire series by Naomi Novik. I adore the companion animal trope, and am dubious of dragons; I did not expect that this would be so thorough an exploration of the former as to totally negate the later. It engages almost every question that surrounds this trope, especially re: sapience, personhood, power dynamics; the long-form adventure allows for a diverse and evolving culture. And it's tropey in every way it needs to be to give its premise emotional weight. Multiple books in this series won a 5-star rating, and as many made me cry. It's as in love and as engaged with this trope as I am. Simon Vance's audio narration makes these an especial delight.

Her Smoke Rose Up Forever by James Tiptree, Jr. I read this in the same year as my first Joanna Russ book (The Female Man)--and neither are perfect, but both are invaluable, and the combined effect has stayed with me. But nothing lingered moreso than this Tiptree collection: so exhaustive, so exhausting; the tension between her profound bitterness and daydreaming, between her (presumed, implicit, assumed) male PoV and persistent feminist themes, elevates this collection beyond the limitations of individual stories.

The Devourers by Indra Das. It would be insincere to say that this is what I wish every werewolf novel would be--I love them all uniquely--but this is what I wish every werewolf novel would be: this visceral, this vivid, this inhuman, this engaged with the concept of the Other.

Orlando by Virginia Woolf. The only real goal in life is to love or be loved as Virginia Woolf loved Vita Sackville-West; the energy that emanates from this, passionate and playful and irreverent, is incandescent. I always expect historical books about sex and gender to be restrained or dated, and for good reason, but this has aged so well; it's fluid and complicated, but too quick to become heavy. In every page, a delight.

Honorable mentions in books

Ursula K. Le Guin. I read a handful of her books this year; I didn't love them all equally (The Beginning Place is hardly her most famous but it's my favorite so far) but I'm consistently impressed, no matter how minor the work. She's profoundly skilled; she integrates and expands her central theses in ways that capitalize on the speculative genres she writes in, to great effect.

Octavia E. Butler by Gerry Canavan. I hesitate to say that I loved this biography more than Butler's novels themselves, but that reflects how it felt to read this: it summarized, contextualized, and celebrated Butler's cumulative effort and impact in a way that made me appreciate her anew.

When the Moon Was Ours by Anna-Marie McLemore. I read a lot of YA I bounce off of, a lot of magical realism I don't think works; but this I loved, for its specific images, for the way that the fluidity of its style suits its issues of gender, for its beauty and love.

The Summer Prince by Alaya Dawn Johnson. The energy in this is infectious, and needs to be, as it's as much about a love affair with a speculative premise and a place as with a person--and all those elements are accessible, distinctive, alive.

Thomas the Rhymer by Ellen Kushner. Fairyland which feels truly transporting and fantastic, truly fae, is hard to capture. This is such a quiet book, unassuming in structure and frame, but its depiction of fairyland is one of the most convincing that I've ever seen.

Games

Nier: Automata. I watched this played on release, and called it then, in March: game of the year. I was not mistaken. There's more this could do, further it could go; but what it does, with its androids and tropes, its meta elements and narrative structure and soundtrack, is phenomenal. One of the most remarkable things that a game can do is be profoundly wedded to its interactive medium, because few other platforms have the opportunity to interact with the consumer so directly--and Automata achieves that, to great effect.

Kirby series. I have no particular love of platforms, Nintendo, or nostalgia; but these looked cute, and: they are. Kirby is shaped like friendship, and the softness and colors of level design, the creative gameplay of Kirby's transformations, the sincerely impressive interaction with level elements in games like Epic Yarn, are a complete package. These brought me unmitigated joy; that's not something I often find.

Honorable mentions in video games

Dishonored 2. The plot and setting hasn't stuck with me as much as the first game. But to internalize criticism and then go on to make a more diverse game is fantastic (and it pays off, in Meagan Foster especially), and the small, almost-domestic moments and ongoing lore/religion in the worldbuilding are very much my thing.

Dark Souls III DLC. The base game was on my list last year, so this entry feels like cheating--but these were substantial additions, big worlds and significant narrative and so many new monster designs, all of which compliment the base game. It's an impressive product, and I wish more DLC resembled it.

Closure. A little indie puzzle platformed that exceeds expectations for that genre because the way that its core game mechanic interacts with player, art design, atmosphere, and narrative is so successful. (It even makes up for sometimes-finicky physics.)

Visual Media

Car Boys. I'm disappointed that Nick Robinson proved not to be the person we wanted him to be, but that doesn't change the profound impact that this series had on me. Not only is it a fantastic example of emergent narrative, it simultaneously embraces my fear of existential horror and my profound longing for a greater meaning. This served a similar function for me as did Critical Role last year, despite dissimilarities in tone and content.

Dark Matter season 3. The boy and I have been watching this together, and with few misstep we've been consistently satisfied with the way this series combines found family tropes and genre mainstays. But season 3 is a cut above. It's still all those things, but the ongoing, consistent character development, particularly of the female characters, most especially of the Android, is phenomenal. There were episodes that made me cry, that I would call legitimately perfect.

Blame! I've enjoyed everything I've seen by Polygon Pictures, including Knights of Sidonia, but this is the best they could be: tropes I love, a perfect setting for their visual style and capabilities; great pacing, writing that does interesting things with its subgenre. Without competition, the best film I saw this year; it looks great and it’s just so engaging to watch.

Person of Interest. Found family/AI feels is in essence all I've ever wanted from a narrative, and this delivers, delivers in droves: it has the crime serial format I love but, like Fringe, deviates from format to great effect. But it's the particular combination of themes that sold me: using AI as a launchpad to explore all varieties of personhood and socialization.

Honorable mentions in visual media

Yuri!!! on Ice. There is a need in the world for stories like this; queer love stories, stories about what it means to become one's best self, stories which are funny and sweet and profoundly empathetic. This year started poorly (and just kept on keepin' on, but:) and there was a sense of karmic balance that this existed post-election. It's escapism without being hollow; it's how I want the world to be.

Polygon. Monster Factory goes here. So does Awful Squad. But the boy and I have been branching out and watching almost anything that pops up on this channel; the balance between inoffensive good humor and video game nerdom is really likable.

#Juu reads #Juu plays #Juu watches other people play #Juu watches #reference #too many to tag #Temeraire series #James Tiptree Jr.#Indra Das #Octavia E. Butler #Nier: Automata #Kirby #Dishonored #Dark Souls III #Closure #Car Boys #Person of Interest #Yuri on Ice #Monster Factory

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