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chicken-fifi · 3 months

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Lost Connection (pt 5) | Leeteuk (SuJu) Imagine

Pairing: Park Jeongsoo x Fem!Reader

Requested by @bokkibunny: Hi Fifi, could I please request part 5 of the SuJu Leeteuk Lost Connection imagine? There was nothing worse for Jeongsoo than what he was going through at that moment in the hospital. Not only the love of his life didn’t know who he was, but he had to go through an extensive security process to prove who he was (and his connection with her) just to be able to speak with a doctor. She had come to them barely alive, and it was a miracle the doctors had been able to save her. The sad consequence was that she had lost twelve years of her memories, and they couldn’t tell whether she would regain part of it, all, or none at all. Y/N’s family had to return to their home country so (after a lot of reassurance) they managed to convince her to stay and work with Jeongsoo in order to recover the part of her life that was gone. Things were hard for months, she was stressed that her recovery wasn’t going well, she kept refusing help and kept snapping at Jeongsoo, who was struggling to keep it together despite his hard efforts. One day, he couldn’t take it anymore and came to the realisation that he had to let her go, even if he loved her more than anything. However, something he said sparked a flash of recognition in Y/N’s brain. Was there hope after all? Thank you so much!

Genre: angst

Word Count: 1,625 words

A/n: the more i write to this the more it vaguely reminds me of the first kpop fic i wrote for j-hope, Best of Me (linked here). it might as well just become a full fledged mini series at this point no? anyway, i do hope you enjoy and thank you for giving some form of happiness in this expansion series. as always please refer to this reaction as well as the previous three parts of this expansion series (1, 2, 3, 4). happy reading and please reblog or comment!

Tunes: [Playlist] romanticizing life. by ethereal

“Who-” you began, furrowing your eyebrows. “Who are you?”

Those words, those three words, echoed nonstop in Jeongsoo’s head during his time at the hospital. He’d spent his time jumping through every possible hoop doctors and all sorts of security personnel had thrown his way just to be able to get the smallest bits of information regarding your current state. If it hadn’t been for the arrival of your family within the first week of his own, he wasn’t sure where he would be in the process at that exact moment. Their arrival seemed to have changed everything as they not only gave him an in with doctors, but also seemed to make your general health improve.

Not your memory however.

That was something entirely apart.

“She thinks what?” Jeongsoo asked in complete shock, a shaky breath slipping past your father’s lips as he too heard what the doctor had said.

“She thinks it’s 20XX,” the doctor repeated. “When she first regained consciousness we conducted a series of tests to make sure there wasn’t any brain damage, at least any severe damage that we hadn’t detected upon her initial arrival. One of the things we did was ask for the year, date, rudimentary things really. She told us it was 20XX.”

“She’s lost 12 years of her memory?” Jeongsoo whispered under his breath, it was no wonder you hadn’t recognized him. Twelve years ago the two of you hadn’t even known each other, much less been a couple.

“How long until she gets it back?” your father asked, cautiously.

There was some hesitation from the doctor as he struggled to formulate an answer. “It’s difficult to say. These cases are different for every individual, not to mention the nature of the circumstances behind the injuries she sustained to begin with. We could be talking about months, possibly years. And even then there’s no guarantee she’ll regain all twelve years she’s lost or any at all if I’m being honest.”

Tears welled in Jeongsoo’s eyes as the information sunk in his head.

No guarantee that you would remember?

He swore he felt his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. He felt as though he needed to vomit. God, he wished he would get hit by a truck, that someone would pinch him, wake him up from this nightmare.

This couldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t have found you only to lose you again.

That wasn’t possible.

This doctor clearly didn’t know what he was talking about.

And he certainly didn’t know the tenacity you held to fight against the impossible.

He was wrong.

He had to be.

~~~

You sat in the hospital garden staring at the vegetation growing along the walls of the institution you’d grown to call home the past few--- how long had you been there? You knew it wasn’t home, that wasn’t here. That was somewhere else. But you weren’t exactly sure if home was even home anymore. You were certain that when you awoke and were asked what it was that it was 20XX, only be told it wasn’t and you were twelve years off.

And that man.

Jeongsoo? Was that his name?

He looked so hurt whenever he met your gaze.

Especially the first day.

But you didn’t know who he was, despite the fact that he clearly knew you.

Everything was so fuzzy. Blurry and muddled beyond recognition. The doctors had told you not to force yourself to attempt to remember. It wouldn’t do you any good to stress over it.

But how could you not? The looks on your parents' faces - who were far older than you remembered - and your brothers - who were also much more matured and exhausted than you had ever remembered seeing them - seemed so broken and lost. Yet relieved? What exactly had they endured to make them look as such?

You knew you were in a plane accident, the nurses had so graciously told you when you awoke, but you didn’t know anything else.

And you so desperately wanted to know. You needed to know.

“Sweetheart?” you heard your mother call out to you, her hand going to your shoulder as she took a seat beside you on the bench you were on. “What are you doing out here alone?”

You looked at her for a while before responding, “I needed some air. Being in there was…getting to me.”

She smiled softly, “I wanted to talk to you about something…I don’t want to talk about it if you’re not in the right head space though.”

“I’m good. I’m okay.”

There was some hesitation as she proceeded with her next words.

She was going back home. So were your brothers and father. Without you.

“We were granted only temporary stay by the government and it’s time for us to go back. We’ll only be a call away. And Jeongsoo will still be here. He’s been allowed to stay longer since he came on his own accord, not sponsored by the government.”

“Why can’t I go home with you?”

At that moment, your father made an appearance taking a seat on your other side, his hand going to your knee and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“We think it’s best if you stay here and focus on fully recovering. These doctors have been treating you for so long already. They know you medically better than one at the moment. Leaving would mean having to start over elsewhere from ground zero. At least here, you’ll continue making progress.”

You knew it was sound logic. You knew that. But you didn’t want to believe it. Staying there on the island with a complete stranger…well, stranger who wasn’t a stranger, sounded like torture when you could be with people you know and remembered you loved.

“Darling,” your mother began. “I know it’s hard. And I can’t say that I understand what you feel because I don’t. But I need you to stay here. Let them help you as best as they can. Just for a few months, and if you still don’t make any progress or want to leave, you can come home.”

You sighed, nodding your head, “Just a few months.”

~~~

You rolled your eyes at Jeongsoo’s words, starting to get another headache.

Months had gone by and very little progress had been made. You’d remembered a few things related to yourself. Your job, your age, your college graduation, the name of the cat you’d adopted in your junior year at SNU, but nothing pertaining to your apparently years-long relationship with Jeongsoo.

“You telling me that isn’t making me remember. It isn’t going to make me remember, so just stop,” you snapped having had enough.

Jeongsoo immediately stopped his rambling, “Sorry, I just-forget about it. Just get some rest.”

He rose to his feet from where he sat in the chair opposite of your own. You could see the slump in his shoulders as he walked away yet again after another one of the many sit downs the doctors kept insisting were worth a shot at having in hopes of sparking something in your brain. They really had run out of ideas and were just suggesting anything they had read and heard about from studies and conferences. And it was driving you nuts.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair as you rose to your own feet and walked after Jeongsoo. You felt horrible for him. That man clearly loved you, or rather the you before the accident, and there you were hating his guts for the sole reason that represented everything you had been and could no longer be. All of which was out of your control.

“Jeongsoo, I’m sorry I just-” you began as you found him staring out a window in the hospital hallway. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You’re only trying to help.”

He looked at you with glassy eyes and gave you a tight lipped smile, “It’s not your fault. You have every right to snap at me for being so pushy. I think I should go. Me being here obviously isn’t helping you, in fact I think I’m making it worse for you. Your headaches are getting worse and-”

His voice became muffled before fading altogether. The words leaving his lips turning into new and different ones.

“-I’m only ruining your life. You have a whole future ahead of you as a journalist. And my job as an idol it’s hindering you from advancing any further. You’re not taking any jobs that require you to travel. And I don’t even want to get started on the hate that you’re receiving from fans of mine. You don’t deserve that. You deserve to be happy and loved and to succeed. I’m hindering that and I don’t want to do it anymore. I love you. I love you so much but I can’t keep doing this to you. I have-”

“-to go in order for you to be happy,” you said without thinking just as Jeongsoo said those words as well

“For you to get better,” he added slowly and unsure. “How did you-?”

“You said that to me before,” you responded, shocked by it yourself. “It just came to me. You said when you were trying to break up with me once…I think.”

Jeongsoo stood frozen in place as he stared at you in disbelief, “You remembered.”

Your heartbeat quickened, beating rapidly against your chest, “What else marked our relationship? Tell me everything. Maybe that’ll-”

“- help you remember,” Jeongsoo finished, a genuine smile gracing his features. “We should go sit down before I say a thing.”

You nodded, spinning on your heel and all but rushing back to your room, ready to try again until everything came back to you.

#kpop imagines #kpop scenrios #super junior #super junior masterlist #super junior reactions #super junior leeteuk #super junior park jeongsoo #leeteuk #park jeongsoo #leeteuk imagines #leeteuk scenarios #park jeongsoo imagines #park jeongsoo scenarios

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poolboyat-thevampiremansion · 1 year

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on romanticizing the rot

growing up not popular but not unpopular does funny things to your psyche. it makes you do things like falsely romanticize the toxic reality of being fourteen years old out on the town drinking liquor you bought from strangers and hanging out with people four five six years older than you.

at fourteen i wanted nothing more than to be one of those girls, who went out every weekend and got shit-faced with fair-weather friends who'd leave you out in the cold if they had to. but that can’t be true. they couldn’t’ve been that toxic to each other, right? not like they were to me. it must bond you, in some way.

when i first got drunk at seventeen i think me and my friends’ brains connected. our neural pathways will always be linked and we are bonded for life. and there’s nothing like the friendliness of drunk girls: the compliments in bar bathrooms, the unbridled and unwavering support they show, the intent interest with which they listen to you, the genuine and bright way they compliment you, say you're so pretty oh my god I love your skirt you’re gorgeous you're literally a goddess he aint shit dont call him you deserve better i want to worship the ground you walk on

i guess the problem comes when drunk girls get sober. the unity of a drunken haze disappears into a cloud of smoke much like the one they were exhaling the previous night.

theres something deep and powerful in partying. in throwing your life away. in substances and succumbing to them. there must be. that’s why we keep romanticizing them, right? that’s why I wanted nothing more than to have that at fourteen, have that fun, dangerous, thrilling feeling of being alive. of being young and doing things you're not supposed to. I didn’t even think of the immense danger these girls put themselves in.

seeing my old friend solidified this. revealed the toxicity that they must’ve had to adopt to survive. she told me how she wishes things didn't go the way they did in junior high, told me about the one who was behind most of the drama and everything that contributed to those three years being some of the worst of my life. conversation in smoking areas are special like that. they tear down your walls and get you to reveal yourself. talking over a shared cigarette is a bonding experience and talking with her after years of uncertainty on where we stand all melted away and we talked as if we never stopped. i love her, truly. she lived through the decay, found herself after it. i went through the self discovery process, too. realized, and really, knew all along, that the ideas and experiences i was craving and romanticizing were not worth throwing my childhood away.

at eighteen i still crave the decay despite of this.

i experience bits of it, now. i feel it when im walking home at 5 am. its nearly palpable when im sharing a smoke on a park bench, tipsy, and the scene is right out of a coming of age movie. at least i hope it is, but i fear it might not be, might be a horror movie or a documentary on my downfall. i still want to live through that chaos. i crave it on rainy evenings biking home from work. i crave it when the musics loud and i pass by a group of teens having fun and somehow feel left out despite being in the same club. when i see people entering bars when im on my way home from having a drink in the park with my friends. i see it in university students getting black out drunk weekly. microdosing alcoholism at the excuse of making the most of your youth. its part of the college experience! its normal! come out with us and drink so much you wont remember half of the night the next day and do it all again a week from now!

the small town syndrome. when theres not much else to do except go to parks and drink with your friends. when your whole country is on the brink of alcoholism and its normal for preteens to start drinking and smoking. its hard not to romanticize it, right?

i still crave the decay. i still romanticize the rot. i yearn to live through it, vividly, violently.

#thoughts on lots of things #growing up mostly i guess #on romanticising the seedy underbelly that is growing up a girl in a small-ish town #when you're slightly sick in the head and for some reason want to be fourteen again just to experience this #i hate media for twisting the consept of you teenage years and what theyre supposed to look like #you dont have to party!#most people dont i guess !#i didn't!#or maybe im just a loser idk #but honestly thank god im not fourteen anymore #or a girl but thats besides the point in this one

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owlterri · 2 years

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Journal for jordan

#Journal for jordan skin#

Dana mentions that her family often inherits light skin on her mother’s side, but Jordan grows up to be lighter than his parents, to the point where he could pass for a white kid. There’s also the matter of Jalon Christian, who plays teenage Jordan. And Jordan himself doesn’t really play into the narrative, which is weird given that the film is literally about his father writing to him it isn’t until he hits adolescence that he starts to learn about his father. Somebody should have told Williams and editor Hughes Winborne to shape the story in a way that unfolds naturally, as Jordan goes from a newborn to a year old to a teenager in the space of a few scenes. First, it starts in 1993, then leaps to the early 2000s and then ends in 2018. As this is her first major feature film, I hope that casting directors keep an eye on her after this film.Ī Journal For Jordan also feels extremely discombobulated due to its random time jumps. It also marks a very important question: what does Dana see in the guy, other than perfectly chiseled abs? Adams does most of the heavy lifting emotionally, including a scene that feels contrived for dramatic purposes when they attempt a long-distance relationship, and she excels at it. Given that King died during a tour of duty in Baghdad, it’s baffling that the audience isn’t given a chance to connect with the man beyond surface details such as his taste in music and his art skills. Maybe he’s trying to emulate how King was in real life, but every role he’s played-from voicing Julian Chase in gen: LOCK to the quiet fury of John Kelly in Without Remorse-has left me with my eyes glued to the screen. Jordan has tamped down his trademark charisma, coming off as oddly stiff. However, a few factors end up hobbling the film.Ĭhief among them is the chemistry, or rather, the lack of it between Jordan and Adams. So on paper, the two working together should be a home run they even serve as producers on the film. Denzel Washington is one of the most celebrated actors alive and his transition into directing has resulted in films including The Great Debaters and Fences. Jordan has grown into one of my favorite actors, starring in blockbuster hits such as Black Panther and even transitioning into producing with his Outlier Society banner. When I first heard about A Journal For Jordan, it definitely piqued my interest. Before he’s deployed to Iraq, Dana gives Charles a journal which he fills with fatherly advice for Jordan. Jordan), which eventually resulted in the birth of their son Jordan. The film centers on Canedy ( Chanté Adams) and her relationship with 1st Seargent Charles King ( Michael B. There is a reactionary romanticism of life lived in service of country here that, while in step with what audiences might expect from a holiday film, feels out of touch with the world as we know it right now.A Journal For Jordan, directed by Denzel Washington and written by Virgil Williams, is a Columbia Pictures/BRON/Escape Artists production based on the memoir A Journal for Jordan: A Story of Love and Honor by Dana Canedy, which is an expansion of her New York Times article “From Father to Son, Last Words to Live By”. The melodramatic ending here is obvious and, while I won’t spoil it, it still feels strange to see such a recent global event be treated with such an overly sentimental veneer. Expecting a child together, Dana gifts Charles a journal that he comes to fill with loving advice and wisdom for his future son during his tour of Iraq. Jordan) from its beginnings through to Charles’ deployment in the Iraq War. And while that’s not always a bad thing, this year’s yuletide flick, A Journal for Jordan, feels particularly dated and often times emotionally cloying.Īdapted from the 2009 novel by former New York Times senior editor Dana Canedy and directed by onscreen titan Denzel Washington, the film follows the relationship of Dana (Chanté Adams) and Charles (Michael B. There is a specific tone to films scheduled for a holiday release – in short, they’re corny. Written by Dana Canedy and Virgil Williams

#Journal for jordan

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ackerfics · 3 years

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edelweiss — levi ackerman.

— levi ackerman x female reader

— warnings: spoilers for season 4 and the good old aot canon-typical violence.

— summary: you pour your unsaid thoughts to levi, only to break a promise that costs you your heart.

— word count: 4.5k

The sea holds so many promises with its sea-green hue that it spreads a chilling wave through your body like the first breath of winter’s snow. The first time you had ever set eyes on such a majestic view, there was still momentary happiness lingering as your comrades splashed each other with its blue waters. It was a symbol of hope and yet it remained a mystery that prevents all of you from knowing what was beyond this thing called the horizon. You remember how you laughed in delight when Hange presented a bizarre creature on their hands, beckoning you to move closer and focus your entire attention on the small unknown thing lying on your best friend’s palms. You remember glorying under the Sun’s ever singing rays, watching them glitter against every small jostle of water at your feet. You remember turning around to face your lover with a bright smile that might have rendered him speechless — fumbling for words when the two of you face each other.

Those moments were timeless.

Minutes spent wading in the sea was the only time you had peace.

You let out a shuddering breath as you brushed your fingers against the gold band decorating your left ring finger. This is no time to be vulnerable. You were a captain for years, for heaven’s sake, even before Levi joined the Survey Corps. The younger soldiers would feel nervous if they see your unnecessary tears. Hastily wiping them from your cheeks, you turned away from the railing separating you from the dreadful vastness of blue that placed you in such a mood and placed a tentative hand on one of the rooms housing your injured husband.

Entering the small room was more stifling than the situation happening around the continent. It would mean seeing Levi in such a state that would always accumulate unshed tears in your eyes. The bandages wrapping his figure only worsened your melancholy and with every step, you pray that he wouldn’t wake up from the cringing creak of the wood paneling of the floor. The room only had one single bed and a convenient chair on the opposite side of the lone furniture. You wasted no time in lifting the chair to place it beside Levi’s bed, seating yourself with pursed lips and clenched fists. The more time you surveyed his battered body, the more your throat burned with the urge to pour out your feelings in the small confines of the room.

With the Rumbling purging the continents beyond Paradis, this was no time to be relishing in old memories.

Yet living in those memories you shared with Levi kept you solid.

Your life wasn’t guaranteed in this last mission. There will always be a possibility that you won’t come home with the rest of the people fighting against the Rumbling and you had to make do of the short amount of time you had with Levi. But a part of you was saying that you had to survive no matter what, to make that dream of opening a tea shop in a small village possible — to give your child the freedom and childhood you had never experienced. That little ray of sunshine that came to both you and Levi in times of hopelessness a year after taking back the lost territory of the Walls. He looked like Levi that it was so hard for you to say goodbye, even if it were only missions for weeks on an unknown land. This time, you didn’t utter a single closure to your son, regret started bubbling in the abyss of your mind and stomach.

And now, you don’t know if you could ever meet with your son again.

Taking Levi’s hand as gently as possible, you took a deep breath.

“If time really was against us, I promise I wouldn’t cry. I promise I wouldn’t wait for you because I know you’ll still be the strongest soldier I have ever known. I am a mere mortal compared to you, Levi, and I fear that this dream of ours will have its last breath.”

A bitter chuckle came out of you as your grip on his hand tightened. The memories were now more vivid than usual — the time you introduced yourself to him and his friends from the Underground, the respect that blossomed between you when he knew you will be his new squad leader, the way he looked after you as your second-in-command, you recommending him in the vacant Captain spot of the Survey Corps, and you giving him a welcoming gift in his new office. Then, the images shifted to when he finally kissed you under the canopy of stars, to when he whispered words of reassurance as your bodies erased every space between you, to when you screamed in Shiganshina that you were pregnant with his child, and to when you started carrying his discovered last name along with the birth of your first son.

“The reason these thoughts tend to cloud my head at this moment was that the memories simply flashed in my mind as I stared at the ocean that I always longed for. Memories we shared that might have been fleeting yet they carry a thousand-fold of emotions coursing through every fiber of my being. Funny how every time we went out on an expedition all those years ago, you always told me to keep safe and come back with a heart that’s still beating for you. As if I would ever stop loving you and set my sights romanticizing the Titans as Hange does. I had realized that you never once accepted that my life could abruptly end with a constant war on our hands.

“Until your tired breath from lack of sleep gradually diminishes, this time, I will be the one to protect you and fight until I will let go of my own heart to sing a song worthy of you.”

“Was that a speech of farewell just now?”

Your eyes flew from your joined hands to the dulled gray irises of the keeper of your heart. Before you know it, tears continuously flowed a stream on your cheeks, your shoulders hunched as sobs racked your body. “I don’t know what came over me, must be the tension brought by the possibility of dying when we haven’t even stopped the Rumbling from erasing the rest of humanity.”

“Hey, look at me,” Levi uttered your name so softly as if he was afraid it would sadden you even more. Placing his left hand on your cheek, he wiped the cascading tear that glistened under the mellow glow of the lantern beside his bed. “You’re not going anywhere. Not when I am still alive with limbs fully intact. Well, except for the fact that I lost two of my fingers.” From that, more tears appeared in his view, flustering him in the slightest. “The point is that I will protect you. This dream with our small family will be forever ingrained in our future. You will always have me looking out for you.”

“But I’m supposed to be the one protecting you now.”

“Are you underestimating me?”

You shook your head, covering his hand with both of yours. You placed a tender kiss that you hoped radiated the unsaid thoughts that could ruin the moment you share with him right now. You wanted him to be a part of humanity’s victory against whatever crazy plan Eren has set his mind on.

“Our little boy is waiting for us to come home,” Levi reminded you after a few minutes of silence (with your occasional sniffles here and there). “Isn’t that enough reason for us to come home alive? Imagining him losing one of us was the one thing I don’t want to happen right now. Promise me.” You love the sound of your name when he says it. Akin to the flowers that seem like they hold all the jewels at the center of their petals. “Come home with me safe and sound.”

“I’m not one to keep promises, Levi, you know that.”

“Just this once,” he pleaded. “All I wanted was to have a happy ending with you, my edelweiss.”

With new tears blossoming in your eyes like flowers in spring, you gave Levi a promise that will desperately cling as long as the two of you are alive.

And he regretted making you say those words.

The battle with the Nine Titans of the past proved to be tormenting. With forces so small, the group who allied two countries at constant war with each other fought with bated breath, all eager to get out of the situation alive like no other. As hollow as your chest became after witnessing Hange sacrifice their life to let all of you escape, you steeled yourself and momentarily forgot the emptiness you felt as you landed on top of Eren’s back. You fought back a gag of disgust when you realized that the humungous creature shared similarities with those insects you loathe. However, Armin was captured by a Titan out of nowhere and everything went to absolute shit. Maneuvering in the air was perfect for the remaining members of the Survey Corps as they assessed the onslaught and ongoing appearance of their intelligent enemies on Eren’s back but their numbers continued pouring in. Two thousand years of Titan history right in front of your eyes. Everybody, Mikasa especially, was starting to feel agitated that one of their comrades was hauled away with a good number of Titans to prevent them from saving him.

“Even if I was in perfect shape,” Levi told them while they stayed perched a good kilometers away from Death, “I would still not choose to make a charge there. So calm down. Mikasa, don’t rush. Wait until I distract them.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes. “Levi, don’t overexert yourself. We don’t want to lose you.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Don’t die on me.”

The rush of adrenaline started when Pieck initiated the charge, along with the thought that she had never known Eren unlike the rest of the people behind her. You screamed for her to retreat but they were futile when the Warhammer Titan materialized behind the Shifter and pierced a weapon made of hardened Titan skin through the torso of the woman’s Cart Titan. Gritting your teeth, you followed your comrades in a route specifically to rescue the new commander of the Survey Corps. Thunderspears were released every minute, maneuvers were done in utmost accuracy, and sliced napes gradually increased as your small group evaded every death-defying moment. As you were about to set your sights on one Titan in particular as well as avoid the Colossal Titan, Connie descended when the fifty-meter mass of burning flesh threw Reiner’s inert Titan at the rest of the squad, shaking the entirety of the spine you were carefully standing on.

“Levi!” you called out desperately when you saw him cough up blood. He was only a few meters away from you and you had to take him away from there fast. However, the sudden motion of a jumping Titan made you rethink your decision, latching your hooks at somewhere near Connie and blinding the creature’s eyes with an angered shout that might have startled it. The horrible creature tried snapping at your form but you were quick enough to evade its jaws with a hiss from your ODM gear, turning in midair to slice the Titan’s nape and rendering it lifeless. Looking down for a moment to check on your blades, you saw the lone pair sitting inside either sheath of the gear. “Fuck. My gas canisters and supply are not cooperating with the situation right now.”

Looking around, you suddenly realized with a hollow chest that everything was hopeless at this point. There was no escape as every intelligent Titan known to mankind swarmed your squad, their shadows a foreboding omen on your death.

Feeling a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, you turned around and saw that the Warhammer Titan was starting to make another one of its weapons, this time, a needle-like spear forming from the hardened material at the bottom of its foot. Shouting at the top of your lungs for your friends to flee, the message only registered to them when you pushed Mikasa, who was dangling in the middle of the trajectory with a determined face, oblivious to the weapon hurtling towards your squad’s direction.

Pain was something you always described as a chain of a chemical reaction. From all the books you read while trying to keep up with the latest idea Hange had, you always marveled at how a small prick of a needle would soon creep the sensation to your entire finger. To prevent yourself from being affected by the pain, you always likened the creeping pain to a blooming blossom in your and Hange’s favorite season. It promised something anew that would grow from the initial pain that racked your body. The dizziness was another story entirely. You never had issues with iron deficiency while growing up. You were a force to be reckoned with — battle scars lining up your legs and knees from all the running and climbing you did as a part of your childhood. These dents on your body grew in numbers as the years passed by until you were granted a position in the military regiment of flying wings and anxiety-ridden adventures. You wore these battle scars proudly like any other soldier.

Then, the promise of being alive rang across your head like a beacon.

That spear caused the entire left side of your torso to be gone.

The shouts of terror and agony from your squad fell on deaf ears as you slowly plummeted to your death. Ah, so that was why you were having flashbacks of your life from gazing at the ocean a final time. Glassy eyes stared lifelessly at the steaming sky as a single voice screamed your name nearly made you smile. You can finally let go of those long, never-ending days now. There won’t be nightmares plaguing you every other night as you finally succumbed to your last sleep. Selfish as it may, you were at peace once again.

“[Name]!”

And when you opened your eyes, a familiar face appeared to greet you and everything felt like a dream you just experienced from a drunken daze.

“Hi, I hope that wasn’t a bad dream.”

You blinked away the drowsiness that fell upon your eyelids, staring at a familiar landscape you only saw in daydreams. The clean air reminded you of the good old days, of summers left uncherished and autumn with its red leaves and yellow treats. There weren’t any Titans looming at every corner of the space and you slightly felt relieved at the thought until a single tear ran down your cheek like a chill in the winter air.

“Don’t cry.” A slightly panicked tone that only deepened the cut you felt in your chest. “You’re safe here.”

Those words only fuelled your cries. Palms covering your mouth, you uttered the name of the person who would pull you from the inner workings of your mind and bring you back to the surface. You never knew how much you missed them until you wrapped your arms around their shoulders, pulling them in an embrace that you should’ve done before they said their farewells, face taut with determination to stop Eren.

"Hange.”

They smelled like home. Of baked bread during late-night trysts in the kitchens to make them eat after a week of slaving inside their laboratory, of hot chocolate from the marketplace, of scented shampoo from the baths you had to force them. Your grip tightened when you felt their gentle hands reciprocate the hug you showered on them.

“I can’t believe you’re here waiting for me.”

“You did well.” A call of your name snapped you from reuniting with your best friend.

“Erwin?”

A warm smile lifted the said man’s lips as he kneeled beside you and Hange, who was now trying so hard not to cry. “You fought beautifully, [Name], and I’m so glad to see your smile again.”

The overwhelming emotions made you laugh brilliantly in the vast meadow where the veterans once had their picnic. Then, an image of a man with ebony locks and loving steel eyes and a toddler with an uncanny similarity as him made you stop breathing. The tea shop you promised your husband would have. The perfect childhood your son would’ve enjoyed. “What about Caelum? Levi?”

Erwin placed a firm hand on your shoulder. There you realized your torso was still intact. “You will see them as many times as you want. Come,” he took your hand and pulled you up, “the others are waiting. It’s your time to tell your story now.”

“I bet it was interesting since I never got to see it,” Hange interjected, wrapping a nostalgic arm around your shoulders. “That blasted Eren! I will haunt him in his sleep if he survived that massacre he started!”

Sleep was never Levi’s friend growing up. It was a realm that he chose not to venture at certain nights, afraid of the demons lurking at every corner of his tunnel vision. There was a time that sleep was kind to him. It took the form of a beautiful sprite with gentle fingers; coaxing him, tugging affectionately on his black locks, and humming lullabies that will guarantee him a good night’s sleep after a tiring day of having responsibilities. Only there was no fairy to lull him to sleep this time around. The nightmare was always the same — it started as any other random memory stored in the kept jar inside his chest, turning the whole scenario in a crescendo until he saw the limp body of his wife dropping lifelessly, the wire of her gear snapping from the impact of a white spear. His wife had the same face as the fairy who he held every night while being in the Survey Corps. The wife who gave him the light of his life, who was sleeping soundly beside him on the bed; black hair tousled, puffy cheeks blabbering drowsy nonsense, and chubby fists clenching on the thick sheets.

Glancing at the child on the bed, Levi ran an agitated hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as hard as he could. His mind flittered to the dream he just had, shocked that no blood and corpses were waiting at the end. Levi doesn’t know if he should be grateful or spooked at the sudden change of his unconscious.

“Guess you won’t be calling me ‘Captain’ anymore, huh, Levi?”

A playful jab colored Levi’s new office. It was a new change from that stuffy bedroom he got back when he was still the second-in-command of the woman standing in the middle of his office as if it was a new wonderland fit for admiring. The room was nothing much. It was an old storage room, which ticked Levi off to many tomorrows, spending every free time polishing the wooden cabinets and bookshelves until they reflected his face. There was an adjoining door to the right of his desk, showing his new sleeping quarters — equipped with a bed, housing double the pillows he got a while back and a soft mattress that his spine was grateful for. Now, the black-haired man observed how [Name]’s face lit up when their eyes met, igniting a foreign feeling inside his stomach and chest.

“So what’s second on the agenda, Captain Levi? I deduced that cleaning is the first one and you finished that without a hitch. You should’ve told me you needed help, I can always spare a few minutes taking a break from paperwork.”

Levi snorted at how smooth the title and his name sounded with the woman’s voice. “Finding brats to place on my squad.” As he fidgeted with the stacks of papers on top of his desk, his gray gaze kept glancing at [Name], who was now sidling up on his bookshelf, occasionally commenting that they pay a visit to the marketplace downtown for some good books to add in his collection. (“Your taste is bland, Levi, spice them up, for fuck’s sake,” to which the man brushed off.) “Uh, if you don’t mind, you can help me with finding some good soldiers for my squad.”

[Eye color] irises immediately snapped to meet his, causing Levi to clear his throat to ease the nervousness that started to chill his spine. It was as if he didn’t spend the past year under her leadership, which amounted to more moments spent with just the two of them. This, however, the nervousness he felt, was uncalled for. The cause being the woman with the unbound hair, curling at the bottom from the hours she pinned it in a bun, and a resolve that rivaled that of a stoked fire shining through her eyes. Truly worthy of the title ‘Humanity’s Beacon’, being one of the few women to ever prove themselves by slaying titans and conditioning their bodies and mind to achieve such an accomplishment. Levi found himself continuously staring at [Name] with the most blatant awe his stoic face could muster. He realized something that might have crossed his mind a couple of times they were together.

[Name] [Last Name] was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Finding good soldiers?” [Name] hummed, oblivious at the fact that she took the black-haired man’s breath away with a glance. “I think I have some cadets in mind.” Then, she clapped her hands. “But before that, I would like to give you your welcoming present!”

“Welcoming,” Levi trailed off, “present?”

[Name] nodded, turning around to the long couch pushed against the wall. So that’s what that poor excuse of wrapping paper was for, Levi thought. Like a little kid presenting the parent their shitty drawing, [Name] placed the gift in the middle of his desk with a clang. Wait, clang? “I hope I didn’t break it,” the female captain murmured, scratching her head sheepishly. “You can open it now.”

Levi tentatively unwrapped the brown paper around the supposed gift the woman gave him. Upon seeing what was nestled inside the papers, gray eyes met the most tantalizing [eye color] as he slightly gaped in disbelief. “You bought me a,” an eager nod could be seen from the woman in his peripheral vision, “a tea set. And a new jar of tea leaves as well. [Name], I-I couldn’t accept this, this must cost a lot. You know I have plans of buying my own tea set and tea leaves once I have a solid paycheck. These are even made from the highest quality, both of these, how—?”

Laughter bubbled from [Name] as she endearingly stared at the flustered state of her friend, abruptly stopping his chatter. “You’re rambling, Levi. Don’t worry about the lost money, we will be getting our paychecks next month anyway. I don’t have anything to splurge the rest of my savings on, except for a few books and quills. Besides,” she paused to give Levi a brilliant smile that once again rendered him speechless, “I guess giving you these are worth every single penny. Congratulations on being captain, Levi.”

Clearing his throat, he looked away. “Tch, you’re the one who recommended me to Erwin, stop with the congratulations as if you don’t know the promotion.”

“Still stingy, I see. So about those cadets you wanted to recruit. Here, I recommend these people.”

A small weight knocked Levi out of his stupor, silver-gray matching his stare with worried eyes. Small hands plopped on either side of the man’s face, squishing his cheeks as the hunched smaller figure on his lap pouted with furrowed eyebrows. “Dad, did you have a nightmare?” Letting out a sigh, Levi took his son’s hands from his face and proceeded to hug him close. The little boy sensed that his father was in a sad mood because of the man’s tense shoulders so he determinedly patted Levi’s head. “There, there, Dad. It’s more than okay to forget that dream.”

“You know I wouldn’t dare forget your Mom, kid,” Levi murmured, leaning back to look at Caelum with a raised eyebrow.

“You were dreaming about Mom?”

“Yeah.”

Great, his kid inherited his insomniac tendencies. If [Name] would see him now, there would be no doubt she will initiate a late-night tea party with Caelum. The kid also inherited his love for tea (Levi lets him drink fruit teas in the meantime) which is more than fine.

Caelum ducked down, pouting while fiddling with his father’s shirt. “I miss Mom.”

A sad smile pulled on Levi’s lips. “Me, too, kid. Me, too.” He brushed his lips on Caelum’s forehead (which lead to a small whine from the toddler, saying that he’s a big boy and he doesn’t want kisses from his dad) before lying down on the bed, with his son on top of his chest. “Deal with the kisses. Let’s sleep, yeah? Are you sleepy, kid?”

The little boy yawned and rubbed his eye. “Nope.”

Levi snorted. “Well, no shit.”

“That’s a bad word. Mom wouldn’t like you saying it.” Silence enveloped the two until, “Hey, Dad, can you tell me stories about Mom?”

“Go to sleep, brat.” A pause. “She is—,” Levi sighed, “quite a handful, even when she was a captain.”

Caelum huffed. “I already know that. You always complain about it.”

“Well, did I tell you about that time she stood on top of a Titan we were planning to capture, leading it like a horse to our trap?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head adorably. “Did Mom get hurt?”

“That idiot did.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about Mom!”

“Setting that aside, your Mom…”

Telling stories of [Name] always proved to be quite a time-consuming thing as the toddler fought against his drooping eyelids. Levi fondly stared at the only memory his wife left behind, his hand soothingly rubbed the boy’s back as their breaths turned into a rhythmic melody synced with each other. “I love you, kid. I know your mom will be proud of you. We’ll always be here for you, our edelweiss.”

To you, glowing with the suns,

There was no one alive to tell the tale of how the world almost came to an end, how earthquakes rumbled, how hopes were extinguished. There was no one alive to tell the story of how much I dedicate my heart to you. If I’d known it would be this way; I would have written thousands of paragraphs with the way I looked at you as if you were the sea, I would have written the ending with words that rivaled the infinite stars in the cosmos, and I would have finished it off with happiness that we (you) deserve.

You are my prologue, my epilogue, and every chapter and page in between.

From a tired soldier who loves you until we become ancient,

Your Levi

#attack on titan #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #yes this is angst #i know this is a fluff blog #but i can't help it

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wordsnwhiskey · 3 years

Text

Is It Living If You've Left Your Life Behind?

Pairing: Dave York & GN!Reader

Summary: Thanks to you, Dave escaped the showdown with McCall. You planned to take him to a safehouse on the other side of the country where he could recover and get started on living a new life. In order to do that though, he has to leave his wife, his daughters and his life behind. He can't help but wonder, is it really living if he has to leave his life behind?

Rating: T for Language I guess

A/N: This is my late submission for @autumnleaves1991-blog 's Writer Wednesday. I got into my feels tonight and Dave was calling to me. It's my first time writing for him and this is a different take on Dave than I'd normally go for. A softer/angstier Dave but honestly, given this situation where he survives? I don't see classic Dave shining through, at least not until something kicks his ass into gear. The man is injured and more than a little lost. Also, I'll probably edit this later, it's 03:30 and apparently I have a knack for posting things when I should be asleep.

Masterlist | AO3

There was nothing but the open road ahead of him as he sat in the passenger seat, a permanent grimace affixed to his face. His pain ebbed and flowed but at least that meant he was alive. Alive with nothing but the open road ahead of him and his entire life behind him.

Dave really only had you to thank for that. A life debt for a life debt even if it meant he no longer had his life, not really at least. His girls were well over a thousand miles behind him, everything he’d known and loved, he’d likely never see again. You were the only thing Mac hadn’t counted on and even though Dave had lost religion a long time ago, he thanked whatever god or higher power out there that you had kept your head about you during the showdown.

He had been furious at first that you hadn’t tried to kill McCall, only stalled long enough to get him and yourself out of there under the cover of the storm. His anger had quickly dissipated though, you had made the right call, of course. He still had trouble seeing out of his eye, a concussion from being blown off of his feet and plenty of bruises complemented the odd cut or two Mac had managed to land. Things would have been a lot worse had you not intervened.

You glanced over at Dave, hunched over, curling himself into the passenger window. Dave fucking York. He had really gotten himself in it this time but you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame him. In this industry, shit decisions had to be made all the time and Lady Luck was rarely ever kind. People died, that was the business. What else was the married father of two supposed to do when he was cut loose? Assimilate? That kind of thing wasn’t for people like you or Dave York, not really. McCall was too high up on his high horse to get enough oxygen to his brain and too blinded by his own grief to see it.

Then again, you were definitely biased.

“How’s your pain level?”

You asked, and were met with a withering glare, his newly-crooked, hawkish nose only served to further accentuate the harshness in his eyes.

He hadn’t talked much during the already several day trip. Not that you needed the conversation, but you understood better than anyone he knew who was still alive aside from the man you were fleeing from, what this felt like. You hated how people romanticized it, leaving everything behind and starting over. It never worked that way. Your family and friends lived and died and you couldn’t be part of any of it. And now Dave, Dave had two daughters and a wife but they might as well be poison now. Poison to his mind, torture to think about. Poison to the touch if he ever went to see them again, because surely McCall would be watching them from afar, waiting.

The same thoughts seemed to be on his mind, from the corner of your eye you could see him slump further into the window, clutching a small photograph he had pulled from his wallet. For all that he was, former agent, mercenary, murderer, assassin, he was still a family man, a soft man at heart and going into hiding away from this family had just as much likelihood of killing him as McCall did.

“I’m not going to see them again am I?” Dave murmured as he stared down at the photo, thumb grazing over his daughters’ faces.

You opened your mouth then closed it again, contemplating giving him platitudes or the truth. He chuckled at your reaction, a hollow sound devoid of any humor.

“Spare me the bullshit.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened and you let out a sigh.

“I don’t know Dave. If McCall winds up dead then yeah, that’s an option. I haven’t been back to see my family but I don’t have the same… things anchoring me somewhere or drawing me back.”

Silently, he turned to resume watching the passing orange and brown landscape fly by.

It had been about another two hours since he last spoke and he had been so still and quiet, you thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Why’d you do it? Why are you doing this?”

His voice is gruffer, made thicker from the knot of emotion in his throat. It startles you out of your own reverie.

“Do what?”

“Why did you bother saving me? You could have made it out of there and been in another country by now. Fuck, you could have dumped me at a hospital anywhere along this godforsaken road and still be in another country by now.”

You frowned, somehow you had hoped his relative silence meant you would be able to get through this journey without delving into any sort of feelings.

“It crossed my mind, on both counts.”

He raised an eyebrow, not so much in surprise that you had thought about it, more so that you hadn’t gone through with it.

“I didn’t have any part in Susan’s death so McCall would have stopped hunting me eventually.”

You spared him a glance, he was staring at you intently, analyzing.

“Is this the part where you tell me you love me?”

You scoffed and looked at him incredulously then shook your head.

“No, it’s even more pathetic than that, Dave. You’re probably the closest thing to a friend I have and we’ve tried to kill each other before.”

That got a small laugh out of him, because really, what was more ridiculous in their line of work than friends?

Probably having a family. Dave grimaced as the thought echoed in his mind.

“We were the best at what we did.”

He said, with an air of nostalgia and you nodded in agreement.

“And the worst, somehow even with us each taking on contracts for the other, here we are, still living.”

The small smile faded from your lips at his silence and lack of a response. Your gaze fell on him again as he shrugged his mouth and sighed.

“Are we? Is it living if I’m leaving my life behind?”

This was not the Dave York you knew. Occasionally, you had seen the wry humor, and suave exterior give way to the side of him that accepted “New Hamster” as an answer instead of “New Hampshire” but not even that remained. The Dave next to you had all of those layers peeled back. He was raw and unsure.

You didn’t answer him for a few minutes, honestly there wasn’t much of anything you could say that wasn’t a load of shit. You were both too practical for pep talks. Moreover, it wasn’t a question you had even stopped to ask yourself. The answer and the journey to that answer was a dangerous one.

“I- …. It’s the best option you’ve got right now, Dave. It’s a pretty fucked situation, my advice? Take it one hour a time and if you can manage that, take it one day at a time.”

“An hour?” Dave shook his head and rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. “All I’ve seen for hours is dirt and sand. While Mac is probably watching Carol and the girls like a fucking hawk.”

You pursed your lips, and eyed the upcoming sign detailing the available lodging and food at the upcoming exit.

“Well you’ll have the inside of our next motel room to stare at in another hour.”

Dave slipped back into silence and you simultaneously welcomed and detested it. Things were simpler without him getting all philosophical on you and contemplating what made living actually living. It hardly mattered though because he had already gone and planted that damned seed inside your brain.

You pulled up to a not entirely shitty motel and paid for the night before going back for Dave who was waiting in the car. The room wasn’t terrible and after a thorough check, you could at least confirm there weren’t any critters who would be keeping you company. At least there were two beds.

After a dinner of pizza from the diner down the road you had taken Dave on a detour to the gas station to get a burner phone. In your haste to put as much distance as possible between you and McCall, you hadn’t bothered to get him one earlier. Once that was finished you both headed back to your room to unwind.

Dave sat in one of the rickety chairs at the small table that seemed to be actively trying to shed it’s veneer layer. With a sigh, he went to work stripping and reassembling his pistol. It was calming, relaxing for him. All of the pieces had a purpose, an order, to be pulled apart then reassembled, very much unlike his life right now. Nothing had purpose or order and everything had been pulled apart, leaving him broken shards to piece back together.

Hours passed and by the look of him, you figured Dave’s fingers might have gone numb from the repetitive movements and his eyes were drooping, well his good eye was drooping more than normal since the one McCall had nearly managed to gouge was still a little worse for wear.

“Dave, get some sleep. You’re no good to me or yourself if you’re half asleep.”

You know he’s been fighting sleep for a while now, he does every night just like he fights the pain you’re sure he’s feeling but refuses to take anything for. For the first time since you two set off, you’re not annoyed by it. He’ll sleep soundly at least once he let’s exhaustion take him. All the better for what you have planned.

It wasn’t until 01:00 that Dave was finally asleep soundly enough that you felt you could get up without waking him. Quietly, you made for the table, using the flimsy pad of paper and pen there to write a note before you walked out the door and shut it behind you. Thankfully, the city you had stopped in was populated enough that rideshare services were available and in less time than you had figured, you were on your way to the airport.

Dave woke up and immediately knew something was off. It was too quiet and there was too much sun trying to peek through the curtains for it to be the usual time you both headed out for the day. He sat up quickly and grabbed his pistol, then looked around the room for any signs of danger until his eyes fell upon the pad of paper on the table. A sharp pain arched through his skull when he stood up, a remnant of his concussion. He took the note in hand and began to read:

Dave,

I figure, if I’m lucky, I’ve got 4 hours on you. If I’m really lucky, I’ve got 6. Anything more than that and I’m disappointed in you, Dave.

He looked up from the note at the digital clock on the nightstand, it read 07:30. A wry grin threatens to take shape on his lips. You’d be disappointed.

I’m not going to make this some sort of sappy letter. I don’t have time for that shit. You were right. It isn’t really living if you’ve left your life behind. Out of the two of us, you’re the only one who really has one to miss. The only way you get to go back to Carol, Molly and Alice is if McCall is out of the picture, so I’m going to give it a shot. I left you enough cash to pay the room through the week and then some. If you don’t hear from me after a week, call the number at the bottom of this note and tell him you’re cashing in a favor for me. He’ll help you out. Might even know someone else who can help with your family. I left you the car, keys are on my bed.

Good Luck.

Dave’s throat went dry and then he saw at least four shades of red before he finally calmed down to assess the situation. Then all at once, it was like ice had been poured in his veins and things began to shift into focus.

What the fuck was he doing?

This entire time he had been wallowing, perhaps well earned, but he should have been planning. He had let his grief for the loss of Susan, the storm of emotions he felt seeing Mac still alive and a simple job that had spun drastically out of control, completely cloud his judgement. He was just as well trained as Mac, but he had let his anger and emotions get the best of him on that watchtower, he couldn’t let that happen again.

Dave moved quickly and methodically as he collected everything he needed from the room and headed out to the car. He really shouldn’t drive with his eye being what it was but he only needed to get to the airport and he could make it that far at least.

He couldn’t let Mac kill you, like Ari, Reznik, and Kovac. Family.

Like hell if he was going to let the closest person he had to a friend get killed.

If anyone was going to kill you, it’d be him, just for you trying to pull off something as stupid as this.

He knew this was the best move though, Mac wouldn't be expecting an attack this soon this time, the attack wouldn't be in the middle of gale force winds on Mac's home turf. You... and he would have the upper hand this time.

Dave got through the airport with relative ease thanks to him having TSA pre-check, no one bothered to ask him about his eye which he did his best to hide with a baseball cap.

He sat down and waited for his flight to be called. Mentally, he began going through the disassembly and reassembly of the rifle he had with him at the watchtower to help focus himself and pass the time.

The PA system broke his concentration and alerted him that it was time to board. Dave was tense when he finally got to his seat and sat down. His jaw was set in concentration as he started to come up with a new battleplan and weighing his options. Yes, he was injured but he'd been through worse on missions and come out on top.

At least one person was going to die by the end of the week and he'd be damned if you and him weren't the last ones standing.

Thanks for reading, tagging a few people interested/who might be interested:

@wheresarizona @pascalsimp @beesting77 @boxdyeblonde @lackofhonor @kaybrownies @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @elegantduckturtle @janebby @faithkeeper-81 @doin-stuff @danniburgh @pascalslittlebrat @mothandpidgeon @mouthymandalorianalso @phoenixhalliwell @kesskirata @starlightmornings @wyn-dixie

#Writer Wednesday #Dave York #Dave York x Reader #Dave York Pit #Dave York x you #my fics

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reveriesofawriter · 3 years

Text

Masterlist

*Bout Damn Time*

All of these are rated T or G unless stated otherwise

Here’s me on ao3: sunsetmagnolia

Malum

Almost Like A Perfect Lie (ao3)

Fake dating fluff. If organic gay pining is unavailable, store-bought is fine: Bollywood Edition

All I Need For Now is You to Save Me (ao3)

Everyone has superpowers that set in when they're kids. Michael's is fire.

Don’t Know If I’m Gonna Make it Out Alive (ao3) (side Lashton)

Secret agent au

Don’t Say Yes (ao3)

Based on Speak Now by Taylor Swift

Quarantine zoom call part 1 Christmas reunion part 2

Airplane prompt

Meteor shower drabble

Pretty Venom drabble

Mashton

dive into the ocean and you'll never drown (ao3)

The face is, again, not quite human. It has the same green tint, long green hair, and yellow eyes that almost glow. It stays there, only barely above the surface. (mermashton part 1)

even mountains crumble into the sea (ao3)

Mermashton part 2, in which there is a near-death experience and also possibly kissing (Michael doesn’t know for sure)

Kitty-verse prompts part 1 part 2 part 3

Red White & Royal Blue-verse (ao3)

The Great Turkey Calamity A National Gay Landmark

NYC romanticization drabble

Get Out Of This Town prompt

The Protect Michael Clifford Club

Cake

A Wish Your Heart Makes (ao3)

Cinderella au feat. nonbinary fairy Michael

Red Riding Hood prompt

Lashton

Trouble Is I Can’t Find A Way (You’re Part of Me) (ao3)

Ashton didn’t know what to make of the thought that Luke was here. In his city. After all the effort he’d put into making sure they were a whole country away from each other for so many years.

Trouble Is (platonic Mashton) prompt

Muke

Extraordinary Magic (ao3) (gen/pre-slash)

Michael walks into an enchanted garden

Mystery 5sos Pairings

You Keep Me Alive (ao3)

Based on The Edge Of Tonight by All Time Low

Pretty Venom In My Veins (ao3)

Choose Your Own Vampire Adventure!

High School Musical AU (5sos, 1d, atl)

(I Feel in My Heart) The Start of Something New

The movie, nearly word for word, featuring Calum as Troy and Luke as Gabriella, and other band members as everyone else, including Jack as Darbus, which was honestly the best decision made here.

Jalex

I’m Jingle Belling and Everyone’s Yelling (ao3)

Alex gets dumped for Santa. Jack gets revenge. Based on Santa Stole My Girlfriend by The Maine

What are you after? Some kind of disaster? (ao3) (side Malum)

5+1 brunch Malum as told by Jalex.

We Dream Impossible Dreams (ao3)

Jalex based on Starlight by Taylor Swift. The night they snuck into a yacht club party...

I can picture it after all these days (ao3)

Post break-up fic based on All Too Well by Taylor Swift. Sad boy hours with happy peppered around.

Remind Me How It Used To Be (ao3)

All Too Well boys: it’s longer now. Alternate title: How You Get the Jack

The more you treat me cruel (ao3)

Based on Fuel to the Fire by The Maine. not happy. beware.

Knock Me Out (hit me with your punch-drunk love) (ao3)

5+1 punches (not as violent as that would lead you to believe but I mean it is still punching) friends to lovers

romancing what might've been (ao3)

Short & sweet prose based on Street Lightning by The Summer Set

if you leave the light on, then I'll leave the light on (ao3) (rated M)

Kissing Alex is as good as playing with fire, and Jack has always liked the smell of smoke.

one more time for second chances (ao3)

I stole a prompt that was initially given to bella. time travel magic, kidfic, probably the best thing I’ve posted as of july 2022

outrun the setting sun (ao3)

Do you wanna go for a drive?

and forget in the morning (ao3)

Clandestine hookup while a party roars downstairs

Rilex

I'm hoping you'll figure it out (ao3)

Idiots to ~enemies~ to idiots to lovers based on Figure It Out by Orla Gartland.

Merrikat

I've been going crazy (I'm stuck in here) (ao3)

3/4 of atl are stuck in an elevator for half an hour and they collectively live tweet it (based on a true story)

can't you look me in the eyes and say (ao3)

Alex thinks Jack’s new bf is a vampire and goes to great lengths to prove it

a time, a place, & a person (ao3)

Public transit crush

OT4

All your exes found me and so beware (ao3)

ATL high school au based on Psycho by Maisie Peters. The same boy cheats on all of them, but Jack has a plan to get revenge.

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smellycinnamonthundahfudge · 3 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Wanda Maximoff & Vision Characters: Vision (Marvel), Wanda Maximoff Additional Tags: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Heavy Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Family Loss, Tragedy, Sibling Loss, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Pietro Maximoff Dies, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Minor Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Pre-Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Protective Vision (Marvel) Summary:

Wanda couldn't, or didn't, want to save herself after losing Pietro. And yet, Vision did anyway. He contemplates why.

... vision being worthy hits differently after wandavision...

once again, warnings of pietro's death and wanda feeling suicidal after it...

Vision felt like he was carrying a frozen, limp, dead body as he flew away from the descending land of Sokovia about to implode onto itself.

Wanda Maximoff seemed… numb, for starters. But, Vision is aware that what she seems to be feeling was something, he probably did not know yet. An emotion powerful enough to render someone catatonic.

He did not know why, but now, he seemed to be feeling… He did not know what this feeling is. It is quite literally his first time feeling it, but, he thinks he’s feeling… sympathy, for Ms. Maximoff.

She appeared to be in a great and terrible amount of pain. And that emotion, as he understood it, was something that was not usually wished onto good people. And, despite Ms. Maximoff having worked with Ultron and Hydra, she seemed to be a good person that simply wished to protect her country and did not want to hurt innocents.

Yes, Vision felt… something, probably sympathy, for Ms. Maximoff… She did not deserve what had happened to her. Vision only wished he had the capability to give her what she needed in this moment.

However, he did not even know what that was. All he knew, for now, was that Wanda Maximoff could not, or maybe, did not want to save herself. But, that did not mean she was not worthy of being alive. And as such, he saved her. That was all he could do.

And yet, something inside him… sparked, making him want to do more…

But for now, he merely did his duty, and helped the young woman down as they had finally arrived onto solid ground.

They were a few yards away from where the rest of the Sokovians were evacuated and Vision wanted to make sure that Ms. Maximoff would be ready to acclimate to being surrounded by the tumult and noise of an evacuation area before he brought her there. And, it would be a good status check on someone that had just gone through an unthinkable loss and tragedy.

Wanda doesn’t- she can’t process it yet. She felt her body lose gravity, and then she felt it get lifted. Felt the wind and humidity from up above the sky.

She also felt the nauseating stench of the blood, ash, and smoke from the ruins of her homeland, or at least all that was left. Emanating to them even despite their high altitude.

She felt things, physical sensations after- … but, she did not even know what she was feeling anymore. She felt everything and nothing. She felt- …

She felt.

They were going down now and Wanda still didn’t think about what she was going to do. She didn’t want to figure it out.

But even then, Vision gently let her stand back on the ground, offering support in case she needed help standing up.

Wanda then, figures out the first thing she wants after what just happened. She wants to be alone.

She pushes Vision away and tells him as such, wiping the grime and tears from her face, “I want to be alone,” she inhales and wraps her arms around herself.

Vision takes a step back, out of respect. But, he’s still unsure how to handle this.

Nevertheless, he voices his concern. “Normally, I would respect your wish, Ms. Maximoff. However, we do not yet know if Ultron had other backup protocols in place in case his plan failed. And, I hope you do not think this as disrespectful, but, you do not seem to be in a fighting state right now, should anything happen.”

“I- …,” Wanda stops.

Not even a second after she was talking about something not about Pietro, she instantly remembers him.

But, she chides herself, how could she not?

How many times has she told Pietro she can protect herself? How many times- … She was with this person, her entire life. Every second she was not with him would be a glaring blaring agonizing absence in her life, a missing piece she knew she’d never get back. A hole, that would just forever be empty.

Reaching her hand out to only catch air.

She almost breaks. But, she doesn’t want to do this with someone else. She tells him off.

“I, can take care of myself,” she mutters, still not looking at him.

“Well, yes, I know that you are quite powerful, Ms. Maximoff. But…, as I understand you humans, grief and loss can irreparably change you. It would be quite understandable, and dare I say, humane to need help. It is not something to be ashamed of.”

“Ha. You do not know what I need. What I need-” … is my brother…

Fuck, she’s shivering again. She wills herself to calm down.

“I need to be alone, Vision.”

“But, if someone comes-” Vision steps closer to ask her to reconsider-

“Then let them come! Let them kill me and get it over and done with. At least-! … At least, I wouldn’t have to live in a world without the only family I had left.”

Vision, has nothing to say.

Wanda sighs, “Just go, Vision. Leave me be,” and waves him off.

Vision, realizes his place. And accepts it.

But, he didn’t know if it was safety protocols, or something else, but something inside of him prompted him to still ask, “At least, allow me to keep watch over you from the edge of the evacuation area, Ms. Maximoff...

I may not know you, your brother, or… the complexity and depth of what it is you are going through right now.

But, your brother gave his life so Mr. Barton and a child could survive. I’d assume he would want the same to happen for you, as well.”

- That’s, when Wanda breaks.

She can't-

She drops to the earth, and lets out the horrible wail that’s been building up inside of her all this time.

Vision, bends down to her, without knowing why he was doing so.

And Wanda, accepts his arms.

Wanda didn’t know what she was doing at this point except scream in anguish, shout her excruciating unbearable agony out onto Vision’s chest.

Despite having done this already and screaming her throat raw, the abyss inside her still goes on, feeling unimaginable and endless.

Vision, didn’t know what he was doing either.

He just could possibly not understand right now, what had possessed a tear to fall from his eye.

He feels himself embrace Wanda before he knew it. And Wanda feels herself grab onto Vis so tight, as if every ounce of pain begged to come out from her entire body. Vision feels Wanda's fingers grip his back so tight that although it didn't physically hurt, it still felt....

...

Humans. Odd. Possessing Grace… Is this- what, it must feel like?

Maybe Vision didn’t need to know, or maybe he didn’t want to know. All he knew right now, was that this person, Wanda Maximoff, was in pain. And right now, if sharing that pain with him, him feeling her pain, helped eased hers... He was willing to sacrifice it, without knowing why.

Humans, odd, possessing grace, anger, chaos, beauty, tumult, fear, pain, and love… he thinks it might just be the heaviest responsibility, and the greatest privilege. To feel what they feel.

Sympathy, empathy, affinity, love… is this- what it feels like?

Vision lets himself close his eyes and lie his head on top of Wanda’s almost protectively, to shield her from the world. And as he hears and feels her, still breaking down within his embrace, he lets the other tears in his eyes fall as well.

Vision, felt.

Notes:

please tell me if anything felt romanticized or disingenuous or just... wrong, about Wanda's suicidal ideation and how she handled her grief... (but, uhm.. it's honestly based on what i've felt personally, my trysts with wanting to be unalive heh.. i'm asking because i've never felt a loss such as what wanda has felt, so... i want to be respectful so please, just tell me if- well as i said, just tell me. this subj matter shouldn't be written haphazardly so i take great care into making sure everything's treated carefully... that's all. i hope it's understood what my pov was on writing this is...)

wanda was stuck to where she had tried to kill ultron's main form was my main impetus on thinking she had given up on life... yes, she could just not have a handle on her powers at that point to be capable of flight. or she was just processing her grief and shell-shocked and not necessarily feeling suicidal...

this is just how i interpreted one could feel after such an unthinkable loss... once again, please don't hesitate to tell me if anything's wrong but... i still kind of hope i managed to evoke emotions with this work as it evoked something in me as i wrote it... thank you.

(also, this might have a next part. i'm open to it. i wanna imagine how the next part of their relationship, coming from this, develops...)

#wandavision #scarlet witch and vision #vision #wanda maximoff #wanda and pietro

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queeranarchism · 5 years

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When the Right accepts the reality of Climate Change

This is going to be a long post and it's not a fun story. In fact, it might take away hope in an already difficult time. But I think it's an important thing to talk about:

When the political right fully accepts the reality of climate change, we're f*cked.

The common narrative is this: Scientists and climate activists on this left are facing the reality of climate change and have the solutions. To save us all, what they need to do is defeat the (mostly right wing) climate change deniers and convince everyone of the severity of the problem. If they convince enough people about the reality of climate change, they will also have enough people on their side to create the big changes necessary and climate collapse will be averted.

Now, to be honest, I don't think climate collapse can still be averted. We can do something to slow climate change but we are clearly nowhere close to achieving the radical changes that could prevent climate collapse (if that is even still possible) and I don't see a revolution on the short term horizon. It sucks but it's time we started facing that climate collapse is really coming. But that's not actually what I wanted to talk about. Here's a (kinda-democratic-law-and-order-blah) article with more on that: https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/what-if-we-stopped-pretending. If you disagree with me on that, do keep reading, the rest of this post will still be relevant.

Back to the topic: in the years to come we will see more and bigger climate disasters and at some point anyone still denying climate change will look absolutely ridiculous. The political right could dig themselves in deeper and lose all sense of reality and some might do that but at some point most on the right will turn around and accept that climate change and likely climate collapse is a real and urgent threat.

And here's the shitty thing: they will come up with different solutions than those that the political left is suggesting. Because they work by their own logic based on competition, authority and control. So here's the 4 most likely answers they would come up with:

1. More borders. Less refugees. From a capitalist point of view, climate change is first and foremost a matter for resources. If oil and water and food and inhabitable ground are all running out, then the most important thing to do is to hang on to all you have. From a state's point of view, this is also what it needs to do to serve it's most basic interests: 'If most of the planet will die, we'll be the survivors'. This isn't hypothetical. "Expected water shortages leading to increased pressures on our southern borders, requiring more resources to secure border crossings" are the kind of sentences that have been in military planning documents for two decades now. Military strategists are already gearing up to make sure their state survives while the world dies.

2. More police. More prisons. More surveillance. If there are shortages of oil, water and food coming in even the wealthiest countries, then social unrest will surely follow. From a right-wing point of view, the best way to prepare for that is to make sure there are more camera's, more boots and more guns on the street and less civil rights getting in the way of maintaining order.

3. Less democracy, more dictatorship. If you're right wing and you've finally faced the reality of climate change, shit's getting urgent. Now you can choose a number of drastic solutions. Some are very expensive - the most expensive thing EVER - and require creating the kind of society that you (as a right wing person) consider 'unrealistic' or morally unacceptable. Other proposed solutions sound a lot more attractive. Like the idea to fill the atmosphere with sulfur to stop the heat of the sun (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stratospheric_aerosol_injection). This comes with a lot of risks and unknowns and doesn't actually remove any CO2 from the air, but hey, it's better than changing our whole society, right? If this is the road you go down, you will also realise that such a drastic and distopian sounding plan isn't likely to be embraced by the masses. Most don't like the idea of indefinitely filling our air with sulfur to block the sun. So the obvious answer is that a strong leader must declare a climate emergency, abolish 'democratic checks and balances' and take the necessary action. And since this plan would need to be maintained for a few decades, that leader's power should be pretty long term.... Other attempts on the right to science our way out of climate change without social change are likely to have similar results.

4. Population control. This one even sneaks its way into some leftist discourse under the guise of 'having less children as a green consumer option'. Spoiler alert: this is never how population control actually works out. What we're likely to see under 'moderate' right wing governments is pressure on reproductive rights, particularily those of the poor and people of color, accompanied by secret draconian measures such as forced sterilisation imposed on the undocumented, the institutionalized, prisoners. The idea of sterilising those 'unfit to reproduce' has a long history in 'western civilisation' and is still here. It will manifest itself in the context of the ugly reality of climate collapse. The 'population control' option of the far-right politician is of course genocide. If there are too many people, too big a carbon footprint and not enough resources: better make sure the best people survive, right? This isn't hypothetical either. 'Eco-fascists' who believe that climate change demands mass murder (of everyone except white people) already exist.

So yeah... when the political right accepts the reality of climate change, we're f*cked.

But I'm not writing this just to mess with your last bit of hope. I wanna face this reality because it allows us to ask the next question: So what do we do? Here's some answers I would give:

1. Stop trying to convince the climate deniers on the right. Let them bury themselves into their own ignorance. Let them reason themselves into insignificance. We don't actually want them on our side. The longer they stick to their bullshit the better. Instead, cut out their noise and let's focus our energy on far more relevant conversations like 'can we still prevent climate collapse?', 'how do we actually prepare for climate collapse?'. Those are the public conversations that should be taking place.

2. Reduce the power of the right wherever we can. Whether it's unionizing, elections of the streets: what we do to reduce the power of the political right now will be vital in the years to come. If they're as strong 10 years from now as they are today, they can put their own 'solutions' into action and we'll really be f*cked. Everything we can do to change the balance of power will make all of our survival more likely.

3. Resist any normalization of the 'population control' narrative. Make sure everyone knows that the richest 10% are responsible for 49% of CO2 emision while the poorest 50% are responsible for 10%. Make sure everyone knows that we could actually sustainably feed the planet if we distributed food better. If you see 'having less children' suggested as a green choice, have a serious conversation about where that line of thinking is most likely to take us. If you see someone romanticizing a future in which most of the world population is dead, don't give such a horrible notion an inch of space. Make it very very clear that the 'population control' narrative lays the foundations for genocide. Destroy those foundations wherever you find them.

4. Prepare to be (more) illegal. If we don't manage to create a big shift in power, it is very likely that we will soon see far more repression. The only way we can continue to resist and survive is if we're prepared. So things like increasing our ability to communicate and move undetected, and our ability to break the law and get away with it, are vital things to work on in the years to come. If we do end up with more fascist dictatorships, it'll be what keeps us alive.

5. Strengthen everything that keeps us alive and fight everything that kills us. In the coming crisis, everything we have will matter. Every reproductive right we protected. Every water source we protected. Every community we strengthened. Every step towards equality that we took together. And everything they don't have will matter. Every legal power the cops didn't get because we resisted. Every prison that didn't get build because we resisted. Every fascist group that didn't get off the ground because we resisted. The struggles we're already in against social inequalities are all going to matter more than ever. We can't put any of them on hold to 'focus on the climate first'. We fight economic inequality, racism, sexism, transphobia, ableism and more now because the progress we make in every one of those struggles is part of what will keep us alive.

#queeranarchism #climate collapse #climate change #eco activism #Anti-Fascism

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tiredcowpoke · 5 years

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TITLE: Paths [first of a one shot collection] PAIRING: Charlotte Balfour/Arthur Morgan REQUEST: Unprompted BLURB: “With the silence pulling into just the sound of the rain hitting the roof and Charlotte sitting at a table with two empty plates, she knew that she was lonely out there by herself. There was also the talk of that man, and the way Arthur talked about him not coming around anymore like...well, like he'd done more than warn him.” WARNINGS: Animal harm in regards to failed hunting, talk of death and mild gore, grief. NOTE: I’ll be collecting all of these on AO3 for easier reading, feel free to message me for the link if you want it at any point. Also, the timeline on these are likely to be a little messed but I wanted more time to play around with. No TB but gang issues, too, so hey.

Charlotte had twisted her ankle as a young girl.

A poorly placed rock in a garden and distracted footing was all she could blame that on. The pain and the 'pop' always stuck out in her mind, the green of the grass under her and the tree above the only other bit of that memory she could remember that wasn't tied to how much it hurt. She had always liked laying on her back in a grassy area as a child, though she had found herself doing it less and less as the years went on. She'd been lucky that she had the luxury to keep off her injury at the time, that she had grown to be able to walk on it with little problems in the future. Another story of childhood that sat, fading around the edges, as time moved on and newer memories replaced and confused her understanding of events. Memories of that life felt like they almost didn't belong to her, in all honesty.

She knew her family would pale at the sight of her now, and they had certainly said their piece when her and Cal had stated their intentions of moving out into the wilderness. It had been his idea, but she had always been fond of humoring him, as she usually found herself enjoying his plans. This, though? It had really been one of his more questionable ones. He'd always been a dreamer, though she had been one too—perhaps she still was. Really, none of them had been prepared and she knew she should have known better than to believe this romanticized version of this life Cal had sold her on.

She didn't blame him for dying—never could or would, but that was never part of his plan. Not like this.

Charlotte had no plans of dying in such a way, either, if she could help it—yet, well, she hadn't been prepared. She was better than she had been right after his death, though that hadn't come without a helping hand. A man out of the woods as if something had led him to her, grieving and starving over Cal's grave. That intervention and teaching had put an amount of hope in her that she couldn't quite understand still, but the rabbit and the company...it was certainly something.

Yet, perhaps, she had let it get the better of her. She should have stuck to rabbit but the deer she saw, well, it was quite a bit of meat. It would have saved her from going out so soon to hunt again—if she had caught it. Instead she had her leg twisted around a broken log, a sharp pain digging right up under her knee and something far worse than a spooked deer staring back at her. Charlotte barely had time to twist herself around so she had the room to grab her weapon, the animal already eyeing her from where she could see it crouched in the wilderness. A cat. A large one. This wasn't a dirty tabby she saw sometimes in the alleyways of her old home—not even close.

For a moment, she could almost hear the familiar yelling—she almost didn't recognize it as Cal's at first, and his body even less so. She could almost feel the blood on her again. Though, her body seemed to move on its own accord as the cougar moved, pulling her back almost immediately as she fired off two shots. One hit its body, the other the head—still alive, but spooked. She expected to be jumped—torn apart without anybody to run up to find her in time. Yet, it took off, turning and running back into the woods. She wasn't convinced it was gone as Charlotte's hands shook as she held the gun in her arms. Seconds seem to drag by, her eyes taking in any movement in front of her but not behind.

She could see the area, see Cal's body—she felt extremely focused in the moment and almost distant from it at the same time. Nothing but the ringing in her ears and her heavy breathing—until the world seemed to snap right back into focus. The sound of the woods around her, the birds, and the cracking of sticks behind her.

Her leg protested in pain as she turned sharply, weapon aimed toward whatever was approaching from behind. She knew it was on two legs and for a moment all she saw was that bear—huge, and looming, before the sound of her name broke through the moment. It wasn't a yell, it was said firmly—the voice was familiar, the man and his face registering as she exhaled heavily, lowering her weapon with a shaky sigh.

“I...I'm sorry, I thought you were that animal...” she admitted, finding her voice as she turned her head to glance in front of her again.

“What happened here? You hurt?”

It had been a couple days to a week since she'd last seen him—probably the only company she found out here, outside of some rather...unpleasant visitors, both human and animal. His voice was exactly the same as it was when she'd last heard it, but it sounded different in her ears in the moment. She was having a hard time figuring out what just happened.

“I...fell. I was looking for a deer, it saw me and I...rather foolishly felt the need to chase it. It appeared I wasn't the only one, there...there was a cat.”

“A cat? A cougar?”

“I assume so. I shot it and it ran...I think. I hurt it.” There was some guilt there, despite everything.

She exhaled softly, the reality of the situation seeming to weigh on her somewhat. For a few moments...well, maybe she thought she was going to die? Surely if she hadn't had better aim...well, she hadn't killed the cougar, but it saved her life all the same. Still, Charlotte tried not to flinch too much when Arthur moved, seeming to survey the area for the animal in question as he let out a low sound in his chest before a soft huff.

“Been chased by cougars before,” he commented, “you'd know if it were still lookin' for ya by now.”

Charlotte nodded her head softly, glancing down at herself as she still sat on the ground, letting some strands of dark hair fall over the side of her face as she took that information in. She was safe, and unharmed. For now, at least. Oh, that was a negative thought, wasn't it? Gingerly, she shifted, lifting her leg slightly before she tried to gather herself back up to a stand. Brush the dirt off herself and put the whole thing behind her—yet, that same pain from before ripped through her leg, right under the knee. Against her will, she let out a whimper before falling back onto the ground with a huff—quiet, embarrassment and a twinge of frustration sitting in her chest.

She'd already had a day and not much had really happened. Still, she found it in herself to let out a soft laugh, glancing back up toward the man beside her.

“It appears that my leg doesn't want to work...” she commented, “I...I don't think I broke anything, but something hurts.”

“C'mon,” Arthur muttered, lingering a moment before he helped her pull her arm across a shoulder, “Lean on me a bit...”

With some minor struggle, Charlotte managed to rise to a stand as Arthur kept her arm around his shoulders, the other on her side as she willed her breathing to even out as the throbbing pain subsided a bit. Embarrassment burned hot for a few moments, specifically in her face, as she slowly started to hop at Arthur's coaxing. Quite the huntress she was turning out to be—though, again, it seemed their paths continued to cross in the most unexpected of ways. It wasn't that she would have died if he didn't show up, but...well, she was sure it would have taken twice as long to get back to her home. Eventually, as the scenery started to become familiar, the path more worn, she was able to put some pressure on her leg to more of a hobble than a slow hop.

“I'm surprised it wasn't my ankle again,” she commented, slightly out of breath as Arthur turned his head slightly, Charlotte gripping at his shoulder as they slowly made their way up the slight incline outside her home, “I hurt it when I was younger. It felt weak for a long while, I feared that it would just buckle again but...well, it's been a few years now. Same leg, though.”

“I seen my share of injuries,” he commented, “Got off easy, considerin' your company.”

“Right...” she muttered, some distance entering her voice despite herself as she shook her head lightly, “Thank you. Again. It seems you happen to come across me in...less than favorable conditions.”

“It's some wild country out here,” Arthur returned easily—it almost made her feel like she was the only one embarrassed by the whole ordeal, “...Don't mind lendin' the hand sometimes.”

“Or the shoulder,” she returned with a light laugh—it eased some of the tension in her chest.

“Sure.” There was a touch of humor to his voice, it made a small grin pull lightly at the sides of her mouth.

Entering her home and setting herself down onto a chair at the table was much more relieving than she had been expecting. Charlotte could remember the first time she had entered the home, Cal had been much more taken by the state of it than she was at first, but...well, it was home now. She could relax. She felt safe inside it, much as there could be more done to make it even more so. Cal had bought the gun as a first step, yet she supposed it was just on her now. Still, she doubted there was much that could be done with her leg in its current state anyway. She let out a soft sigh through her nose, smiling softly to herself.

“I wanted to get something other than rabbit—I'm not picky about what I eat, yet...well, I guess it'll be rabbit for a while still.”

Arthur chuckled lightly, something a touch awkward to it, as she glanced up to look at his face as he seemed to dig around in the satchel at his side.

“Actually came out here to give you these,” he said, “Thought it would be good to have somethin' heavier than rabbit.”

The chuckle she let out was more genuinely amused, Charlotte watching as he removed some wrapped meat. A mixture of emotion stirred in her gut as things settled—exhaustion from the day, a sense of grief at remembering the last time she saw Cal, the ebbing fear of that cougar, and fondness for her current company. It was hard to tell how she should act at any given moment, but she decided offering him a grateful grin would suffice enough.

“I appreciate you thinking of me,” she muttered, not catching the look that settled over his expression momentarily at her words as she gripped at her injured knee and extended it gently. It had loosened up some from the walk, but she could feel the painful pull of the muscle there that had likely been twisted in a bad way when she had tripped. “Well, I'd offer to cook it for you in thanks but I don't think I'll be able to stand for too long tonight.”

Arthur nodded, a moment passing as he seemed to debate on his next move. Really, she wouldn't blame him if he just gave his leave and let her be for the night—the food was more than she could have asked for, and very much welcomed, much as she still wasn't going to starve. She didn't want to think too much into it, but it was touching that he would think enough to ride out here to give her some cuts of meat. Hunted himself or bought, she wasn't sure, but it didn't matter in the end.

“Well, ya got a fire don't you?” he asked, “I cooked over them all my life.”

“You really don't have to,” Charlotte started, “I still have some dried meat from the rabbits, just...have to hop over to get it myself.”

“Not much of a meal,” he commented, his point made. She had noticed fairly quickly that she didn't really prefer eating it later in the day.

Her gaze lifted back up to Arthur, regarding him a moment as she seemed to walk into accepting what he was offering. She'd cooked for him already, in a way, much as she hadn't been expecting him to show up then either.

“Alright...” she replied with a small nod, “Though, it's only fair you stay to eat what you cook.”

“Sure.”

An easy silence fell over her as Arthur set about cooking the meat he had brought—it was natural, but not normal for Charlotte. She had always been...somewhat chatty, as she'd been told a number of times. There was always a way to fill a silence and she often found herself doing so, much to the irritation of some people...yet, it was always by people who didn't really matter to her in the long run. Her parents had distanced after her marriage, Cal enjoyed the conversations just as much as she did, yet...well, things had fallen quiet after he was gone. She couldn't say she was thinking of him less, but she usually found a way these days not to dwell on thoughts of him like she currently was. Happier times she remembered with some coaxing from her mind, yet this time...well, all she could see was the blood and the carnage.

It had to have been the encounter a while ago, that's all there was to it. She had gotten quick memories of his body, the bear that killed him—the images lingered in the back of her mind, even once she knew she was safe. Perhaps it was the fact that the task of the evening wasn't on her shoulders for once, something that didn't happen often anymore, and it left room for things like those memories to sit with her.

“I...” she started, a little surprised by the sound of her own voice, “I think I'm still a little shaken by the cougar.”

Arthur had shifted to glance back at her when she spoke, still cooking the meat over the fire. Charlotte didn't miss the awkward catch in her voice as she lowered her head to glance at the wood of the table she was sat over.

“It took a moment for me to...well, do what I did, but...I think I told you Cal died by a bear?” she glanced back up at him slightly at the question, “I was right back in that moment for a couple seconds once I realized what I was looking at. It was over so quickly for him, and he wasn't more or less armed than I was. I...I'm sorry, I don't mean to get into this.”

“I've only ran into a couple bears myself,” Arthur admitted, “They ain't cougars—not less dangerous but...it's different.”

Charlotte hummed something low and quiet, recognition but not quite acceptance.

“It's odd...I've dealt with a number of people coming up here and it's the cougar that's shaken me into memories like that.”

“People?” Arthur had been keeping one eye on what he was cooking as he spoke, but she noticed she had the majority of his attention now as the question fell from him.

Some focus touched Charlotte's gaze at the sudden attention being made to that one part of her admission. She blinked a couple times, her brow furrowing as she shrugged.

“The odd passer-by,” she replied, her gaze shifting toward the door and the slowly dying light of the day that still filtered in through it, “Most just realize that the path ends here and turn before I need to tell them to, but some...well...there was a man. I don't usually mind the company, but this is supposed to be secluded. He wouldn't leave, kept asking me questions about being alone out here, who...who was buried outside...just had this terrible look in his eye. I had to threaten him to get him to leave, gave me this look as he did so and...well, that stayed with me for a while.”

Her gaze shifted from the door, some memories of that lingering but Charlotte was quick to shake those off before they could mix terribly with the more persistent ones she had been dealing with that evening. When she glanced back toward Arthur, he had turned away somewhat but had a touch of some emotion to his expression, brow tight.

“Is something wrong?” Charlotte asked, tilting her head, “I haven't seen him since, if you're...”

“I..uh, I think I seen that feller,” he said after a moment, glancing toward her, “Least...what he said, thought...well, thought it sounded like he was talkin' 'bout you. Part of me thought I was bein' irrational but it weren't anythin' nice.”

There was a growing tightness to her throat, Charlotte's expression passing into something more like confused anxiety. Arthur took a glance toward her at the silence, feeling his eyes on the side of her face. It wasn't completely impossible that he had ran into that man, nor the idea that he existed outside of that one horrible moment, but...it put her on edge somewhat, admittedly. She'd almost forgotten about him, that was foolish.

“Don't think he's gonna be comin' this way any time soon,” Arthur continued, a point to his words that had Charlotte glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, “If he ain't come out again already. Must've been a while.”

“I suppose so...” she muttered, shifting as she sighed, “If that is indeed the same man. I...don't like to think on it too much. I doubt I would be able to sleep at night if I keep him in my mind.”

“You feel safe here?”

“Not always, admittedly. There isn't much to these walls and...well, as you said, it's some wild country out here. All the more reason to keep learning how to use Cal's gun, I feel safer doing that and even more so with what help you've given.”

Arthur gave her a short nod, not really replying to the last bit as he seemed to turn his attention back to finishing what he was cooking. It had slipped out, admittedly, but it didn't make it any less true. She was grateful for his assistance, as much as he was willing to give. He was welcome company, too. Charlotte knew she was isolated, now more than ever, but she really didn't mind having him in her home for the time he'd allow. Seemed a little awkward sometimes, but she figured maybe that's just how he was. A bit of a mystery, too. She didn't know much about him, he didn't talk about himself all too often and most of the time it wasn't anything beyond was was relevant to the task.

Meanwhile, she had been giving him a list of events that had happened since she had been staying in the area. Charlotte let out a small, amused huff at the thought but let the silence linger. She really was tired in more ways than one. By the time dinner had been cooked and served, the house had fallen into a darkness outside of the few lamps and the fireplace. She was used to it, but admittedly it was a little strange to have someone in there with her after so long. It had just been her for a while now.

Some conversation had passed easily enough. Arthur wasn't a terrible cook, much as the meat was a little plain. Then again, she was used to just throwing everything into a stew at this point. Still, it was welcomed after the day she had and it helped ease her some.

“How's the leg?”

His question pulled her from looking over her plate, Charlotte raising her eyebrows some before she chuckled softly.

“It hurts, but I assume it will for a while. There's not much damage done, though I wish I could say the same for my pride after everything today.”

“I'll bring you some deer to make up for it,” Arthur offered up in some humor, a smile settling into her expression at the look in his eye. Would there be another time? Well, he never really said goodbye in the sense that she'd never see him again before, but...well, she never really expected him to come back. She was always happy when he did, but...she wasn't going to think into it too much.

“Maybe cougar,” she covered quickly before pulling a bit of a face, “Is that cruel? It feels a little cruel.”

“Don't think that cougar would think the same 'bout you.”

“That's true...” she shifted, sucking in a breath as she glanced toward one of the windows.

Night had fallen, and of course a rather heavy rain had settled as it always does. It was beautiful, how green the land was, but it was awfully dreary sometimes. The thought of him riding out into that entered her mind after a moment, her gaze moving back to his face as she bit the inside of her lip. It felt...well, strange. She felt guilty for feeling safe in his presence and that the idea of him leaving after everything that happened that day left her feeling a little anxious—and not all for him, as selfish as she felt for that. She missed Cal. Every day. Hourly on some days. Yet, she was so isolated. She had known it would be, but she hadn't imagined it would be her, alone. She wondered if it was wrong to ask him to stay, and yet—

“Quite the rain outside, I almost didn't hear it,” she commented, Arthur turning in his chair somewhat to glance toward the window as he grunted in agreement. No thunder or lightning, just wet darkness.

“Are you wanting to ride in that?” she asked. Her gut twisted slightly.

Arthur glanced back her way, his eyebrows raised slightly before what she was really asking seemed to settle into his expression. As she expected, he shook his head as he held his hands up slightly.

“Can't say I want to, but I been in your home long 'nough for tonight. You really don't—“

“It's just a guest bed,” Charlotte offered up, a part of her sighing defeated at the words, “Until the rain stops. I would feel better not having to send you out in that. Could catch your death.”

“I...” he sighed softly, seeming to think it over, “I slept in rain before, it ain't a big deal.”

“I just thought it would be polite to offer, I'm not forcing you to say if you don't want to, Arthur,” she replied, her tone easy as much as she felt like scolding herself.

“I appreciate it,” Arthur said, a bit of relief slipping into her at the sincerity to his tone, “I'll be fine.”

“Alright...” she said with a soft nod, letting out a soft chuckle, “I'd rise to see you off but...still, thank you for dinner. That was awfully kind of you.”

“Glad it helped,” he stated with a nod, gathering his hat from the table as he stood, “I, uh...I'm sorry 'bout the leg and the scare.”

“It wasn't your fault. You did more than enough today.” Why did it feel like that wasn't what he wanted to say?

Still, she offered him another smile as he nodded his head, giving her a goodbye as he pushed the door open. She could hear the rain hitting the ground as he stepped out, Charlotte letting out a sigh as the door was shut behind him as she tapped a knuckle against the wood of the table. Lord, did she feel guilty—reason was telling her that it was fine, it wasn't like she had asked him to share a bed with her, yet...

She'd used the rain to hide the fact that she felt safer with him around. Not that she wanted to feel like she needed protection, it would defeat what she was trying to do out there, and Arthur's help was more about giving her the means to protect herself instead of using him as protection. It was meaningful in that way, and maybe...well, it was a conflicting thought.

With the silence pulling into just the sound of the rain hitting the roof and Charlotte sitting at a table with two empty plates, she knew that she was lonely out there by herself. There was also the talk of that man, and the way Arthur talked about him not coming around anymore like...well, like he'd done more than warn him.

She needed to sleep.

#my writing.#charlotte balfour #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x charlotte balfour #rdr2 fanfic

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

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Hi! Just wondering about your opinion that if the Catholic Church sold its art&treasures it would no longer be there for the world to enjoy and would fall into private hands&be hoarded away (many saying the church should sell rn) I've often sat in cathedrals like Notre Dame and marveled at what palaces were built for the masses to enjoy. Like a little luxury for all of us, even the least of us. I know you are an art historian and wondered what you thought of this. : ) hope you are well : )

Thank you anon! I hope you are well too!!

To be frank, this is actually a legal question. And as such, it varies from country to country.

The Notre Dame, for example, is not owned by the Catholic church. I think France has very similar laws in this respect to my country, and what that means is: the monument, itself, is a National Treasure or National Monument (I don’t know the correct definition, but what it means is: it’s a building highly classified, of not just historical interest to the country, but in heritage as well, and as such is prioritized above others).

In my country, for example, if I am not mistaken, churches that are not classified as National Monuments do not belong to the church entirely (they are allowed financial compensation from the Vatican, which should be employed in restoration, but then priests… you know), but if they aren’t, then the State has to stay away from it. This is because our Constitution states the separation of Church and State, and it’s a double-edged sword: if you wonder why stuff like the infamous restoration of that Jesus painting by Dona Cecilia happened, it’s because the church it’s the sole holder of the building and every artefact inside of it. Stuff like that actually happened several times over in our country: because there is no legal classification of the building, nor the artefacts inside of it—thus no legal protection from the State—priests do what the fuck they want and hire retired 80-year-old painters to slap some plastic paint on an 18th century mural (I wish I was kidding but this shit actually happened).

Again, I don’t know how it goes in other countries, but in Portugal, since the law defines ‘culture’ as something that belongs to everyone, everyone is allowed—and motivated to—act if they see a certain building decaying or believe it to be in danger. This is actually something a lot of people don’t know, and instead take it to facebook, but as a citizen, you can walk into your local city hall and present a form of petition (I sincerely forgot what paperwork this involves) requestion for the monument in question to be classified as ‘in danger’. As soon as that classification happens, the withholder of the monument will be inquired, and if anything happens to it, the owner will be fined.

So, what I mean to say is: the actual Catholic church actually doesn’t own lot of the churches out there classified as Monuments. One thing that also helps to preserve these monuments and to maintain them as public property—actually, now that I think of it, I think it completely forbids governments from selling a monument to a private owner—is if they are classified by Unesco. If it’s got a Unesco stamp of approval, it’s public and cannot be private, I believe (though correct me if I am wrong).

When it comes to privately owning art, however… I am for the opinion that art belongs to everyone, and though you are entitled to own art privately, you have to keep in mind that it is not yours, but everyone’s, and thus SHOULD allow for the art you possess to be viewed by the public. I don’t mean display it in a museum, but work towards images and information of the artwork you own to be made public and accessible to everyone. I say this because portuguese art history is a nightmare. You have an insane amount of incredible artists from the 19th century, and the vast majority of their works, you can’t even find an image.

See, I teach art history, and it’s absolute hell for me. I remember telling my students, super frustrated, that I couldn’t find a single picture of more than 2 or 3 paintings by Aurélia de Sousa. And what is more frustrating is that, the more you progress through history, the less resources you find. Portuguese Neo-Realism is inexistent. If you google it, this is what you get:

The most important painting, the one that set the movement, isn’t even on the first few pages. Now would you believe if I told you we actually have an entire museum dedicated to neo-realism? Would you believe if I told you it was one of the most important artistic movements in the end of second world war, and an incredible voice against fascism at a time? Probably not, because we don’t really have anything out there to be seen.

This happens because, since our market is tiny and absolute shit, most things that exist are privately owned—usually, heirs of the painters or people who bought it in auctions for pennies—in other words, people you have to wait to die out to actually see the paintings. And there’s something incredibly cruel there. I teach this shit and I have nothing to teach, no tools to teach my students, because these private owners of art refuse to share—and I mean refuse. Aurélia de Sousa, for example, was a passionate photographer, which is something people don’t know. Why? Because the man who owns her photos, for years, refused to let anyone even touch them. This raises another issue as well: if you refuse to let anyone get close, then you suck because art needs to be preserved. 19th century photos in particular wither away. With everything, happens.

With that in mind, there’s also the issue of how these privately owned artworks are preserved. Paintings, if you don’t know, cannot be exposed to natural light, especially sunlight—particularly older paintings. Photos and film have to be preserved at a particularly cold temperature. Wood has to be constantly polished, but because of how old it is, it requires the right technique and materials. Same with silver, gold, etc. Of course, a museum, a cathedral, or what have you, they all have teams at ready for that sort of conservation—but when a private owner acquires a piece of art that isn’t legally classified in any way, they can very well be responsible for its distruction.

We’ve had two very important works burn because of that. First, this painting by Vieira Portuense, who is the only other name we have to have defined neo-classicism (it was short-lived here, we were to busy having a civil war or fending off the french). It’s an emblematic painting for its time, because it’s an embryonic moment of transition between neo-classicism and romanticism. But it’s gone, because the house it was in burned down. Another one I don’t remember the name, but it was Josefa d’Óbidos—the first female painter to have her own workshop here in Portugal. Again, a flood caused a short-circuit which caused for the house to burn down, and the painting was lost.

If a painting (and I think other artefacts as well) is classified in some way (National Treasure, National Interest and uhhhh…. there’s a third one I forgot D:), the owner IS forced to keep it preserved. He is forced to clean it and restore it. If he damages in any way, he is fined and the painting can be confiscated from him. Same for buildings that are classified as anything below National Monument. But if it happens to be a work of art that isn’t classified in any way, legally speaking… Well, if it disappears, it’s gone, and the owner just loses a painting.

So it’s an incredibly delicate issue. On the one hand, privately owning art is necessary for artists, and I speak of both galleries and auction houses. It keeps the flow of the art economy going (though the art world is RIDICULOUS INFLATED economically speaking, but that’s a whole other conversation) and the market value of artists that are alive and, well, need to eat, is raised every time they sell something. Also, a country’s art market increases if they manage to sell more of their art alongside international artists (why Portugal fucking sucks in that respect), so that in itself is of great interest to artists who are alive and practicing, as well as for the country itself.

But on the other hand, it’s really a double-edged sword. Because I still maintain that art belongs to everyone, and no matter how many artworks you own, you have to keep that in mind. I had the chance to work for art collector who was very conscious about this: he lent his art constantly without charging anything and he kept his every artwork so well preserved he actually had restore works after lending them to museums. Now if everyone had that conscience, the world would be a better place.

So I put it this way to sort of generalize it, because I don’t believe, for one second, the church is exempt from this in any way. In Europe, they detain a great part of many country’s heritage. In our own country, they hold like half of our shit. But again: double-edged sword.

You said something that is very accurate: churches like the Notre Dame were built��for the masses. They were built for everyone, because it is the House of God where everyone is accepted and welcomed. Yes, it initially had a purpose, bore a function that doesn’t serve entirely anymore (though mass is still held in it, the fact that it is today a touristic attraction has shifted the church’s initial purpose, so to speak). So to think that the Catholic Church would close it down, or simply decide that suddenly they couldn’t allow people inside because they own it goes against not just (in our case) the legal definition of cultural object, it goes against the very principle of catholicism—something they turn around easily by opening its doors free of charge during mass. There is a huge debate in my country every like, two summers, because some cathedrals you have to pay to get inside—and something about that isn’t right. If you have to pay to enter, that means the building in itself is important enough that it’s classified as something, at the very least National Monument, but by charging money to get inside, you’re already breaking the very definition of cultural object, legally speaking: everyone is allowed to experience culture. This is a serious debate that happens every so often, and reason why it’s moved certain parties to try and end this shit of pay-to-enter churches, which is maddening to me (supposedly, they say, it’s to tame touristic masses a bit, but we all know that ain’t it).

What’s graver, as I said, is the case of small parishes that happen to own ancient artefacts like statues from the 18th century. Because priests aren’t educated on the matter, they think, oh this is a pretty little nativity scene! And hire some old dude to paint over a fresco. The example I mentioned above, where this happened?

This is what it looked like before:

this is after:

Yeah. I mean, I laugh every time cause it is fucking funny, but you gotta do it not to cry lmao

So like, for me, if we are going to entrust the Catholic church with artefacts and monuments—not necessarily sell them, you can legally lend them, like a legal guardian sort of agreement (I’m sorry, there’s a correct legal term for this but I don’t know it, the shit about law is that you have to address things with the right word)—you gotta force these fuckers to respect what they own. Force them to have restorations made, to clean their shit, to maintain their possessions. Force them to make an effort into bringing awareness to the existence of these things. For the love of God, FORCE THESE PEOPLE TO MAKE AN INVENTORY. Bitch, HIRE ME, I’LL DO YOUR INVENTORY FOR YOU.

And bring these artworks into the world. Create a website. Make pictures of these artworks publically available, free of charge, so that people can look at it, study and it and have free access to it. Have you ever walked into a museum and got told you aren’t allowed to photograph the works inside? I’ll tell you that’s bogus. Sure, flash damages the work, but no flash causes no harm. When a museum does that, I can guarantee you it’s one of two things: one, the artwork you are forbidden from photographing is privately owned by some Elongated Muskrat who thinks they’re above everyone else because LoOk aT mE I oWn ArT, and two: the museum is telling you to buy a catalogue.

What museums usually tend to not understand is that the free circulation of images of their artworks is actually what brings MORE people to their museum. Like, this is a fucking proven fact—that’s why they sell postcards, prints and tote bags with their paintings on it. Case in point? London: you think they give a shit if you take up-close photos of their paintings in Tate Britain? I know they don’t cause I was the idiot photographing paint drips on a goddamn William Holman Hunt. And you don’t even pay to get inside. But do you remember what artworks are inside the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid—aside from the Guernica? Yeah, which one has a strict policy in not photographing their paintings, you ask? Well.

So, tl;dr: if you’re gonna own art, make it available to the public, whether by putting it in a museum or making information about it—including pictures—accessible to all, and the government should be all over your ass annually to make sure you’re not damaging the artworks, otherwise lose custody of the baby and pay a fine. If you’re not gonna abide by these principles, then I am of the opinion that you don’t truly know the real worth of what you’re in possession of, and therefore shouldn’t be allowed to have it. AND THAT MEANS YOU TOO, VATICAN. Fuck your parishes, hire me. There’s a bunch of qualified people to do the job for you, you guys are just lazy and are keeping the Vatican’s money in your pockets.

#damn this got long sorry anon #Anonymous

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imagineyoungjustice · 5 years

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1.5k Followers Milestone Drabbles 1/10

Drabble for the team going undercover at a masquerade ball hat the reader is hosting? -Anonymous

Ngl this one is very rusty but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway! Also here is the reference I used for Zee’s mask. I didn’t have one for the reader so use your imagination! -Terra

Tags: @ljblve @loverbug1123 @aworldwideapart @wallywestie

Want to be added to our tag list? Send us and ask!

You watched through the slits of your mask, black laced fabric pressing against the skin around your eyes and upper-face. You could feel the weight of the gemstones that had been artfully set around the corners of your eyes. Your family bore similar masks, the only indicator of their identity in this hall. It was that time of year again, the time where your parents held the annual royal masquerade. It was a tradition in your family since your ancestors rose to monarchy in your country hundreds of years ago. Personally, you had forgotten the original purpose of the masquerade, now it served as more of a romanticized match-making party for the royal heirs.

Romance wasn’t heavy in your thoughts at this point in your life, much to the chagrin of your parents. They had met each other during your mother’s first masquerade and had fallen for each other from their first dance. While you thought that the story was cute, there were other things in your life right now that occupied your attention, romance and love pushed to the back of your conscious. Your parents had all but forced you to attend, hoping that your mind would change once some charismatic individual swept you off your feet either metaphorically or physically.

So far, their plans had failed. As soon as you were able, you had disappeared into the swaying crowds of the ballroom. You knew that if you stayed by your mother and father that they would only keep trying to pair you off with whoever was nearby. If you couldn’t get out of attending then so be it, but you wouldn’t allow your parents to keep playing cupid with you. You weren’t sure where your siblings were, but with any hope, they had also ditched your mother and father. While your siblings bought into the romantic aspect of the ball, even they had to agree that your parents were too overbearing when it came to this, though you all still loved them dearly.

For your part, you did your best to hide among the crowds along the outskirts and ended up at the buffet table along the way. This suited you just fine, and you took to gorging yourself on the delectable treats provided, proper etiquette be damned as long as your mask was on no one would actually know it was you stuffing their face in a way that would make your mother faint if she could see you. Despite knowing that, you couldn’t help but still cast wary glances around you as you shoved the latest pastry into your mouth. Murphy’s Law was a bitch, and you wouldn’t put it past you that someone you knew would show up just as you let your guard down.

As it turns out you needn’t have even waited for that to happen, as just as you had swallowed the last of your pastry, a figure appeared next to you, from seemingly out of nowhere. A quick out of the corner of your eye had you suddenly whirling around to face the individual, if only so that you could see them properly. The figure -the woman- you realized was clad in a white floor-length gown with gold accents. Her mask, also white in color, bore silver and gold swirls along the edges, golden leaves sparkling in the lights of the ballroom. White feathers stood from the edge above her left eye, flickering slightly in the barely there breeze created by the many moving bodies. To you she looked ethereal, and for a moment you reconsidered all those stories your mother had told you al when you were younger. As your moment of awestruck passed, you realized that her lips were moving, she had been speaking.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” You were sure your face gave away your embarrassment.

“I asked if you were enjoying the evening, I don’t think I recall seeing you on the dancefloor earlier.” Even her voice sounded ethereal to your ears. You quickly shook yourself before you could get lost in your thoughts again.

“That’s uh, because I wasn’t.”

“Oh, not enjoying the party?”

You hummed. “Not at first no, I was more or less forced to attend by family but, it has significantly improved.” By the way she giggled, sending your heart fluttering, you could tell she caught your not so subtle flirt.

“Well, it would be a shame to let the night waste away without a dance.” The woman said, backing away from the table. You followed her with your eyes as she walked around you. “Would you care to dance with me?” She held her hand out, and you were just about to take it when another voice spoke up, chilling you to your core.

“I’m afraid that won’t be a possibility, this will be their last moments alive.”

“Cheshire.” The girl spoke with familiarity and venom, and you could only look between the two in confusion and terror. The girl turned to you, “Get behind me, I’ll protect you!” Before you could open your mouth to even begin to hint at your question, the girl you had been talking to before had already turned to face the once called “Cheshire.” She spoke quickly, words coming out sounding completely foreign to your ears as she recited her incantation. As soon as the last syllables left her lips, the magic took hold, plunging the entire ballroom into darkness. You felt someone grab your arm and take off with you in tow. For a moment you were worried that it had been the assassin, but the moonlight streaming through one of the windows in the hall caught the figure in front of you, and you breathed a sigh of relief when you caught the familiar gold and white gown.

She pulled you down a series of corridors that by the end even had your head spinning, despite having lived in these very halls since birth. She pulled you into what you only recognized later as one of your family’s safe rooms and locked the heavy steel door behind the two of you. You were panting for breath, and despite having many questions, you were unable to get any of them out. Fortunately, it seemed your confusion was evident on your face even with your mask, and your would-be savior took the initiative.

“Sorry for suddenly grabbing you like that, are you alright?” When you nodded, she let out a sigh of relief and continued. “My name is Zatanna, I’m here with a team that was supposed to keep you alive tonight.”

“How…?” You were unable to finish your sentence.

“Did we get in? We forged invitations, uh, sorry. But it worked out! You’re still alive right?” She paused for a moment and seemed to reconsider your question. “Oh right you probably want to know how we knew, well we work with the Justice League, they came across a tip about a would be attempt on your life and sent us to stop that from happening.” She paused for a moment, turning her back to you as she seemed to have a conversation without saying anything. You started to feel uneasy despite what she had said earlier. When she turned around and saw your expression, she looked sheepish as she explained it to you. “Ah sorry I’m sure that didn’t look particularly reassuring. One of our team members is capable of providing a psychic link, I was just letting everyone know that you were safe.”

“What about the rest of my family?”

“Also safe, they were escorted out by other members of my team the same time you were, they’re a bit shaken, but no one was hurt.”

“The assassin… you seemed to know her?”

She sighed. “Currently still being dealt with. We’ve run into her a few times before. She’s definitely crafty, but don’t worry as long as I’m here I promise she won’t be able to harm you.”

“Thank you Zatanna.” She smiled and despite your still racing heart, you felt yourself giving a small one in return. “How long will we have to wait here?”

“Hopefully? Not very long but you never know, and we definitely want to keep careful.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there helping your team?” You sat down on one of the few chairs in the reinforced room, trying to make yourself as comfortable as you could.

“No, as a precaution there’s supposed to be someone with you at all times.”

“Okay…” There was a lapse into silence as the two of you continued to wait. “So uh, any updates?” You asked, fidgeting with your hands.

She smiled, and sat down next to you, easily picking up on your nerves and bringing you into a conversation. You two talked about anything and everything as you waited for the all clear from Zatanna’s team. Occasionally you would jump as the sounds of combat echoed through the halls, but none ever strayed too close to where you were hiding, and Zatanna would be quick to divert your attention back. As the time passed you let yourself relax more and more, and it seemed that even Zatanna was as taken with the conversation as you were, so when Zatanna suddenly jumped in surprise from a knock at the door, you did as well.

“Cheshire has been neutralized, it is safe for you two to come out now.” The voice was male, and you guessed it to be one of Zatanna’s team members.

“We’ll be out in a minute Aqualad!” Zatanna called, getting up from her seat and helping you stand as well.

“You know,” you said before she could leave, “we never did get to have that dance.”

She gave a wide, genuine smile. “My apologies, your highness, such poor manners from me, however could I make it up to you?”

#Zatanna Zatara #Zatanna #zatanna x reader #Young Justice #1.5k milestone #drabble

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omg-jwilder · 5 years

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Books On Spain, The Moors and Morocco

Books of interest…

Cervantes has continued for centuries to draw readers and scholars as Don Quixote tilts at his windmills. Spanish history and its conquistadores hold a wide sway over the imagination of the locals and the North Americans. The story of Spain while not as complex as say the Middle East, is long, varied and punctuated with the Moorish occupation.

Where does a reader go to satisfy their curiosity?

At 900+ pages James Michener’s “Iberia” is a reference book, a travel guide, a history and much more. It was written by a man that held Spain in high regard from an early age. The sub title is ‘Spanish travel and reflections’. This is my best reference for many day trips across Spain. Highly recommended.

It may surprise many readers that America’s Washington Irving is esteemed in Andalucia. His “Tales of the Alhambra” is still widely read. There is the well marked Washington Irving route across many villages where he was known to have visited. His book, “The Tales of the Alhambra” bring the Alhambra to life. Keep in mind it is highly romanticized about the Moorish inhabitants but still a popular primer to southern Spain.

Seneca- ‘On the Shortness of Life’ This is one where the writer speaks loudly thru the ages. For many Spaniards he is alive in their lives and actions. It is short tome, a quick read, it is a real classic. Some Spaniards will say every person in Spain follows the philosophy of either Seneca or Cervantes.

“Death in the Afternoon” by Ernest Hemingway, the sports book and the only sports book written by a winner of a Nobel Prize. Bull fighting is a national heritage of Spain and some basic grasp of the theatre that surrounds the arena and the matador will produce a nuanced opinion. [Hint the costume is called the custom of lights, custumbre de luz.]

A second bullfighting book by Hemingway written at the end of his career, “Dangerous Spring” is really for the reader that wants a deeper understanding of the arena and the lives of the killer of bulls, el matador.

‘Lords of the Atlas’ The rise and fall of the House of Glaouna 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell is a history of modern Morocco. Morocco is a melting pot and a cross roads. The influences are many and varied and not always easy to see or understand. This will give the reader many clues as to why these people and their country is appealing and so special. This is not a book for everyone and there will be times the book is tossed aside but to goes well beyond a simple tourist view of Morocco. It is essential reading if you plan an extended stay.

“Sherry Manzanilla Montilla” - A guide to the traditional wines of Andalucia’, Peter Liem & Jesus Barquin. This is a professional wine book about fino and the special wines produced in the south of Spain. There are others on the topic but this is what the experts read.

Luis Gutierrez, ‘The New Vigerons’ sub title ‘the new generation of Spainish wine growers’. If you intend to stay longer than a week this maybe a good wine guide. Spain is the largest producer of wines in the world nowadays. The wines regions, the grapes, varied styles and blends will richly reward those that know what they are buying and when to buy it. It is a professional’s wine book.

‘A Guide to Fortified Wines’ - Pauline & Sheldon Wasserman. This slim older edition has all the beginner needs know to enjoy a port, fino, ollorosso, Pedro Ximenez [aka PX] or wines of Montilla=Morales. Recall that the food must match the wine. With seafood, especially fried seafood a clear crisp chilled fino is the classic paring.

George Orwell “Homage to Catalonia” a well known book on the Spanish civil war. Again, not for the casual reader but a good read.

“Morocco” - Hueges D’Emelde [check spelling] A coffee table book by Teschan and it is a visual treat. It is long out of print but it may linger in the local library or online. It captures the mood and scale of the lands.

“Moorish Spain” by Richard Fletcher This 1992 book provides a picture of the Moors during their attempt to conquer Spain. There are regional conflicts and endless battles. Names and many familiar names rise and fall thru the narrative and slavery is a constant. A well written history that casts light on an era not many really delve into including the Spanish.

A lasting truth for us is that the writer is the most immortal of beings. They are by their written text allowed to produce conversations, share experiences, or provoke debate years maybe, even centuries after their death.

Our family reads a lot, we read widely and sometimes in a random manner but books are a big part of our home and we hope that these texts are useful in you Iberian adventures. So there you have it, my Spanish, Moorish, and Moroccan reading list. It is not complete and will surely expand as soon as this is published. We welcome your ideas and referrals.

Adios

The J Wilder Group

2019 AD

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celiansartblog · 5 years

Photo

After the pic i posted earlier today, I realized it was time to properly introduce my Far Cry 5 deputy! This was super fun to make, so here is also a little more about her under there! also blease feel free to ask me about my girl!

BASICS:

· Full name: Andreia Maarika Cordeiro

· Gender: Female

· Sexuality: Lesbian

· Pronouns: She/Her

· Birthday: 14th of October, 1988 (30 y/o in game)

OTHER:

· Family: Domingos Cordeiro (father, alive), Graca Cordeiro (mother, alive), Elisabete, Rosana and Belinha Cordeiro (younger sisters, alive), Afonso Cordeiro (younger brother, alive)

· Birthplace: Sertã, Portugal

· Job(s): Military for a while, then Junior Deputy in Hope county

· Phobias/Fears: Being stripped of her own self, no longer be the master of her fate. Also any deep body of water.

· Guilty Pleasures: She has a bottle of Ginjinha that she indulges rarely, she has a bit of a sweet tooth.

· Hobbies: She works out a lot, likes carving wood.

MORALS:

· Moral Alignment: Neutral Good

· Sins: Wrath, pride

· Virtues: Headstrong, trustworthy, resilient

THIS-OR-THAT:

· introvert / extrovert / bit of both

· organized / disorganized

· close-minded / open-minded

· calm / anxious / restless

· disagreeable / agreeable / inbetween

· patient / impatient / depends

· outspoken / reserved

· leader / follower / flexible

· empathetic / unempathetic

· optimistic / pessimistic / realistic

· traditional / modern / inbetween

· hard-working / lazy

RELATIONSHIPS:

· OTP:Andreia/Faith I am weak tbh

· Acceptable ships: Andreia/Grace, Andreia/Jess, Andreia/Joey Hudson Andreia/Tracey

· BroTP: Andreia/Grace, Andreia/Sharky, Andreia/Kim Rye, Andreia/Mary May, Andreia/Jess

· NOTP: Keep the Seed brothers away from her ew

SHORT BIO:

She was born in Portugal, within a tight-knit, very catholic community, with traditional values. As the older child of the family, she looked after her four younger siblings, and grew up under the iron hand of her parents. They had a very clear idea of what their children should grow up to be and wouldn’t allow any of them to stray from that path. Unfortunately, their eldest daughter was a messy and unruly child, loud and unladylike, liking to play rough and getting in trouble.

They attempted to educate her out of this behaviour by enforcing even stricter rules under their roof, through diverse punishments ranging from banning her to leave the house, to locking her away in her room without eating until she decided to behave, all the way peppered with lengthy lectures about her place in this world, God’s plan for her, and how she should be ashamed of the trouble she puts her parents through with her behaviour. Her father did raise a hand of her on few occasions when he estimated she crossed the line, but nothing they did seemed to set her straight. Although, all of this did wear her down, especially since as they lived in a very close community, every other parent knew how much of a “trouble-maker” she was, and she often had to endure lectures from others about how ungrateful she was to her parents and how much harder she made their lives.

When she reached 15, she seemed to magically settle down, becoming a kind, quiet, polite little lady (though her parents sorely wished she’d stop growing up and that her stocky frame would thin out), who wore dresses, smiled at people and never got her clothes dirty. Truth was, she had come to accept that her place just wasn’t within her family, and that she could never be what they wanted, not that she wished to become a sweet little housewife who would retire from her job as a teacher the second she found a husband, and who would spend the rest of her life at home watching over children she didn’t choose to have. She was already figuring out her escape, trying to plan for ways to earn money and go as far as possible from this place as she could as soon as she hit her majority.

However, finding a job or hiding money under the nose of her parents was a seldom impossible task, so she set out to wait under her 18th birthday to integrate the Exército, the Portuguese army and left home. But ultimately, her goal was to leave the country altogether, spurred by the romanticized idea of leaving everything behind to start a new life (she was young, can you blame her for that?). She kept working in the Army until she raked enough money to leave Portugal and fly to America, a country she idealized listening to her friends at school talking about movies they’d seen about it, or books they read. It didn’t really live up to the expectations but hey, at least it wasn’t back home.

Upon arrival she set out to get herself naturalized. She started by finding herself a little job as a waitress in order to get more acquainted with the people and the language, while preparing English and civic exams in order to integrate the military there. Once she served for long enough, she applied for her citizenship and got it. She then applied to become a Deputy Sheriff in Hope County, Montana. She chose the place because it seemed calm and peaceful enough, and she wanted to be able to settle down a little, and she was never much of a city girl, so the farmland seemed perfect at the time. Then she got accepted and all the rest is history.

#far cry 5 #far cry deputy #fc5 #fc5 deputy #fc5 oc #far cry 5 female deputy #female deputy #my oc #aesthetic board #aesthetic builder #oc aesthetics #ceci talks #ceci draws

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bsd-bibliophile · 6 years

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I had read an article about BSD possibly being a commentary on Western intervention with Japan. Specifically, the similarities between the arrival of Americans off the coast of Yokohama in 1853 as well as the bombing of Yokohama during WWII. Both being mirrored by The Guilds arrival and the Moby Dick exploding over the city. I was wondering what your thoughts were on that, if any.

I am not sure BSD would tackle something like WWII when it’s focus is literary figures. Yes, most of the authors included in the show were alive and their lives were affected by the war, but not all the authors lived during WWII and I am not aware of any of them being directly involved. The war the Japanese authors were waging was against each other (the Agency and the Port Mafia) against how to deal with Western influences (the Guild) in order to keep Japanese literature from disappearing or being taken over by the Western authors.

Many of the authors in BSD translated works from Western authors into Japanese. Atsushi translated a few of Kafka’s works, Akutagawa and Ranpo translated Poe’s works, Chuuya translated Rimbaud, and I have quite a few references of the authors having read Dostoevsky. Western literature and film had a large influence on Japan even before WWII.

The authors in the Mafia were generally writing before the Agency authors, with the exception of Fukuzawa, and their writing styles and themes were much more traditional to Japanese literature. Akutagawa wrote stories based on traditional tales and revamped them, adding more depth and detail, and became known as the Father of the Japanese Short Story. He even tried to write more modern genres and stories that fit in with the way Japanese literature was changing, but he never really got the hang of it or really enjoyed it. Mori also had a very traditional writing style, and even though he broke the mold with Vita Sexualis, he generally stayed to themes and subject matter that were acceptable. Kajii, Kouyou, Hirotsu, and Higuchi were all trying to preserve the traditional style while adding their own voice and trying to make the stories and characters fit a more modern Japan without making it less Japanese. Chuuya is kind of an exception to this in my mind because he did incorporate a lot of what he learned from French poetry, the bohemian lifestyle that Rimbaud lived, and was very decadent, quite unlike the other authors in the Mafia. But even though he had his own way of doing things, it was more that he was just Chuuya and not that he was particularly Western in his poetry style and ideas. I’m not sure he really fits into either category, but his poems have a particular rhythm in Japanese that doesn’t translate so that could be why he was included with the mafia (plus, he and Dazai really didn’t get along at all so the BSD creators probably just wanted them in opposite organizations and Dazai was definitely not traditional).

The authors in the Agency, with Fukuzawa in the lead, had a much different take on how to move Japanese literature forward. They grew up with more Western influences and reading materials. Their writing is heavily influenced by Western authors, and it was them who really inspired a change in the way Japanese literature was written and viewed. They fought the censors and wrote what they wanted to despite the opposing opinions and in the end they won, though none of them had it easy (Am I romanticizing this too much? I don’t want to come off as melodramatic…). Fukuzawa dedicated his life to Westernizing Japan so the country could compete with other world powers and not be trampled over by larger countries with more influence. He wrote a lot about civilizations, reforming education, and modern government systems in regards to how Japan could benefit from adopting the best ideas from other countries. He was so important to Japanese history that he is on their 10,000 yen note now! It was because of his influence that the other Agency authors had the education and exposure to world literature that they did. Ranpo wrote stories that were heavily influenced by Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle. Atsushi’s stories, though set in a classic Chinese setting much like Akutagawa’s, were full of Western existentialism and had many similarities to Franz Kafka’s style and themes. Tanizaki’s protagonists in Naomi are a man who is well-educated and works in electrical engineering (something very new and modern) and was infatuated with a young waitress, Naomi, who he wants to forge into a glamorous Western girl like Mary Pickford. Kunikida never really settled on a style, but he was heavily influenced by Romantic poets and writers like Lord Byron. Kunikida actually ahd a lot of censorship done to his works (Oda refers to his writing in one of his own stories by saying that his protagonist had his sexual desires awakened by reading one of Kunikida’s stories). And Dazai definitely did not write in a traditional style or about traditional subjects; the critics and censors were always upset and harping on Dazai, not only his writing but also his life style and how his writing reflected it. Even though his works were generally well received and best sellers he had a lot of enemies and people who did not approve of his writing style and ideas.

All of the Agency authors did a lot to push the limits of Japanese literature and incorporate new ideas while the Mafia authors tried to keep the traditional style and themes of Japanese literature alive. It is because of both ideals and the talented, dedicated authors who worked to marry the two ideas that Japanese literature is still alive and well while also maintaining it’s own unique style and influence.

My thoughts are that BSD isn’t really referencing any political or physical war, but rather a war of ideologies and styles in literature. I don’t think that the Western authors really had the intention of causing all of the struggles and taking sides in the Japanese literary world. And to be honest I think that Japanese authors and critics would have done all this anyway at some point because literature is always changing and evolving. But this is all conjecture on my part, and I do think the theory that the Guild coming alludes to the bombings in 1853 and WWII. I am not aware of any official statements about the historical origins of the different organizations and conflicts in BSD, but I really hope there is one because I want to know for sure!

Thank you for the ask! Hopefully all my rambling on about Japanese authors and literary styles makes sense.

#asks #theories #analysis #armed detective agency #port mafia #guild #conflict #japanese literature #japanese authors #western authors #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd

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violetsystems · 3 years

Text

#personal

I finally wrapped up most of the damage from 2020. Among all the pain and suffering I had to deal with from all sides, the financials were the most ambiguous. I read all these thinks pieces about the lasting damage it has done to the American economy. And then there’s the situations I find myself in that I am left to embrace alone. The reality is that most people seem to think there’s nothing wrong with me. Kind of like when I go to the dentist year after year and nobody ever says anything about fixing a crooked tooth. They floss around it. I feel them flossing around it. I apparently wear the defects so well that they become me. Whatever chunk was taken out of my life still keeps biting. There are no shortage of victims in this day and age. I’ve often had to read into the fact that nobody wants me to identify that way. For some reason based on what people think they know about me there’s a judgement placed without my knowing it’s due process. I’m laughably somewhere in the middle of everything through survival. Getting into arguments online or in the street to prove points for yourself is a losing battle. I have to realize the mindfuck of it all either way. I’m constantly playing damage control in a world that shoots itself in the foot to feel alive. If I look back at how long I’ve survived on this planet, I can admit to myself I’ve seen worse outcomes. To think a year ago, I was in a stable job with a stable amount of debt I couldn’t quite escape the gravity from. It was always me alone grinding to try and do that. And to this day how many ever stories you’ve heard about me across the world don’t really pay the bills or encourage people to treat me like a human being. I deal with people following me around and trying to communicate in ways I never consented to daily. Everybody’s vampiric instinct for some sort of intelligent connection is at my footstep every ten feet when I go out for groceries. People overstep the boundaries so much I’ve had to rewrite them for myself for protection. Now I’m boxed into cheap rent with no guarantees and everybody’s opinion about me on eleven. It’s the type of shit that would make anyone go nuts. Let alone everyone struggling for pieces of your power so they can have the upper hand in terms of social dominance. I get it. Almost too much. I live in a city where egos flare up every day. There’s no shortage of people spray painting gang symbols in pink all over my alley because somebody made the mistake of getting it fucking twisted. I have to walk through that aftermath and know it all. That everything I say or do is watched, taken out of context, manipulated to start shit because somebody feels some type of way about shit they do not know the repercussions of. People get shot in my city every day. I walk alone. Sometimes I take the bus when somebody is up in my face with something to prove on an abandoned street. My imperfections of which there are many aren’t ever going to save me. My brain does. And of the most sexy things in this world beyond my greying hair, my coffee stained imperfect dentistry or my pockmarked skin, I am human too. I live in a country where everyone envy’s the ability to speak freely without being taken to the stake for it. That’s always been a lie. I live that lie and dodge it every day. And there are no real door prizes for second place in that battle except dwindling health care benefits and a lump sum pension.

On the other hand, through all this I continue to make magic happen. I’m sure people can romanticize how it feels. There are times when it feels like I’m worth it. Everybody wants to roast you out here to feel better about themselves. I’d rather have girls show off their makeup tutorials in safety around me than deal with your petty online hierarchies. And this is what happens on a very hyperlocal level. People out here know what I’m about for better or for worse. It’s called the internet. People all over the world seem to have an opinion about what makes me tick after I’ve spent over three years writing my heart and soul in three paragraphs on the internet. And yet I’m still the enemy. I’m still someone you don’t quite trust. Someone you more than often throw under the bus because I can take it. Or there’s something I haven’t been through yet that makes me less threatening. To break me first so you can control me. And yet here I am out here with the remote control to my own life boarded into a fiscal cage. I’ve gone from worrying about money to worrying about when to switch to single payer healthcare. I’ve gone from holding down the fort to wanting to pack up my cat and leave completely. And I will have nothing holding me back. No hurt feelings. No vampiric lust for revenge or closure. No desire to be understood or seen. People abuse me every day in public and online as their own personal punching bag because they don’t have the strength or the will to practice on the real enemy. The same enemy I’ve been fighting up close and persona for years. Does this make me a beast? Yes. It makes me far more powerful than anybody would ever know. And yet I know the reality. I’ve lived it in my own city for years. People do not want people to be strong without some sort of failsafe device. Some secret way to cancel their mutant powers. Some word or phrase to break them when they fear the freedom and power running through their veins. Most of the time when that happens I’m paying my bills on time while holding back endless waves of childhood trauma living and growing up weak, smart, and awkward in America. And here I am still awkwardly unaccepted unless I submit. Unless I show some sort of weakness I haven’t already conquered. I’m defective just like you. But somehow it’s inconvenient for you to approach the reasons you can’t see that. You’d rather lump me in with everyone else and throw your shot. You take the hail mary play I’ve seen time and time again from people who secretly are uncomfortable with me winning. You try to make your bluff at the poken table and I have the winning hand. Soon I just realize it’s not worth my time playing. I find another table to saunter off to that doesn’t reward on house rules. And here I am out here again winning in spite of all the shit you people constantly talk on your secret club house forums. You might even take away bits and pieces of my own arguments over the years and use them against me. And where do you end up? In the same pitiful and tired argument over and over again. Nobody is going to lift you up from the graves being built around you other than you. This is what I have learned and have to process every day. The last eleven months have been barren at best. And yet I have no hope of it getting any better. I’m hurt, A pain that I’ve been able to manage by removing myself from culture that pokes and prods the scars. Like they’re doing you a favor while they watch you sink. Throwing rocks at the body floating down the river. Me playing dead long enough to run away.

If you want me to be honest, it pisses me off how worthless it is to argue anymore. To jump into this week’s political thought piece. To argue what a bunch of rich people vote on and why. To feel like you are part of any sort of people’s revolution that literally plays a ranking game in terms of suffering. America is good at valuing things. We take it to the extreme and drown everyone out in the process. The whole world is learning from us. And yet America and Americans are a diverse bunch. About the only thing I can tell you about America that is working right now is the IRS. That and my bank investigating just how many times I’ve been a target of fraud.. You’d think after all these words typed out into the internet that someone would realize I’m just as much of a victim as some people. Maybe not in the same way. But people would rather nitpick and point the finger to divert the attention from themselves. And the eye of fucking Sauron is always on me. Not you. You do not understand the weight of that statement that I live with everyday. Everyone has a fucking problem with me now. I have to walk through that brutal street catwalk every day in a city that would rather shoot you than discuss it’s feeling about the situation. And yet I’m supposed to feel sorry for everyone first. I’m supposed to watch my tongue for the secret internet and cultural police that control who wins and who loses. Did I forget to mention I live in America? The country everyone lauds as being the freest place in the universe. I’ll give you a hint. It is. I fucking live it. I talk and write about it too. And my voice is heard around the fucking planet without anybody having the least respect for how it plays out in my life. I could have died many times over because somebody had to use my life to prove a point. And it’s collapsed into a void in which I am trapped while everyone continues to throw stones. Everyone except the people I love. And the people that love me back. I’m being real with you. I stick my neck out every waking moment to live the life I believe is real. And there are no guarantees. No expectations. No hope or clearly worded rules or communication on how to progress. And week after week. Tooth after chipped and crooked tooth I speak my mind. I walk with accountability while people stare at the fucking ground. I live in a loneliness so deep and intense that ghosts still speak volumes. Things will never be forgotten no matter how silent I become. And yet people talk over it like I’m already dead. They stop at nothing to invade my life and defile every chance for me to not fade away. What in these three paragraphs to you defines me as the enemy? Because I have more power to make my dreams come true? Do you want to put yourself into the hell of walking in my shoes? Do you want to wander these streets without a weapon other than your kindness and patience? Do you lie awake at night thinking you will die alone without anyone having the reading comprehension to know what it is you are going through. I will answer this for you. No you don’t. Because you will see the exact hell that I know very well. No one saves you in this life but you. No one will pick you up out of the hole other than you. Nobody will tell you when you look in the mirror alone that you are beautiful other than you. To live with that knowledge and to take it out on other people is fucked. To judge other people you don’t even know who exhaust themselves to explain is a losing battle for attention. You should already know the simple fucking answer. Because I’m worth it. And I’m sick of beating myself up for people who think they are the only ones in pain. I’m dying here. Mostly from lack of open space and personal freedoms. Sounds like any other country you know other than America. Home of the free. I’m going to go exercise my freedoms on these weights. Because gravity holds pity on noone. And it’s easier to fall than to rise. That takes works regardless of how you were born into this world. Let’s stop fighting each other and pay more attention to the planet. You’ve already caused enough damage biting off more than you can chew. <3 Tim

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