#anyway cruel irony is i want to self harm and now i feel like i should and ill try not to its been quite a while but ah HARD

[d3nt4l-d4m4g3]

A few days ago, I emailed my former professor about a paper on women’s food practices in the middle ages. At least, that’s what I told him it was about, initially. 

But actually, I wanted to discuss heresy. This professor teaches a women’s rights course every year. Every year at the beginning of the class, he calls attention to why he, a man, is talking about women’s rights. He looks us in the eyes and says, no one else is doing it, and I’m sorry it’s me.

This man made us read the SCUM manifesto, Gerda Lerner, Maria Mies. He grazed the subject of the Lesbian Sex Wars, delicately, so gingerly, posing the question: “Can sex work ever be just work?”  And my  (all woman) classmates, generally mute—in a Women’s Rights class, they all seemed averse to saying the word “woman,” at all. Then one woman raised her hand. and she said, “Sex work is real work.”  A statement that, as I hope you know, is a deflection and a discussion killer.  

At the time I was non-binary. Hah. I submitted a comic at the end of the year of my final project. My thesis for that project was this: the very language female people have to use for themselves was constructed by the patriarchy. for example, the english word “vagina” comes from the latin word for “sheath”. so the vagina invokes the act of penetration upon its utterance. Whereas the word “penis” has no clear etymological root, implying that it is original while the vagina is constructed for him. Why should I carry the fact that I will always be a tool, the hole, of the human that is man? My solution, at the end of the comic, was to continue using they/them pronouns, to shield myself from the horror of being a wo-man, a s-he—an appendage of Him. 

I got a good grade. A stellar report. And it wasn’t a bad comic, for what I knew then. For my condition of blindness and deafness. I made a compelling argument, using sources from class.  But oh, how much older I feel now. I’ve always felt old but now I feel almost like I’m dying. Like I don’t have enough time to fix the world before I disappear. And women’s stories never survive. They are not surviving. networks spring up like mycelium and then every century at least they are burned. Witchcraft is in the air shared by women in a room of their own, and witchcraft is doused in gasoline.

I don’t have enough time to explain how the veil lifted for me. Maybe I forget the big moment. the days after were a blur of searching the no-no tags like radical feminist, GNC, gender critical. Amazed at the wealth of journals that these women linked to with real statistics showing that children are being sterilized for no reason. Mostly gay children. like me, a lesbian, who now lives in a house with three  “non-binary afabs”. This summer, one of these women, who I have known since freshman year, will start taking testosterone, a procedure I took up  for three turbulent months during my freshman year of college. I get to watch her become what I turned away from, knowing the experience fractured my sense of self to a point of  terror and estrangement. I get to watch her hide from her problems and cut herself off from womanhood the way I did for 3 years. I am not a woman, so do I not feel Woman’s pain, she is telling me, I told myself, when I was in a dream.  She has so many problems, she laughs. But trans is a separate problem that has nothing to do with those other problems. A coincidence.

 (For any trans people reading this, you may think: This transtrender fake-trans never-was-trans woman is treating these nonbinary people as if they were dead! as if they weren’t happy people finally living their truth! —well. I put my mom through the process of trying to convince her that I should have always been a man. and I did lose her, for months. For her it was the height of cognitive dissonance that I should want to go on a life-altering hormone to cure my lifelong social awkwardness and self-hatred and self-harm and depression. And I blamed her for not accepting my real self. I was basically made to shun her and my family because of transphobia.. It is disrespectful to anyone’s sanity and integrity for me to perpetuate that cognitive dissonance in this post.)

So I eventually got through to the professor. I knew because of the texts he had us to read for class. He is gay.  He has read all the theory, and lives by it.  And no (woman) student wants to speak to him. To bring the theory alive. They cannot breathe into it and it sits dead in his mouth.

Maybe it is because he is a man. because the presence of one man in a space of all women immediately sends up alerts.  lockdown. Certainly that is the case. Radical Feminists here: I know he’s a man. But I don’t have a woman. And I felt on the strength of the texts he’d given us that he would be my best bet. Maybe somewhere in the corrupted, rotting heart of my college there was a person who knew about thoughtcrimes and was thinking them anyway.

My professor starts with diversion. He starts by talking about my paper. I find it disconcerting that he starts that way. I worry that he won’t want to refer to my email. Where I say: I have woken up from a dream to the apocalypse—Does this man think I’m crazy? Chipper and kind of frantically, he lists off  primary sources of medieval nuns and women saints. for my paper.  Does this man think I’ve turned into a bigot?  Am I confessing lunacy, like a flat-earther?

But I steer the conversation to the meat at his first tentative encouragement. I tell him something like: “children, mostly gay children, a whole generation of gay children, are being sterilized. Porn is a symptom of late-stage capitalism—men’s ownership of women’s bodies. trans is an extension of this. I was part of this. I was in a cult.” I was shaking a bit. I don’t think I’d uttered those words out loud. They sound crazy. Some of the things I said did sound far-fetched. disorganized, remote. But I prayed that my professor would believe some of it, any of it. 

 What I will say is that he believes me.  Thank fuck, right?

He tells me something along the lines of this, vocalizing my fears: 

that all of academia is being scrubbed of anything that doesn’t support Trans.

And it is trans-identified female students and women who are reporting him to Title IX, who spend all their time in his classes fuming at the lack of validation for trans women in the  history of women. My sisters, footsoldiers for the cause. What cruel irony. This man is holding onto this class by his fingernails, speaking through his teeth, hoping any of the twenty young adult women staring blankly or angrily at him will hear him and listen.

 Looking back, the professor’s responses to my emails are vague, completely refusing to acknowledge a point of view other than “WOW. I look forward to discussing this.”  I think he thinks he could be blackmailed. Anything he says on gmail dot com can and would be used against him. It’s like, really, really, really that bad. 

No ideology should involve a cultural cleaning of women’s history feat. witch hunts. 

I will end here with an excerpt from my first email to this professor:

I'm sure you know what a total bummer it is to realize this. 

#detransition #tra #gender critical #radical feminism #radfem #radblr #feminism #academia

[teacup-crow]

Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

Fun bit of survivors’ guilt for @badthingshappenbingo, based pretty heavily off Don’t Poke the Bear and Variations on a Theme. Post-finale.

They take it in turns to keep watch for when he wakes up: Doug, Reneé, Isabel, first names still such a novelty. Just his luck, he opens his eyes to the impassive face of Captain Lovelace.

“Hi, dickbag. Sore head?”

“Unnnnhh…” he whines as if he’s lying under a ton of rocks rather than a cosy quilt on Renee’s living room floor. His face is a patchwork of bruising. “Aspirin?”

She takes pity, and passes him two and a glass of water. The sitting up takes longer than he thought it would.

“You look terrible. Lucky for you, Renee makes a mean chilli con carne. Never would have guessed she could cook.”

“No thanks, I should, should be going-”

“You need food in your system, that’s non-negotiable. First thing’s first, though, you’re having a shower, and you either go willingly or get dragged bodily, because you goddamn stink. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles automatically, and he remembers the Colonel - Warren? Was it on a day he could call him Warren? - once saying something similar and his head pounds. ((“mr jacobi, of all the irresponsible, stupid shit i have seen from you this really takes the-“))

“Bathroom’s on the second floor, just past the master bedroom. Dominick put a pile of clean clothes in there before he left for work. And it’s Isabel, okay? Not sir. Not Captain. Never again.”

***

“Who did this to you?”

He grips his mug of sweet tea like it’s thousand dollar whiskey. He’s still ashen. “I did this to me.”

“You beat the shit out of yourself? Okay, yeah. Don’t buy that one.” Isabel repeats the question. “Who did this to you?”

“Just some guys I pissed off. I don’t know how many. I don’t know who. Happy now?”

The room goes silent. Isabel continues:

“And did you go provoking them deliberately?”

Not for the first time, Renee wonders whether they should have included Doug in this little intervention. He’s been through so much just like the rest of them, but he doesn’t know it, and he’s clearly freaking out at the situation.

“Why would he want something like that to happen? He looks terrible!”

“I don’t know, Doug,” Isabel says levelly. “Care to answer, Jacobi?”

He’s not on a first name basis, apparently.

“Not… I didn’t... no. No, no, no. I was too drunk and… picking fights, but suddenly there were too many of them, okay? But I got out. And if I want to drink then that’s my own problem, so thank you for the hospitality but-“

Renee cuts in there. “When you drink yourself into a stupor, get attacked by a gang in a back alley, and stumble into my doorway at 0300 hours after six months of radio silence, it becomes our problem.” Her look of pity makes his stomach churn even more than the chilli did. He breathes in, hold, out; in, hold, out; in-((alana’s breathing technique and why why why is she everywhere in everything why does he have to see her out of the corner of his eye when it’s been so long he can’t properly remember her face-))

“Fine. What do you want from me?”

“You are a good man and you saved every single one of our lives and we need to understand why you’re so intent on throwing yours away.”

Jacobi starts laughing then, guttural laughs that worsen the ache in his head and bones but he can’t seem to stop them. “...me? I’m a good man? Oh my God, Lieutenant, that’s hilarious. Give us another.”

“You need to take this seriously! This is a form of self harm! You could have died!” Isabel is pacing up and down. She and Renee do good cop, bad cop like it’s a professional sport.

“Boo fucking hoo. And the world would forever be worse off for my passing.”

Isabel stops, and turns back towards him with some heat in her gaze. “I have lost too many crew members who deserved to die far less than you do. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Do you need me to reconfirm that you are a an asshole? Do you need to hear about how Fisher, and Hui, and Fourier, and Lambert were all far better people than you will ever, ever be? Or will you accept that you are good in there? That deep down you’re on the right-“

“We burned their letters.” He’s staring at the duvet he’s wrapped in, running his finger over the flowers on the pattern. “Okay? Still think I’m a good person?”

“...wait. What?” She laughs a little, in shock perhaps. “But you told me…”

“I told you what I needed to tell you to make you trust me. We burned your crew’s letters. Lambert’s… I remember those especially. His hands were shaking really hard when he wrote them, weren’t they.”

It’s not a question.

Isabel stops pacing, and Jacobi grins again but it doesn’t reach his bruised eyes when he looks up at her. “More than mine, even. You could tell he was sick. They didn’t make any sense. We laughed at them. The irony of a Communications Officer who can’t communicate. Are you listening to me? We read their letters and we burned them and we laughed about it-“

Renee loses her softness. “Jacobi, that is enough!”

Isabel has a hand on her chest as if something has hit her there. She counts to ten in her head, ((fisher’s technique to try and stop her fighting with sam, never worked but still stuck in her head, or this copy of her head, or whoever she is now-)) and leaves the room.

They hear her slamming drawers in the kitchen.

Doug glances at Jacobi and shakes his head, before hurrying after her.

“How could you,” Reneé says. “How could you.”

“I don’t know. Will you let me go and ruin my own life now?”

“Never,” she replies. “Because, God help me, you’re still a member of my crew.”

At that, his eyes prick with tears he can’t explain. He rolls over on the air bed, and closes them.

***

“Lovelace?” Jacobi finally makes himself walk into the kitchen, grimacing like each step is on hot sand. The words are monotone. “I’m so sorry. What I did and said is... inexcusable.”

“Nope. That’s too large a word for your vocabulary. Come back to me with an apology Renée didn’t script,” Isabel snaps, going back to scribbling in a sketchbook.

“Look, I’m not much good at this-“

“You’re telling me.”

“I’m… really used to people yelling at me and hitting me until they feel better. Or you can shoot me if you like!”

“Jesus. Well, I am not about to do that to ease your guilt. You look like you’d snap if one more person poked you. So apologise properly.”

“I’m sorry…”

“For?” Isabel prompts over the top of her book.

“I’m sorry for burning your crew’s letters.”

“You did what you were ordered to do. It is what it is. I’m not condoning it.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Jacobi realises she’s waiting for him to continue. “And… I’m sorry for bringing it up. That was… needlessly cruel. It sucked.”

“It really did,” she replies, putting the book down. “Tell you what: that sounded somewhat genuine, and Goddard brought out the shit in all of us. You look so pathetic, I’m going to forgive you. Not because you deserve it, but because I don’t bear grudges. Not anymore.”

She holds out a hand, and he shakes it. “Thank you.”

“Wow. That actually hurt for you to say.”

Jacobi nods. He sits down across from her at Renée’s huge darkwood table, and thinks about how she and Dominick must have bought this when they moved in together with plans to have people over for dinner every other night. Maybe even plans to have kids.

He wonders if Dominick ate at it alone while his wife was gone.

“So, you gone on that holiday yet?”

“No, actually. I’ve legally been dead for about seven years, so getting a passport is proving pretty tricky.”

“I can imagine.”

“Where have you been, anyway? We tried to get into contact with you. We drove down to your old apartment - got your address from the Goddard database - but it was cleaned out.”

Jacobi looks sheepish. “Yeah, well, I’d mostly been staying at Alana’s for the last few years or overnight at… yeah… so I’d not been a very good tenant and turns out they took ‘lost in space’ as the perfect opportunity to kick me out. So I’ve been sofa to sofa, on the streets a bit-”

“For heaven’s sake, Jacobi. We would have helped you, you stupid asshole! All you had to do was ask and you could have stayed here! Renee and Dominick would probably even let you have a cheese collection or whatever the fuck it was.”

“Guess the amount of drinks it takes for me to lose my pride is somewhere over eighteen?”

“How do you have a functioning liver?”

They sit in an almost comfortable silence for a few minutes, Isabel reopening her sketchbook.

“I never knew you drew.”

“You never knew me outside of a life-threatening situation.” Isabel sighs, twists the pencil between her fingers. “I don’t think I did. Before. The old ‘me’, I mean. But I was bored and I can’t get a job because of the ‘being dead’ issue, so I thought I should take up a hobby or something. Might be therapeutic. I’m not very good at it…”

“Can I see?”

“I, uh,” Isabel suddenly looks uncertain. “I drew her. Maxwell. I drew everyone, actually. Are you sure you want to look?”

“Yes.”

He leafs through the pages, at first simple doodles before branching into full portraits. Eiffel, upside down and smoking a cigarette. Hilbert, looking troubled at a shadow behind him he can’t quite see. Two ghostlike figures in lab coats staring out at the star, the man with a prophetic terror etched on his face - must be Isabel’s old crewmates. Mr Cutter smiles up at him with far too many sharp teeth in sharper lines where the pencil was pressed far too hard and he turns the page quickly. There’s Kepler, mid-whiskey speech and it almost stops his heart. He pauses. Maxwell.

In the picture, her eyes are shining as she stares at Hera’s console, fingers nothing more than a blur - the three-day stint she spent trying to get the AI online. Aside from the orange and blue of Wolf 359, elsewhere in the book Isabel has barely used colour, but here the room is bathed in a serene green light from the screens. Behind Maxwell, Jacobi sees himself, little more than a stocky, sketchy outline, waiting for her to finish.

He looks so proud of her.

He looks so… content.

After staring for a long moment, Jacobi closes the book and hands it back. “Thank you.”

“You can keep the pictures of them, if you like,” Isabel offers, but he doesn’t know whether he would like, so he says:

“Tell me about your crew.”

“What?”

“Your old crew. Tell me about them. Was Lambert the one staring at...?”

“No. No. No, that was Kuan Hui, our senior astrophysicist. He was whipsmart and funny and fearless, until the time Goddard Futuristics played around in his brain, stretched out his perception of time. He was completely alone in the dark for two weeks. His smile never really reached his eyes after that.”

Jacobi sips tea awkwardly, even though it’s cold.

“Something like that, it stays with you. At least he had Fourier, though.”

“That’s the woman behind him?”

“Junior physicist. Victoire Fourier had eyes like stars. Cleverest person I’ve ever met. She played six instruments, spoke four languages and she had the most gentle soul. She used to read to Hui when he got sick with Decima. Coughed up every organ in his body. I thought it would break her, but she was made of stern stuff. She vanished off the space station in the final days and I still don’t know what exactly happened to her-”

“I… do. If you want to know, I mean.”

Isabel shakes her head. Then pauses. Then shakes her head again. “I get the feeling whoever is to blame is long gone.”

Jacobi shrugs. “Who else?”

“Well, there was Mace Fisher. Fisher… Fisher died because of me, not Goddard Futuristics. Asteroid shower tore him from my hands. He had a boyfriend waiting at home. He was sensitive, sensible, grounding. A real older brother type. I- I didn’t deal particularly well with his death. Well, you know that much.”

((Pill popper!)) Jacobi gulps more cold tea.

“And Lambert?”

“Sam Lambert. Officer Samuel Lambert had a stick up his ass. He was whiny, and authoritarian, and he treasured his copy of Pryce and Carter more than Reneé and Kepler combined did. He drove me nearly insane, and I drove him likewise. The best second in command you could ask for. A damn good man. Sam got sick after Hui, so we knew what was coming. What it meant. He was brave, though. At first.”

((“C-Captain, please shoot me, please, it hurts, it hurts, Captain, please, I just want it to-”)

She falters.

“Lovelace?”

“Yup?”

“You know, it’s not even really about the Hephaestus. I keep… it’s insane, but I keep thinking about… I was an explosives guy for the Air Force. Before Goddard. A trigger failed and two men died. Andrews and Sullivan. I haven’t thought about them in years and suddenly-“

“They’re everywhere?”

There’s a sudden understanding between them.

“They’re everywhere. Them and Maxwell and Kepler. They’re in mirrors, in the back of my brain, around corners.”

“Flashes of them.”

“And if you just reach out far enough, maybe-“

“Maybe-“

“Maybe.”

((let’s go be monsters)), Jacobi’s brain echoes. He grits his teeth.

“Did it stop for you? When does it stop?” He finds himself asking. Isabel doesn’t answer.

#wolf 359 #bad things happen bingo #Daniel Jacobi #isabel lovelace #w359

[pumpkinpaix]

Hello! and PSA

*waves* hi everyone! so uh, I’ve kind of had a bit of a surge in followers recently, and I thought I would make a bit of a PSA/intro post with a bit more targeted info than my about page.

anyways, I’m cyan! statistically speaking, you are probably here for one of the following reasons:

my fic

my meta

my gifs

my translation

all of the above

this is pretty much an mdzs blog on main these days, but I also rb a lot of other misc things because I have never been good at keeping my interests separate. it’s also my personal blog, so expect some of that? i am very all or nothing ahaha. my opinions change very quickly as I process new information, so like, something I said last week or yesterday might be different now! I’ve seen several people going through some of my older posts, and I’m just like oh dear, I said a lot of things six months ago that I no longer vibe with. /o\ please keep that in mind as you go diving in my blog!

i don’t have a BYF or DNI policy, but I reserve the right to block anyone for any reason because this is a personal blog first and foremost, and I do need to be better about setting my boundaries and curating my own online space! on that same token, you are free to follow, unfollow, block, whatever, even if we’re mutuals. <3

you’re free to come talk to me in my inbox or dms, but please be aware that there’s a very high chance I will never get back to you /o\ it isn’t personal!! I am just very mentally ill and have many difficulties with keeping up social interactions or talking to people.

in the interest of trying to be more open about myself, my brain, and what that means for me in an online/fandom space, I’m gonna do a boatload of mental health talk under the cut (or, if you’re looking at this on my blog proper or somewhere where the cut doesn’t display, it starts right after this paragraph), including mentions of self-harm/thoughts of specific self-harm etc, just so you are warned! I’ve been thinking recently that it’s good to try and take steps towards being more open about my issues, both for my own sake and others’. It’s long, because one of the fun things about my mental illness is that I am hyperverbal ahahaha (if that... wasn’t already obvious orz)

so if you’ve read pfmmpd, you can kind of get a sense of what I’m working with. a lot of how i wrote lwj was drawn directly from shit happening in my own brain, but like? dial that up from the specific issues that lwj had in that fic and apply it unilaterally across the board to almost anything you can think of.

I hesitate to describe my OCD as debilitating, but only because my specific cocktail of compulsions and anxieties and triggers push me to be hyperachieving and hyperfunctional. I consider myself pretty fortunate (?) in that regard. on paper, you could never tell how absolutely batshit my internal landscape is! which is very good for me practically in that I can hold down a job, keep scholarships, graduate with honors, have good prospects for my future, hold onto relationships (usually yikes) etc. but the fact of the matter is, I’m like. oh boy.

to give you a peek, here’s a non-exhaustive list of things that have triggered me to varying degrees of severity within the last like, week or so:

my dog

a chinese folk song

my mother reading a chinese haiku to me written by a young gay man

a chinese reader of my fic lovingly and gently giving me a history lesson on china and on mdzs while praising me

stepping on a piece of snow that didn’t collapse in the precise way i expected it to

writing meta

reading meta

ruminating on my triggers (honestly, I played myself)

seeing a twitter thread going around tumblr with decent information but the OP is someone who was exceedingly cruel to a good friend of mine

visiting my grandmother’s grave

deciding to visit my grandmother’s grave

discussing the concept of cuddling my partner whom i love and have been with for four years

self-harming (truly the height of irony, being triggered into self-harm and then getting triggered by the result of the self-harm hahahahahaha)

dropping off a package

trying to explain queer-coding to my parents

talking about stressors in my life related to covid19

having a very pleasant conversation with a person i admire

editing my translation

the fact that the “close” button on my accessibility sidebar on the translation website is the wrong color

choosing between eating all the shiitake mushrooms in my soup and purposefully giving myself a bad reaction or throwing one out and wasting food

thinking about playing a fun game with my partner and a mutual friend

my mom asking me to take a photo of some tea for her

my mom asking my opinion on a photo she was photoshopping

animal crossing

writing this fucking post HAHAHAHA

like!! it goes on!! endlessly! obviously, these triggers are not simply “bad” things. the chinese folk song and the haiku were both really beautiful and i love them! but I did spend a good amount of time curled up on my floor in the dark sobbing as i played the song on repeat. the haiku was one of the last straws that ended up with me screaming and crying and hurting myself. the snow??? like wtf the snow thing. I stepped on the snow and it felt wrong and my brain just started screaming SMASH YOUR KNEECAP. ???? (I didn’t, for the record, and I would never.) I love my partner very much! I love my friends very much, and my mother, and my grandmother etc. my triggers are infinite, unpredictable, and bizarre.

I’m saying all of this because I want to be clear that MDZS/CQL fandom specifically triggers me on a daily basis, sometimes very very badly. this is just a fact! it is no one’s fault! I have decided it is worth it for me to stay anyways. it is impossible for me to request people tag for certain things because I myself have no idea what my triggers are until I encounter them. It’s like a fun mystery boss encounter! sometimes it’s low level and i’m well-equipped to handle it. other times it’s a one-hit KO. We just don’t know! there are lots of very cool content creators in this fandom that I can’t follow because it would make my dash that much more high stakes. the original source canon material triggers me! all the events leading up to Lotus Cove massacre? I was shaking at work for three hours after consuming it for the first time.

Meta specifically is something I know a lot of people like me for, but it’s 100% the most triggering activity I participate in for this fandom. like, that suibian meta post I wrote that’s currently going around? Probably took me four or five hours of concentrated effort to write because I was compulsively panicking and rewriting and editing and panicking more and qualifying and editing and qualifying some more and then debating whether I should post it or not and then fighting with myself about my wording and then immediately regretting it and then every time someone commented on it (regardless of positive or negative!) my anxiety spiked. I started a reply to a response on that post and had to stop after a few minutes because I was already starting to trigger myself over it.

this is actually a pretty good outcome when it comes to meta! I recognized that I was hurting myself before I got any further, and I only spent like, five hours on it! it was good exposure therapy for me! the bad outcome is. well. bad, as you might imagine lmao.

I like writing meta. I like talking to people about it too! I like participating in fandom, I like writing, I like translating, I like all of these things. they’re just also really hard for me! there’s a couple meta requests sitting in my inbox right now that I want to get to, but it might take me like. a long time because of. you know! *gestures* Everything takes me a long time. that first chapter of the translation took me literally five months from beginning the project to posting a final edited version. It’s just over 1k words. D8

I try really hard to be chill and kind in public and I largely think I succeed on the kind part (I hope!). If you thought I had even an ounce of chill before this, perhaps I have disabused of that notion entirely now lmao. I’m not saying this for pity, but like? just so we all know what we’re dealing with here. I don’t want anyone to get hurt when I don’t engage with them or feel snubbed if I never reply to them. and also like, hey, if someone relates it’s like hooray, high fave, solidarity! we’re not alone in this world! or maybe this will help someone understand OCD a little better! I don’t know. I hope this post is a positive thing. BUT! I’ve spent three hours on it already, and i’m definitely starting to compulsively spiral, so instead of going back and editing it over and over, I’m just going to post it. thank you everyone for your understanding! I hope you enjoy your time on my blog! (*´▽`*)

#/ #// #/// #//// #///// #personal #psa #cyan gets too deep in the weeds #HA HA HA. #can't believe i'm using that tag on a personal post except like. of course i am #hello everyone are you ready for some cyan dlc? #well you're getting it #im anxious about this thing because i'm anxious about everything but! #we are doing exposure therapy this year!! #even if the world is burning down around us i can still try to confront my problems!!! #about

[imagesofthegreatgull]

Hybrid Rainbow

Joy has always been a rare and precious commodity. I would argue, though, that in the developed world (Wherever, exactly, that is), it has become somewhat less rare in recent times, as standards of living and education continue to go up. That’s an absurdly privileged thing to say, I realize, but I’m trying to start this thing as evenhandedly as I can. I understand about suffering and poverty; I’m reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn right now, even! Okay, saying we’re closer now than ever to utopia is going to smack of ignorance no matter how you phrase it, but it also strikes me as undeniably true, in the grand scheme of things. I think most people--aside from the fascists--would refuse a one-way trip in a time machine to any previous era, or at the very least, would recognize that it wouldn’t improve much of anything for them. As unruly as our age is, it’s still probably the best one we’ve gotten thus far, and as the boot-heel of oppression starts to ever so slowly ease up its pressure on the necks of the long-suffering masses, the question has begun to enter into the collective consciousness: what is to be done with joy when it begins to fall, unbidden, into your life with something like abundance? What is to be done if moments of joy no longer must be pried with great effort and sacrifice from the rockface of life, but lie strewn liberally throughout our days, needing only the will and lack of embarrassment to seize them?

Thus far, the latter-day generations have faced up to this problem with decidedly mixed success. The idea that expecting anything other than the very worst leaves one vulnerable to the universe’s cruel whims has been stamped upon the human brain for centuries, and has left many sadly unable to recognize their own privilege (Which, by the way, is a big part of why a whole lotta white folks refuse to admit they have it better than anyone else and continue to dig their heels in against progress because to them it looks like cutting in line). It is still widely accepted that constantly finding joy and peace and purpose in one’s own life is the purview of children and children alone, that it is a naivete to be grown out of. We have the impulse always within us to be hard, to be warlike, to show the world that we’re not weak and frivolous but monsters to be feared, without emotions to be appealed to or ideals to be fallen short of.

Remedying this problem has turned out to be one of the primary functions of counterculture. If it is often unhelpful to simply look at the entire value system of one’s parents and say “Fuck that”, as it tends to foster a rather negative self-definition, still, if part of that value system is a deeply entrenched distrust of happiness, “Fuck that” may be exactly the response called for. The beauty of “Fuck that” is that it leaps past the slow loss of faith in something and arrives immediately at a flat rejection of it, and since much of the history of civilization has been bound up with blind faith in arbitrary and harmful things, the ability and the courage to flatly reject something, to give it no credit for however widely accepted it is but to dismiss it as bullshit from the ground up, is a step forward in human consciousness tantamount to the reinvention of the wheel.

The great irony of the end of the sixties is that all the hippies were miserable for no reason: they won. Rock n’ roll did change the world, it just didn’t immediately transform it on every level into an unrecognizable nirvana. For all the apparent emptiness of its utopian dreams, the basic thrust of the thing worked out just fine: that particular cat will never be put back into its bag, and those ideas are now out in the ether forever, always waiting for someone to find them and be inspired to change their own life and the lives of those around them for the better. The same goes for the punk rock revolution a few years later: they may not have brought the bastards down, but they did successfully bring personal liberation to a lot of people, and poured exactly as much gas on the fires of populism as they intended to. Culture, and in particular art and in particular music, cannot, unassisted, change the world, but it can change your world, and has been changing small worlds all over the frigging place at least since those mop-topped Brits set foot on American shores and probably since Johnny B. Goode learned to play guitar just like a-ringin’ a bell. 

The thread can get lost, however. Culture is always a reflection of the people, and the people still spend a lot of their time bored, frustrated, and terrified of letting on that they have feelings about stuff. Young people especially, formerly the eternal pirate crew waving high the flags of “Liberty” and “Up Yours”, in recent times have often capitulated and resigned themselves to no more than a few stray moments of fun pilfered from the fortresses of the almighty Money Man-Kings, usually in the form of drugs, sex, and reckless self-endangerment. The cost of the hippies and the punks giving up their battles is that the counterculture lost its intellectual leadership, at least until the resurgence in political literacy in the 2010s. In the wasteland following the 70s, there were no John Lennons or Joe Strummers to look to for guidance; even the people who were elected to speak for their generation seemed adamant that there was fuck-all they could really say. Yeah, it’s nice to know that someone else feels stupid and contagious, but that’s not really a direction, is it? The generation-defining message Kurt Cobain and his peers sent out was “We’re all way too fucked up to do anything about anything”, and that introspective moodiness pervaded American underground rock music from the invention of hardcore at least all the way up to the moment Craig Finn watched The Last Waltz with Tad Kubler and said “Why aren’t there bands like this anymore?” and set out with rest of the Steadies in tow to remind everyone that music can save your immortal soul and that hey, that Springsteen guy was really onto something, headband and all, and together they all successfully ushered in the New Uncool and now we’ve got Patrick Stickles wailing that “If the weather’s as bad as the weatherman says, we’re in for a real mean storm!” and Brian Fallon admitting “I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis” and everything’s great, except it’s not, everything’s fucked, but rock n’ roll is here to stay, come inside now it’s okay, and I’ll shake you, ooo-ooo-ooo.

The point of all this is my belief that even with the responsibility rock music has to provide cathartic outlets for dissatisfaction, is has an equal or greater responsibility to provide heroes. I think it’s time we all got over pretending that we’re better than the need for heroes, because we all insist on having them anyway, imperfect roses by any other name, and we’d do a hell of a lot better selecting them if we just admitted what we were after. We don’t just want particularly talented comrades, we want King Arthur, Robin Hood, Superman, Malcolm Reynolds. Damn it all, they don’t need to be perfect, they don’t even need to be all that great really, and yeah, Arthur dies, and Robin never gets Prince John, and Superman can’t save everyone, and the war’s over, we’re all just folk now, and John Lennon beat women and Van Morrison is a grumpy old fart and John Lydon’s a disgrace, but it’s the faith that counts. The faith that there’s something greater than ourselves that some people are more keyed into than others, and that whatever they can relay from that other side is what’ll see us through. All the best prophets are madmen, and madmen aren’t always romantic fools; sometimes they hurt people, or fail at crucial moments due to a compulsion they can’t control. Let he who is without sin etcetera, right? Why not cast aside realism and sincerely believe in something or someone, huh? 

I believe in the Pillows. I don’t know hardly anything about them; my expertise of Japanese culture and history extends to the anime I’ve seen and that “History of Japan” YouTube video that made the rounds a while back. I can’t locate them within the Japanese music scene; all their western influences seem obvious to me, and the rest I know nothing about. They’re the only rock band from their country I’ve listened to any great amount of, I don’t speak the language they mostly sing in, I don’t even know their career very well. The particulars of any experiences they might have had that motivated them to make the art they make are not ones I could possibly share in, so, saying that I “Relate” to their work sounds a little preposterous. They ought to be a novelty to me, a band that clearly likes a lot of the same bands I do despite hailing from a foreign shore, marrying that shared music taste with a cultural identity I have nothing to do with, a small, nice upswing of globalism pleasing to my sense of universalism but not having any kind of quantifiable impact on me.

Yet I, like a good many other westerners, believe in the Pillows. I’m a little buster, and my eyes just watered as I wrote that. In fact, it’s likely because of the barriers of language and culture that exist between us that my belief in the Pillows is so strong. Pete Townshend, someone else I believe in, once opened a show by saying “You are very far away...but we will fucking reach you”, and though the Pillows are both geographically (At the moment) and culturally miles away from me, Lord strike me down if they don’t fucking reach me. They reach me in a way many of their American college rock peers, many of their biggest influences in fact, never have. Dinosaur Jr, Bob Mould, Sonic Youth, the Pixies, Nirvana--all these artists speak directly to the American adolescent experience, but though they have all moved me to one degree or another, none of them have produced a body of work I can so readily see myself in as that of the Pillows. Maybe it is the novelty of it, maybe I’m fooling myself and it is just my sense of universalism carrying me away, but there’s something I hear in the Pillows that I don’t hear in those bands, and though the obvious candidate for that thing would be the foreign tongue the majority of the lyrics are written in, when it comes down to it, I think that thing is joy.

Joy, to me, is the possibility glimpsed by rock n’ roll. Not hedonistic pleasure, not a sadistic glee over the outrage of authority figures, but real, true, open-hearted, “Freude, schöner Götterfunken/Tochter aus Elysium”--type joy. Buddy Holly had joy. The Beatles, The Who, the pre-fall Rod Stewart, they had joy. Springsteen’s got joy to spare. Those people have such profound love for their art and their audience that just the continual recognition of the fact that they have a guitar in their hands and they’re being allowed to play it is enough to make them ecstatic, and whenever they want to actually express something serious they have to get themselves under control to do it. Yet, whether it’s the unfashionability of those utopian dreams, or the simple fact that rock music has become accepted by mainstream culture and is now a commonplace, unremarkable thing, but half the people who have picked up an electric guitar for the past few decades don’t seem all that excited about it. From Kim Gordon snarling about how people go down to the store to buy some more and more and more and more, to Thom Yorke moaning about how he’s let down and hanging around, crushed like a bug in the ground, even up to Courtney Barnett asking how’s that for first impressions, this place seems depressing, it’s not really a given anymore, if it ever was, that people who make rock music are very joyful in what they do. 

Of course, I’m not demanding that our artists be empty-headed fluff-factories; far from it. The Pillows write sad songs and angry songs same as everybody else. But the important thing is this: every song the Pillows play is played with an exuberance and abandon that is immediately striking, regardless of the emotional content of each song. Channelling that kind of revelry into rock music is both to my mind the initial purpose of the genre in the first place and something which has become so rare as to be remarkable. A veneer of detached cool, a howling ferocity, a whimpering woundedness--these have become the hallmarks of American rock music, and they are nowhere to be found in the Pillows.

At the same time, the Pillows are the very antithesis of artlessness. Joy of the caliber they deal in is more commonly found in folky rave-ups, a lack of musicianship giving way to trancelike festivity. But the Pillows are skilled song craftsmen like few others; their sound has evolved throughout the years, but they tend to settle in the neighborhood of power-pop, abounding in glorious hooks and surprising structures. A hundred unnecessary, perfect touches seem to exist in every song; a pause, a solo, a bassline, all deftly elevating the song into a perfect expression of something sublime, something that always--always--takes ahold of the musicians themselves and imbues their performances with power and purpose the likes of which most little busters can only dream of feeling. It should be testament enough to their brilliance that upon first listen to a song I never know what most of the lyrics mean, but whenever I look up a translation, they always turn out to be exactly what I felt they must be; their songs are so musically communicative that they all but lack the need for lyrics. 

This dual nature is why I believe in the Pillows: by so utterly failing to neglect both the highest possibilities of musical composition as an unparalleled tool for capturing emotional nuance and the unrestrained id-like rush that is the province of rock n’ roll, they successfully attain the lofty realm that is--or ought to be--the goal of music in the first place. Never once is there a hint of straying into the realm of primitivism nor into overthought seriousness, and instead they locate themselves somehow exactly center on the scale between punk and prog, lacking the weaknesses and gaining the strengths of both. They make rock whole again by finally disproving the tenet initially laid out by their heroes, your heroes, and mine, The Beatles: the notion that growing up means having less fun. The viscerally exciting early work of The Beatles lacks any of the depth and vision displayed by their later records, but those records are so carefully and expertly crafted that they tend to lose spontaneity, and constantly second-guess themselves where the juvenilia they followed forged unselfconsciously ahead. That legendary career path has laid out a false dichotomy that every proceeding generation of kids with guitars has chosen between, save for the few who could see past it, the ones who heard the wildness in “Revolution” and the wisdom in “Twist and Shout” and realized that they were of a piece, were one and the same, not to be chosen between but embraced fully. Pete Townshend. Bruce Springsteen. Joe Strummer. David Byrne. Paul Westerberg. The Pillows. The real heroes are not those who champion one side or another but fight all their lives for peace between them, knowing that we have not yet begun to imagine what could be accomplished if that were made possible.

Just as they bypass the divide between what Patrick Stickles termed the Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies of rock (I prefer to think of the usual battle as being between the Dionysians and the Athenians, with the true devotees of Apollo being most of those heroes I keep referring to, except Dylan, who might be a Hermesian), so too do the Pillows bypass the Pacific frigging ocean. And the Atlantic, to boot. Their music quotes the Pixies and The Beatles directly, and obviously owes much to Nirvana and all their college rock predecessors who spent the entire 80s desperately stacking themselves until the doomed power trio could finally vault over the wall. Their first record is practically a tribute to XTC. They do speak a lot of English, too. I’m informed that much of western culture is seen as the epitome of coolness in Japan, which might explain their obsession with Baseball, and apparently sprinkling a bit of the Saxon tongue into the mix is far from uncommon in the music scene(s). Regardless, there is something ineffably touching to a distant fan in a foreign land about hearing Sawao Yamanaka spit “No surrender!” or exclaim “Just runner’s high!” It looks from here like a show of mutual effort to understand me as much as I’m trying to understand them. They’re generous enough to have already walked to the middle where they’re asking me to meet them, a middle where it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a suffix attached to my name or that they don’t wear shoes in houses. The invisible continent that all forward-thinking and sensitive people come to long for is where the Pillows are broadcasting from, because they’ve realized that its golden shores and spiraling cities are attainable. They’re attainable with joy, with the fundamentally rebellious act of refusing to let the fascists bring down even your globdamn day, because who the hell gave them that power other than us? I know enough about Japan and America to know that either one accusing the other of being imperialist and socially conservative to a fault is a fucking joke, and to know that we’ve done a lot more wrong to them than they’ll ever do to us and the presence of the Pillows amounts to a “We forgive you”, not an “I’m sorry”. Having watched a decent amount of anime, which is basically the result of Japan’s mind being blown by western media and then proceeding to show their love by often almost inadvertently surpassing their inspirations, I know that the only way to save our respective national souls and everybody else’s too is to put our knuckles down, have Jesus and Buddha shake hands like Kerouac tried to explain that they would anyway, and embrace each other’s dreams and passions and adopt them into our own. 

It takes better people to inhabit that better world, and in case that sounds like fascist talk, I mean we’ve got to do better, not be better. It’s no physical imperfection that holds us back, nor a mental imperfection exactly, as we all have our own neuroses and if we expunge those then we’ll be kissing art and lot of other vital stuff goodbye. No, it’s our discomfort with ourselves, our world, our neighbors, our aliens, that keep us from seeing that crazy sunshine. If we can’t even acknowledge the greatness around us, that surplus of joy I mentioned a while back that we just seem to have no idea what to do with, then we have no hope of ever achieving further greatness, of ever quelling man’s inhumanity to man down to an inevitable fringe rather than the basic order of the world. 

There was always more to do 

Than just eat and work and screw

But now that there’s time at last to do those things, we’re still afraid to, afraid that we’ll come up empty, that the search for fulfillment leads only to disappointment, better to hang back and play it safe, better not to risk becoming one of those people I shake my head at and pity and will secretly envy until I die. It’s a new world, and we must learn to be new people. I believe in the Pillows because I believe they make excellent models for that new kind of person. The way they behave in the studio and on the stage is the way people behave when they’re truly free, and we’ve all been set free already or will be soon, so if we’re going to try and learn what the fuck is next from anyone, I think we might as well learn from the Pillows. At least, that’s one of the places we could get that insight. There’s a lot of art and a lot of philosophy and political theory to sift through to in order to put together a workable 21st century identity, and the Pillows are hardly the only people to have begun making the leap. But because of a silly thing like the size of the earth, the infinitesimal size of the earth even compared to the distance between us and the next rock we’re gonna try and get to, not everybody is getting their particular brand of free thought and action, and I happen to think that’s regrettable, and it’s my will as a free individual to rectify it as much as I can.

Writing about music really is worthless, isn’t it? I haven’t said jackshit about what the Pillows actually do other than to vaguely qualify their genre and temperament, and the only more useless thing I could do than not describing their songs would be to describe their songs. If you don’t hear the bracing weightlessness in “Blues Drive Monster”, or the aching nostalgia in “Patricia”, or the soul-bearing cry in “Hybrid Rainbow” then nothing I could write about those would be more effective than “Little Busters is a really good album.” The better primer might be Happy Bivouac, from a few years later; it has the melancholic rush of “Last Dinosaur”, the ascended teenybopper “Whoa, whoa, yeah” chorus in “Backseat Dog”, and the intro that should make it obvious immediately that you’re listening to one of the best songs ever recorded which opens “Funny Bunny”. Those two, Runners High, and Please, Mr. Lostman are the classic era, selections from the former three immortalized in their biggest claim to western fame, the FLCL soundtrack, a brilliant use of their music that could warrant an equally long piece. Before and after those four are periods of experimentation and discovery equally worth your time, not all of which I’m familiar with yet. See, now I’m just an incomplete Wikipedia article; it’d be equally worthless to expound upon the individual bandmates, on the pure yawp of Yamanaka’s vocals, on the passionate drumming of Yoshiaki Manabe and the supernaturally faultless lead guitar of Shinichiro Sato, or the contribution of founding bassist Kenji Ueda, which was so valued by the others that when he left he was never officially replaced (They’re so sweet). I’m not here to write an advertisement or a press-release, I don’t really even know why I’m here writing this, but I know that I believe in the Pillows, that they’re important, and that people should write about them. I’m being the change I want to see in the world, get it? That’s all we can be asked to do.

It occurs to me that people believed in Harvey Dent too, and that didn’t turn out so well. Hell, let’s leave the comic book pages behind, people believe in Donald Trump, they think he’s a hero, and that’s all going down in flames as I write this. Having heroes can be dangerous, but I still believe it’s not as dangerous as not having heroes. “Lesser of two evils” sounds an awful lot like one of those false dichotomies between fun and intelligence or between misery and foolishness I mentioned earlier, so, let’s call it a qualified good. I’m not much of a responsible world-citizen if my only effort towards bringing the planet together is spinning some sweet Japanese alt-rock tunes and bragging about how open-minded I am, but if I do ever end up doing anyone any good, then I’d consider it paying forward the good done to me by the Pillows, among others. They helped me form my identity as an artist (Read: functional human being) and they made my adolescence a lot easier. Actually, that’s a lie: my adolescence was (And continues to be) pretty easy already, and the Pillows reassured me that I wasn’t avoiding reality by feeling that. While American bands sang about the downsides of being a mallrat or a non-mallrat, the Pillows offered a vision of teenagedome much like my own, one that was grandly romantic, in which suffering wasn’t a cosmic stupidity but a trial with pathos and merit, and joy was not an occasional indulgence but a constant presence, whether it was lived in or lost and needing recovery. 

That’s the old idea of youth, the youth of John Keats, the youth that makes the old miss it, makes it required that we explain to them that it’s still there, it never left, it’s a dream, a momentary affirmation, an attitude, a muttered curse word. So many of my peers, now no longer engaged in a constant race to stay out of the grave as their ancestors were, seemed intent on beating each other into their tombs, as if reaching walking death before their parents was the only way to outgrow them. There’s so much life just lying around and it’s just plain wasteful to let it lie in the sun and rust in the rain. There’s space enough to stretch, to not keep who you are awkwardly curled up inside yourself, to breathe the air and taste the wine and dig the brains of your fellow travelers in this loosely-defined circus. I found that space in the Pillows, having often suspected it was there, and while everyone is going to find that space in their own way--or not, still, tragically not--I have to think that experience was due in part  to some innate and unique quality of the music itself, not just a complimentary sensibility contained within myself. The Pillows are free, and that makes them freeing, it’s easy as that. Their liberation is plain as day; it rings in every chord, every snare-hit, every harmony; it’s up to us ascertain what we can do in our own limited capacity to hoist ourselves up to their level and give some other folks a boost along the way and a hand to grab afterwards. It’s the gift that art gives us, and the Pillows just give it more freely than most is all, which is why I think the suggestion to listen to them is more than just a solid recommendation. Like the insistence on listening to The Beatles, or The Clash, or any of the others, it’s a plea to save your soul, to learn the language of tomorrow and drink the lifeblood of peace and love and piss and vinegar, or else you’ll be lost, lost, lost. 

Can you feel? Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?

#music #rock #rock music #undeground #alternative #alternative rock #alt rock #indie #indie rock #jrock #japanese rock #flcl #flcl anime #little busters #hybrid rainbow #pillows #the pillows #pixies #the pixies #beatles #the beatles #rock and roll #rock n' roll #joe strummer #pete townshend #the who #bruce springsteen #springsteen #the hold steady #hold steady

[a-collection-of-villainous-aus]

Blind Au part 5

(if you don't like rly ooc it's best you just carry on scrolling, there is also talk of pillow frotting and self servicing but nothing graphic only mentioned.)

It was the early hours of the morning, early enough to be still called night, late enough to be debate that it was infact morning, listening to the sound of traffic, smoking a cigarette mixed with tabacco, a smooth rich blend tainted with demons blood, in other words poisonous to humans.

The air was cold, a gentle breeze swaying his coat, remembering with ease how the town glowed, highlighted in orange via streetlamps.

What did his memory matter now though, his damn world was black, no longer would he witness contorted faces, bodies twisted and broken into works of art, oh the ones Flug made were sheer master pieces...without his sight how would he see them, head leaning back, exhaling, smoke and mist escaping into the air.

What did he mean by that.

That thing he'd said, about him using that on the next graduate student of his university.

What the hell did it matter, it was not as if Flug had any feeling for him, the doctor had made that clear and yet here he was, a master of all, a creature so dark that natural darkness appeared bright as a summers day.

Whose body ached in ways pain could bring and yet this was an agony he'd done everything he could to ease, nothing softened this torment, despite this blindness...that pain was still somehow worse.

Acylius was not staying for him, he was staying to keep Demencia safe from him!

Could his Doctor not feel one note of sympathy for him?

Black Hat would have once slaughtered anyone he thought was trying to offer a pity fuck, wanted Acylius Flug to now give it to him, what would those hands feel like on his flesh in long lingering touches that he'd give freedom to explore, discovering unknown landscapes with agile finger tips, deft in their perfected movements and to taste those lips he'd never truly witness.

He rarely let any living being take charge but this was more than that he didn't just want to allow him to be in control, no, he wanted to surrender to him.

The day they'd met had set all this in, while being the most powerful being of all time, this blindness made him feel weak...unworthy of his doctor, what sort of sensible demon would choose a mate who could not see...surely he would see that as a deficiency, something making him unsuitable as a mate, a pathetic...thing that Flug would never want...if he'd ever wanted him in the first place.

Black Hat thought on this, questioning if he would still want Acylius if their positions were swapped, only one answer came to mind.

Absolutely, yes and without question, but these were his own thoughts, what he knew he'd do.

A snarl escaped him, this should never have happened, these feelings should not exist and yet here they were an abomination to his kind...still...this pain, this shame and humiliation of loving someone who could barely stand your existence, the demon would not rid himself of the course that would be a pain one could never heal from.

All these years he'd enjoyed being the one where people pleaded for him and now he was on the other side of this, it was honestly surreal what had this world and its fates done...karma perhaps, deserved one maybe...

A sudden turn of his head, foot steps were coming up the stairs, metal doors opening, after all being on the roof meant he was outside Flug's lab.

Over the strong odour of chemicals, his scent still lingered combined with that of victims, their fear and blood, his obvious glee, wonderfully intoxicating.

He may or may not have rubbed out one or two from sensing all that deliciously divine torture his Flug had given to those insolent heroes, because no matter what, Acylius was his, without a doubt he would haunt his waking moments if he ever left...the very idea of being forgotten by him was unbearable.

The doors finally slid open to Flugs laboratory, barely breaking his though pattern which was building him up to another night of watching him sleep, seeing the rise and fall of...his...chest...

No...no he could not see that, not anymore, cursing him for sleeping with that ridiculous bag on even then...as the days carried on it was as if he was realising more and more all that that been taken.

He should have ripped it off, exposed his face...and destroy what little security Acylius felt...a sigh escaped Black Hat, apparently sight or not he'd never have done that, understanding it would be the same if someone tore his hat from him.

Anyway no doubt it was only the fraud one under there incase of forced removal.

That one he'd worn throughout his learning days, all Black Hat really knew of hia psychical shape besides the more demonic form was Acylius was very tall for someone with human genes.

Six ft seven, so much leg, so easy for his doctor to tower over him as they took these forms.

Oh yes someone was here to see him.

Some worker or food depending on Black Hat's mood, his lip curling, fangs bearing, how dare this thing talk to him, the old demon did not face him lest he did not look in a direction that was quite on point and let this quivering pissant suspect anything.

"Well what is it, if it is not of the utmost importance I will throw you off this building."

"Doctor Flug...he...he gave me a message, he took Demencia out and these are his words please, please sir do not shoot the messenger..."

They were trembling violently and in most cases Hat would he delighted in their terror at his mere presence, but his focus was on what Acylius had said.

"Speak."

"He said he might be back tomorrow, he wants to give Demencia a good time after everything that has happened."

Oh ho the messenger did not exactly get shoy, they just sort of...exploded, pieces of matter landing on Black Hat

Eye twitching with the biggest unsettling grin stretching across his face, far from pleasant and more tormented mania.

He...Demencia, a good time was usually lingo for a turn in the sheets, is that what Acylius wanted, a mad woman or just someone with that between their legs.

The moron should know he could give him anything he wanted, anything he desired at all from the rarest scientific elements and off world materials to the finest and best of all his wishes...but what if, what Flug wanted was...

He placed his finger tips gently under his eyes, no there was one thing he could not do, something he would never be able to again, what if all Acylius wanted was someone who could see him...

Facing downwards, hands now clenched by his sides, teeth grinding, did it have to be her, the one person if he caused harm to would have him running never to return.

What a sick and cruel irony.

Shoulders sinking, slowly licking the blood from his cheek scowling like a child who'd been denied what he'd been screaming for, why could his Acylius not even dote on him now.

Why could he only play the fearful brown nosing employee for their blasted commercials, all those acted moments, he hated them, not one genuine given word of affection.

Instead it all came from a source he did not want in the least, at least like that, there was no denying Demencia was the best at what she did but, he only felt platonic appreciation.

What he wanted more than anything was for Flug to over worry about him, desperately ask if there was anything he could do and then comply with his demands.

As much as Black Hat wanted to deny it, he knew he was needy, emotionally so, he wanted contact, contact with everything but him most of all, he wanted to curl up to Flug and feel his arms around him.

Stepping back he found himself pressed against the cold surface of Flug's plane, brows furrowed and sliding down, feeling what had been his worker soak into the seat of his pants, warm wet entrails and pulpy flesh clinging to him.

Knees to his chest and head bowed...he would never openly admit this was his fault, but could Flug honestly blame him?

He'd lost his sight and there was nothing anyone could do...despite that be was considering humouring Acylius by following the idea for some made up ritual to use the eyes of some idiot cult member.

Any excuse for some tender touch, some gentle caress from the hands of his doctor...but first he needed to go get his strongest bottle of alcohol and perhaps frot Acylius's pillow.

It would not exactly be the first time he'd done so...and it would be a lie if he denied that most university graduating students had been coaxed into role playing his scientist without realising every time he was calling them doctor he really was saying Flug or Acylius.

Did all their late night conversations, shared personal experiences mean nothing, Flug had no limit on research funds and yet was he only humouring him, did Acylius talk with him merely because he was his boss...either way he was going to talk to him, no matter the mate Flug picked, he owned his soul, he belonged to him.

About seven hours later, an empty liquor cabinet and a pillow beyond washing, musing how it was yet another pillow Flug could not use, staggering into the water the lobby, bumping into things hearing how they smashed with no shits given, slithering down the hall along cooling tiles shifting into a larger more beastial form, laying there like a dog with chin over paw.

Ears laid back grumbling, usually under different circumstances he could have controlled these...emotions.

This blindness was far more difficult to deal with than he wanted to admit, it did not make him weak but it was the first time something had been lost in which he could not fix...and his only comfort...was out gallivanting with someone else.

He twitched as the clock chimed ten, it's dull sound echoing throughout the hall as the door finally opened, Black Hat sneered, so they'd had enjoyed themselves, he'd half expected them to come back squabbling.

The scent of alcohol and blood filling his nostrils, for a moment inwardly he panicked, fearing Flug might have some how been hurt...no it was someone else's, he settled back down grumbling.

"Glad to see you two had fun...not that I can see, so figure of speech, no room for a blind demon now hmm?"

His tail thumped on the floor, despite trying to act aloof.

Listening to Acylius's bag crinkling, his ears perked, what was his doctor doing, well one he knew he was moving in closer that's for sure.

No doubt only to berate him probably.

Black Hat waited for Flug to speak, outwardly he gave off the impression of being cold but inside he was curling up and as much as he hated to admit it even to himself he felt like some pup giving big eyes and whimpering, he needed something genuine that was tender, it was his own fault that the doctor did not want to give that to him.

"Sir...you know what, I am too tired to be mad at you, you stink of alcohol and sex, no doubt I will be replacing another pillow-"

He placed a finger to the lips of the beast before him whose head had risen about to make an excuse

"-Yes I do know about you doing that. "

Black Hat blushed but didn't respond head laying back on the floor.

Acylius tucked himself between paw and jaw, somewhat marveling at how his boss's head was bigger than him, beckoning Demencia over, grinning as he saw the emerald shimmer of Black Hat's cheeks growing, the lizard woman however did not move.

"He's just gonna be mad at me...pass."

Demencia answered quietly, holding her hair infront of her.

Black was aware the smaller demon was clearly the more intoxicated of the two, what was going on, he was so close, heart racing, warmth pressed to his cheek, if he sent Demencia away this would no doubt stop, Flug would leave him alone in this hallway.

"No...no I will not there is space for you to..."

Sooooo Acylius knew he humped his pillows, well that was a little embarrassing, but that didn't matter now.

Acylius was right there and all he wanted to do was whine and nuzzle his body, whispering as he was petted by those hands that worked so hard to meet deadlines or create wonderful bloody works of art...but he could not tell how pathetic his doctor possibly found him now and maybe that was just his mind spiralling, because the idea of Flug finding him worthless was practically unbearable...he had to keep a calm image, so Flug thought he had it together at least.

Feeling Demencia settle beside him cautiously, his ears instantly perked once more, was...was Flug snuggling against him and...and licking his cheek, it wasn't often Acylius Flug showed his demon side and never the affectionate tenancies his kind had.

505 was passing them, starting the day and only smiled to himself thinking, this was at least a start.

Of course Black Hat knew if Acylius was sober this would not be happening and he would only let it go this far, much of a monster he was, intimate matters were always consensual.

Allowing this, his desperate need to have him close he did not care if his doctor was angry later, gladly he accepted those tender kisses on his cheek, the rough feel of his tongue until he felt him stop with a gentle snore following, daring lightly to return the kiss and accidentally licking across his face instead, stifling a laugh at the sleepy sound his doctor made before curling back up to him.

"You like him huh?"

Oh yes, Demencia was there, not that he'd forgotten, more like this had been so unexpected...yeah he'd forgotten okay because he couldn't believe this was happening.

"Well that actually explains alot, I mean honestly who could resist my hot ass, but I guess least I wasn't imagining things...kinda sucks for us both I like you, you like him..."

Settling back on his scaly arm and sighing

"Guess I know you're a dead end now, I'll find someone else to obsess over, even I can tell you got the mushies for him."

Black Hat's mouth hung open for a moment, eyes forming on his neck to try and face her, one or two managing, their pupils all lined in blue, unable to see.

"So you knew?"

"Yeah, guess I just hoped I could get you to feel that way, maybe I would get there to, I mean though most of the population wants you to ram them into your desk with your horn...but ya know same time I'm not into standing in between this stuff."

Demencia shrugged, peeking under the gap of Black Hat's jaw, smiling as she saw Flug curled up and purring in his sleep like some big dumb cat.

"Demencia?"

"Yeah?"

"We good?"

Demencia blinked, darkness below Hat had been watching too much television prior to his loss of sight, that was an unusual saying for him..especially as it was the closest she knew she'd ever hear him say 'I'm sorry.'

Smiling and petting his rather large face she replied

"Yeah...we good, also me and the doc spent the night trying to find a cure for you...Sillyus is actually worried about you, killed everyone after enquiring about cure or places to find books with possible information."

Snuggling up to her boss she felt him completely relax, Demencia wrapped herself in her hair continuing

" When he couldn't find anything , he felt like he'd let you down, started drinking and I had to help get him back. "

Hat still did not know what to say, Acylius had been concerned with his well being after all?

The hybrid demon who was still rubbing his cheek on his neck as he slept, had actually been worrying over him after all...had some dark force answered his prayers, he had no idea but was not about to argue with the universe.

Demencia had also fallen asleep and while his world was dark, his hopes were starting to brighten, if just a little, there was some peace within him.

Today was going to be a vacation day they clearly all needed it.

"Thank you."

Black Hat whispered to both of them before letting himself sleep with wings draped over them.

He was simply happy to have Acylius show him affection if only for a moment and to know he had not been out dating Demencia...

Of course he would have been jealous, he would want Acylius to be happy...just not with her...not because she was not good enough, no one was good enough for Flug but himself...but witnessing them on a daily basis would have been more than he could bare in knowing it was not he who had Flugs attentions...

Wait...

Waaait....

That comment about university graduate students and how he'd use his blindness to seduce them.

Fuck.

FLUG.WAS JEALOUS.

#villainous #villainous au #Paperhat #Blind au #Black hat #Acylius flug #Pt5 #Lime

[ambivalentangst]

When to Give (More)

A day late but!!!! Here with my piece for the @klancepoetryexchange, I have a fic inspired by A Question by Robert Frost, for @kittymeow321. It’s been a pleasure creating for this event, and I hope you enjoy!

A voice said, Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.

tw: heavy mention of self sacrifice and near death experiences

Lance and Keith have a nasty little habit of throwing themselves in harm’s way. They have a habit of gritting their eyes and shoving a teammate away to take the blow meant for them, and as those wounds have come to turn stretches of skin into leathery scars, they smile anyway because their team is safe.

Veronica comments on it, seeing her brother heading for the beach on a rare day off after evicting the Galra from Earth. His back is a mottled, pale mess. “Hermano,��� she hisses, pulling him aside when his team isn’t watching. They all have scars, faint little nicks and tallies of days they’ve lived to tell the tale of their victory, but none like that. “What’s your back from? Why didn’t you tell any of us about it?” He’d had time, certainly, more than enough time in the hospital after he nearly died yet again.

Lance merely shrugs. “Coran was going to get hurt. I had to do something about it,” he tells her in that simple way of his, head snapping back around to stare at Pidge as she cackles something crude from the waves. Veronica watches him go, teeth gritted together and brow furrowed in concern because she can’t help but feel like she’s just missed something important. She knows just as well as anybody about the merits of sacrificing for the team, but there’s a fault lying in Lance’s shiny flash of a grin—a grin that, if she remembers correctly, used to be brighter—as he runs to tackle his teammate into the surf. Try as she might, Veronica can’t seem to find it and is left with nothing but the memory of her brother without a lion, ready to meet his maker.

Krolia pretends that she doesn’t notice, is completely oblivious to the way her son’s fingers are too tight—strained—around the controls of his fighter. There is a fear there she’s yet to uncover, and attempts to do so with subtle prods at his team, as her status as a Blade leaves her prone to do. She is met only with the occasional confused stare or bewildered silence over the comms, that she knows they chalk up to her not knowing their patterns as a team. She does not divulge that she has spent her every waking moment memorizing the people who she will inevitably have to entrust Keith to, being sure to correct any flaws she sees in her eagerness to remedy the cracks running through them.

In the cave, with her leader, she smiles at him and lets their time together keep her from shedding a single, undignified tear until they’re far away and Kolivan is fast asleep. Even with all that Keith has grown, she knows there are gaps in him that she’s unable to fill. She merely hopes that someone, anyone, can. If not, she hopes they can keep them from growing wider.

And Lance should be able to.

Keith, as leader, has tried very hard to know his team. To read when they can carry out a mission without a hitch, and when they’re seconds away from falling down a hole far too treacherous for Keith to dig them back out of.

Lance, in particular, he’s kept his eye on. He asks him on Earth, once, if everything’s alright. There’s good reason for the question; when Lance thinks nobody’s watching, his face will fall and his nails dig into his palms with force just shy of enough to draw blood. Lance snaps back to normal with blinding speed. Keith can only blink in surprise as Lance nods. “Course. You know me, mullet, ready for anything the universe decides to throw at us.”

When Keith isn’t happy, he shows it. He closes himself off and uses everything he has to scream comfort away. Usually, it works, with the exception of Shiro. Lance, on the other hand, is a clam with a pearl of hurt he’s desperate to hide, and every time Keith comes knocking, he closes up even tighter. He nods, pretending that Lance has him fooled. “As long as you’re good,” he says casually, and when they talk about their strategy for their next mission, doesn’t make mention of the tightness of Lance’s eyes. In turn, Lance doesn’t mention what Matt confessed to him once, after everybody else had long gone to bed and the two of them were left around the table, reeling from Nacxela.

“Keith, he—he was going to give himself up. He was ready, Lance. If Lotor hadn’t—” Matt had shaken his head. “We’d be down one more man in the fight.”

Lance had lain awake in his bed then, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why, when he thought of making the same sacrifice as Keith, he didn’t mind it so much on him. When had he stopped caring?

Lance hopes, sincerely hopes, that Keith wouldn’t do that again, but he never brings it up again because how can he? He’s such a hypocrite, really.

Keith can only ask himself the same.

One might think they’d break individually. A chip here, a crack there. When one blow after another meant for someone else turns into nightmares that aren’t calmed as easily as they used to be. It’s almost cruel in its irony though, how in sync they’ve always been. Tit for tat, them.

They’re back out in the universe, answering the distress signal of a planet a good few systems away when it happens. An explosion rocks the lions, sends the both of them down for a good few minutes.

They come to eventually, and the battle is hard won.

For Lance, there’s the memory of something almost like a friend floating in front of them, and then searing blackness that ends days later as he stumbles out of a pod. For Keith, there’s the weight of a thousand cuts when all he wants is Shiro.

They meet that night.

Both of them are fresh out of the Garrison med bay, skin like ash and the taste of what had almost been flaky in their mouths. It’s almost eery, the way Lance’s hand slots into Keith’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and yet there’s no emotion accompanying the action. It’s all empty, meaningless.

They walk to Lance’s room, sit on his floor and stare at each other, a thousand unsaid almosts hanging between them.

“I can’t do this,” Keith whispers first. Lance—never still, never motionless—has his fingers drumming lightly on his thigh.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. The utterance is neither approval nor condemnation.

It’s a nice thing that Keith can’t be bothered asking for either. He doesn’t even respond.

“You never realize how close death is until it won’t leave you alone. I thought I was okay with that, as long as everyone was safe.” Lance sighs. His fingers haven’t stopped moving. A pause. “You think we’d be better at this whole heart to heart thing. I mean, it’s not like we’re hiding how hard it is to care when you think you’re helping the team.”

Keith huffs a laugh that smacks of fire and their fellow paladins screaming through the comms. A beat.

“What do you think the Garrison will say?”

It’s like that, drained and so fucking tired of the constant fear and wondering which goodbye will be the last, that Keith doesn’t even have to ask for him to clarify. “They’ll be mad. Yell at us about it.”

Lance nods.

It’s so weird, how not caring turns into the only thing that matters being the not caring, and then everything starts to matter so much. It’s so weird how death gets a wave and a slap on the back when it passes by, but when it arrives with purpose, that’s something to fear.

“Haven’t we done enough yet?” Lance asks, standing like the conversation’s over now that the unsaid decision is mostly said. He takes his shirt off and strips down to his boxers, not bothering with any of his skincare as he crosses to the bed and rubs his hands over his eyes.

Keith follows his lead but keeps his top on. Lance holds up the covers for him to slip under.

It’s not the first time they’ve done this, exactly, but before it’s always been with a kiss and some kind of lightness between them. Holding onto each other’s shoulders as the lights flick off just feels like it’s all there’s left to do now.

The discussion doesn’t stop. “It’ll never be enough. There’s always another battle to fight,” Keith responds, voice lacking inflection.

Lance nods. “Wanna’ ignore the alarm?”

Keith shrugs. “Shiro’ll be mad.”

Before, that might’ve meant no. Lance sighs, closing his eyes and ignoring the tickle of Keith’s hair on his cheek. It’s gotten shaggier since being with Krolia. Keith thinks of what his mother would say should she know that he has so little left to give now.

“I’m glad you’re with me tonight,” Lance says. Keith smiles from above his head. There’s a little flicker of love in that, but to feel it in full force is too exhausting. A little love is good. Between the two of them, a little means there’s at least some semblance of realization when it’s too much. That’s important to them right now.

“Me too,” Keith responds.

They’re tired, and the sound of their heartbeats together is a perfect lullaby. Tomorrow will be a beast, surely, telling the Garrison that they can’t keep going, that they need a break. Just for now though, in the space between heartbeats, it’s okay to pretend like nothing is waiting for them in the morning.

#klance poetry exchange #keith #lance #klance #langst #ambi exchanges #ambivalentlangst

[this-is-your-heichou-speaking]

Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Additional Tags: Self-Harming Harry, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, POV First Person, Idk why but there you go, Clearly this is far from happy, Set somewhere in sixth or seventh year, Why do I never know? God knows, Btw this is kinda vague on the heavy stuff but, Jic, This is sort of ridiculous idek anymore

Red and Blue and Black

I forget the time when I'm with you. It's dark, and the rain beats against the window panes as if it were begging to be let in, but I forget how long it's been, how long we've got left. Time is incomprehensible here, unnecessary. Or maybe that's just me, lost in the dizzying taste of your lips and scent of your hair, in the sensation of strong fingers on my hips and the tender brush of eyelashes on my chest. They're soft, unlike your rough hands. They breeze across my skin so delicately I wonder how I'm able to perceive them, when you dig fingers into my skin so hard I know it'll bruise, when your teeth on my lips are so sharp they make me bleed. But I do. And I love you for that, for your eyelashes brushing against me in soft, gentle butterfly kisses. You're not kind. You never are, and I never expect otherwise. Why would I? Kindness does not become you, not here. Not like this. You can be gentle, and calm. You can smile and politely lead a conversation and dance around awkward insinuations but you're never kind. Not even to me. But the difference is that you don't wear the masks around me. You show me how cruel you can be, how caring and considerate and not kind, never kind. And I love you for that too. For the honesty. I didn't fall in love with a Prince, dear. I know my limits. You know them too. You must, for you near them and trace along the line and taste the breeze from the other side but never cross, never make me feel unsafe or hurt. It is quite the accomplishment - especially for someone who claims not to care. I know you do, love. You can't lie to me. The dark feels like a shield, though you describe it like a cloak. It's hiding us, you say. As if we were wrong. As if we were sinning. We are.

I don't really care. I love you, and I love you even when your teeth leave marks for days and when I can't walk straight for longer than that. I love you when you glare at me across the classroom but worry about the amount I eat, or when you run your hands along my body to check me over for anything sharp. I love you because I can feel you then, later, when there's a wand to my head and I tell myself there's still something to delay it for, something to look forward to tomorrow. Maybe that's selfish. Maybe my love is supposed to be pure and untainted by Amy worldly reasons. If you didn't save me over and over, would I still love you? I don't know. May I would,  maybe not. It doesn't change anything. The stories that talk about romance don't apply to us, dearest. They never did. It was never supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be like this. I wonder why I am, why I hurt constantly. What excuse do I have, a bad childhood? Trauma? Neglect? You've had all three, maybe, and a dark Lord in your home and in your parents and laced through the cold memories of your childhood. You still hold up better than me. I probably love you for that too. There are a lot of reasons I love you, sweetheart. Many, and I'd wager they'd take a while to list too. They're probably not eternal though, not like the movies. I'm not that imaginative. I wonder how many reasons you'd think up, and how many of those would be true. I wonder if there even are any, though I know you'd insist differently. It is nearly always cold up here, when I stand so high in the middle of the night - and at such an ungodly hour too. Does that mean the hour is cursed? Do demons rise when the clock strikes, draping themselves over my shoulders and running hands along my skin like so many lovers? Or perhaps they soak into my very bones, like a sea of sin. I doubt it makes much difference anyway, when you fuck me there against the railings, or when you force me away from the edge once again and down the stairs. You don't like it cold, I know. You're remarkably sensitive for someone so poised. I'm not sure what I want to accomplish here. There is no goal in mind, no role I'm playing. No one specific role, anyway. Does any of this matter when we lie together in front of the fire, when we breathe each other in? Does it matter why I love you, so long as I do? I don't ask you for your reasons, and I never will. I doubt you know them in any case. I tell you these things sometimes, though not in as much detail. Do you remember what you say? "Don't be so ridiculous, Harry," with the sneer on your face and concern in your grey eyes. As if my thoughts were passing fancy. As if you were truly afraid for me. Don't be. I told you, you make me want to be here. To breathe and smile and see the sun one more time. Isn't that enough? You smirk when I ask you this, but I'm serious. Isn't it? Or is there something more you want from me? You always seem so strong. "I pretend," you tell me when I wonder how, but it doesn't seem like it. It seems genuine, like you feel weak but your heart is strong, and I wonder how you're more Gryffindor than me, who had a father more Gryffindor than them all. But then again what does the father matter, in the matter of the son? We are neither of us anything like our fathers, and in your case it is your saving grace. What is it in mine? Nothing good, certainly, when everywhere I look they tell me how wonderful he was, what a hero, him and his beautiful wife who lived and fought and died for me. But I don't know them, and I just know that, if they were alive, they really wouldn't want to know me either. You hate it when I say these things to you. You tell me to stop being stupid, to get over myself. You tell me I'm whining. That you can't stand all that self pity. It's true, all of it, but you still sit there and hold my hands in yours - and they're warmer than mine, too, Mr. Slytherin Ice Prince. How's that for irony. You hold me and sit in front of me and tell me to stop, and your eyes are sweet and worried. This is not altruistic - perhaps saving me gives you hope of saving yourself. I don't mind, I've told you that so many times. I don't mind, because you wouldn't be you without the selfishness, without the hate and anger and vicious sense of justice. I love all of you, and by that I don't mean the good parts and the flaws, because you don't have flaws. You just are, and I? I am helpless to adore it all. I know you wonder why I'm like this - broken and actually really useless. I am not alone - I'm told this quite often. I have friends, people who care and love and want too look after me. I have you. I tell myself this too, but it doesn't always work. It doesn't help that I feel alone, and oh so weak. You, and all the rest of them, you're trying to fix me, to heal me, but I'm not even sure there's anything broken. Maybe this is just me, and I'm just messed up. It would explain a lot. Why else would I be thinking about bruises where you touch me, and hurting where you are gentle? That's not normal, not healthy. Not okay. I don't think it matters though. Maybe it's bad for me, and maybe I want to die, but does it really matter? I won't, if only because I have a duty, even if it is to kill someone. If only because I could never leave you hopeless in a world of dark lords and death eaters. But I don't think I'll live, and I think you know it too. I think that's why you hold me so tight - tight enough to make my skin bloom with blue and black and purple flowers, when you get that glazed look in your eyes and refuse to tell me what's wrong. I told you, you can't hide from me. Not you. Not anymore. I said this once, you'd remember. I'm sure of it, if only because you got so angry that I was struck dumb. I said, "you know I'll probably not live through this war, right?" I just wanted you to know, to not get your hopes up or to make you stop expecting it, I don't know. But you, your eyes burned like little spitting fires and your grip tightened on my wrist and you hissed at me, so angry it almost sounded like Parseltongue, and you told me to shut the fuck up, like it was so horrible you couldn't even tell me what was wrong. I've never said it again, but you know I think it all the time. And you think it too, when you think I'm not looking and you watch me with that desolate look in your eye. Don't be sad, love. If it wasn't for this war I'd probably have ended myself some other way, long before today. People like me aren't meant for long, happy lives, don't you know? They expire early, either because they put themselves into a stupidly dangerous situation or because they couldn't find it in themselves to be bothered anymore. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. You don't want to hear it, I know, but I needed to say it anyway. Selfish, but who are you to begrudge me that? You say you love me and as much as I want to deny it, I know it's true. I'm sorry that you do, that you'll hurt when I leave you, even though you know I'll only ever drag you down with me. But fate is absolute, and it can't be changed, can't be denied. And there's a part of me, the largest part that is so hopelessly in love with you it withers every time we aren't touching, but even if you were meant for me, I was never meant for you. Not forever. And it's okay, because I'm happy with this little piece of happiness I have, and it's okay because no matter what you think now, I know you don't really need me. Not as much as you think you do. You'll manage. I know you'll manage. And maybe in a few years you'll look back and curse my name or smile fondly - I hope you smile fondly - and you'll move on with your happier life, a hopeful life, and it'll be okay, because that's just the way it was meant to be. And I love you; so, so much, so why won't you understand that this is inevitable? Boys like me aren't meant for long, happy lives. We live in the moments we are needed, when someone needs a warrior or a sacrifice, and then we are discarded to the side, unwanted reminders of everything that was unpleasant. And boys like you, they're meant for success and big names and long, peaceful days surrounded by those you love, for families and summers on holiday somewhere exotic. They're not meant to interact with people like me, and if they do? Then the world is quick to remedy that. It all seems too hopeless now, with your name being dragged through the mud and your wealth kept from you, but it won't always be that way, trust me. And when I go out there - because go I must - it'll be you I think about, and you I fight for, so please, whatever happens don't let it go to waste. Show them all who you are, what you are, your power and your strength, your beauty and your skill. You're a piece of art, darling, and you were always meant to show off. Oh, how I love you. And I know, and it's okay, that you won't always love me the same. That you don't even now. Not because I forgive you, because there is nothing to forgive. It is just you, all of you, and the way you desire me and touch me and make me hazy with pleasure, and I love you for that. For loving me as much as you are able to love someone like me. For losing yourself in the little intricacies of my moods, for caring so much it hurts you when I hurt. It hurts me when you hurt too. And now this, when the world is burning and I know, I know this is the end of the line. You know too, and there is fear in your eyes when you look at me and ask me to come away with you, 'you don't need to do this'. But I do. And this is it, when you look at me like I've betrayed you, and perhaps I have. But you knew this, knew me, and you didn't really expect anything else. You're getting angry now, shouting at me, 'don't you care about me?' and 'what have they ever done for you?' and I love you so, so much and it kills me, to see this pain in you. But it'll all be over soon, I promise. And you'll be angry. God, you'll be so incredibly angry. You'll want to cry, you'll want to hate me and maybe manage, I don't know. But you'll heal, and it'll all be done, and that, Draco, is the important part. That, my dear, is why I must.

#Heichou writes #Harry Potter fanfiction #Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter #Drarry #Tw: Depression #Tw: Self-harm #Tw: Suicidal thoughts

[svartalfhild]

All the Things She Knows

Rating: T Genre: Supernatural Words: 2,197 Summary: Rowan Axel, a young college student and self-taught witch, likes to know things, especially about people, and when something piques her curiosity, she follows that thread to the end. Warnings: Reference to past self-harm, discussion of death. A/N: This is a prequel fic to @disabledpaladin‘s new Monsterhearts campaign.

- - -

It happened the very first week of classes, the little moment that set off a chain of events that would lead Rowan Axel to knowing more about certain of her classmates than she had ever expected to discover.  It was a simple thing, silly even, but it was more than enough the spark her curiosity.

It was lab day in Marine Biology.  The professor wanted them all to “experience different forms of marine life”.  She had them touching different creatures in a long, shallow tank and writing down observations.  Rowan found the whole thing a bit distasteful.  How would she feel if she were put in a tank and groped for three hours by 16 college students?  Not bloody good, most likely.  Nonetheless, she wanted to pass this class, so she followed her assigned group to the tank when it was their turn.

Olivia Bennett, a short, auburn-haired girl in her group, was by far the most eager of the four of them to stick her hands in the tank.  She was in up to her elbows, holding a starfish, before the rest of them had even found a place to set their notebooks.  

As Rowan watched Rufus Grunberg roll up his sleeves, she contemplated how she could avoid having to roll up her own and reveal to these people the faded scars like hash marks up her forearms.  She didn’t want their questions or concern.  Tyra Amaal, the arguably most put together person in the group, or indeed entire class, was a hijabi and had thus been given big rubber gloves that went up to her elbows.  Rowan considered asking for some herself, but realized that’d only draw more attention and scrapped the idea.  Before she could think on it further, however, she was interrupted by Rufus tripping on a lab stool on his way to the tank and she had to grab his wrist to steady him before he could fall head-first into the water.

It was like grasping a big icicle.  Rufus was colder to the touch than any living person could reasonably be.  He quickly pulled away from her once he regained his footing, almost as if she’d shocked him, and she stared.

“Sorry!  Sorry.  I should be more careful,” he apologized, eyes shifting about as he nervously ran a hand through his dark hair.

“No worries,” she replied, though she narrowed her eyes as she continued to watch him.  He seemed determined to pretend nothing had just happened and was pointedly giving his attention to a crab that had had its pincers bound.  This told Rowan that he knew she had just felt how cold he was and wanted her to think she’d imagined it, but unfortunately for him, she was a witch who didn’t discard such things.  No, she salted that shit away like a ham to cure.

For now, however, she let him think he was home free and returned her own attention to the lab assignment.  With a sigh, she went to the far end of the tank, away from everyone else, pushed up her sleeves, and hoped the others were too busy to look closely at her while she poked at a sea anemone.

- - -

When Rowan entered the library after a long day of classes, she was hit by a rush of cold air.  Clearly they had the air-conditioning set to stun.  It reminded her of what had happened with Rufus earlier and she immediately decided her library time wasn’t going to be for studying.  Instead, she hit the stacks and spent the afternoon learning more about the history of the town and all the unusual deaths that had occurred here in past century.  She was, after all, quite certain that Rufus Grunberg was dead, more specifically undead.

She had had some experience in this area before.  She had already uncovered a cabal of vampires in town led by the owner of Beppe’s Pizza the previous year.  They didn’t know she knew, but that was half the fun.  Was Rufus another vampire and she had somehow missed him in her previous investigation?  Perhaps not.  He seemed a little too...independent.  What was he, then?

By late evening, she found herself flipping through familiar microfilms of hundred year old newspapers, looking at obituaries in search of Rufus.  Her stomach growled with hunger and she was on the verge of giving up for the day when a familiar face caught her eye in an obituary from 1922.  Ah, yes, there he was.  Rufus Grunberg.  The photo was some sort of portrait, probably commissioned by his family for some special occasion.  Same long face.  Same neat hair.  Only real difference was that he looked happier.  

He had evidently died in an “unfortunate accident” at the old meat packing plant where he had worked.  Rowan made a note to look into the plant before continuing on to learn that he was a Great War veteran.  Damn.  He’d survived one of the most gruesome and pointless wars in human history only to be killed by pre-OSHA factory conditions at home.  That was a cruel irony, to be sure.  In any case, it fully ruled him out as a vampire.  She made a note to look into lore about other types of undead before going on to read that he’d been buried in the city cemetery.  She made yet another note to try to find his grave.

“Ms. Axel, the library is closing for the night.  You have to leave,” one of the librarians came to tell her, shaking her from the almost trance-like state that was brought on when she got deep into her research.  She nearly jumped out of her skin, she was so startled by the voice behind her.  She turned to give an acknowledging nod to the poor librarian and began to pack up her things, despite not being remotely prepared to stop her investigation.  It had only just begun.

With a sigh, Rowan slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out of the library into the open night air.  She wasn’t ready to go home yet, antsy with everything she’d just learned, so she pulled out her phone to look at the notes she’d made as she stood on the street corner.  She had a choice between going to the old factory district and going to the cemetery. The cemetery was closer and she didn’t feel like hanging around rusty meat hooks in the dark, so she hailed a cab and asked for the cemetery, ignoring the driver’s odd looks.

- - -

The graveyard was a familiar place to Rowan.  She came there often to be away from people.  The dead did not judge, belittle, or betray.  They were silent, peaceful, and patient to no end.  

Rowan climbed the fence with practiced ease and quietly made her way between the gravestones to a section at the back she rarely explored.  She knew most of the names in about three-quarters of the cemetery, so if she was going to find a name she hadn’t seen here before, that would be the logical place to start.

An hour of searching and pacing later and she was growing increasingly frustrated at her lack of success.  The newspaper had said he was buried in the city cemetery.  It had to be here somewhere.

Just as she was about to give up for the night, she saw something the shadow of a huge oak, about the right size to be a grave marker.  Sure enough, when she approached, she could see it was a headstone that had gone unmaintained for some time.  It was covered in dead vines and moss and the grass of the plot was overgrown.  She could barely make out the Star of David carved at the top and the name Rufus Grunberg beneath it.

A sudden and profound sadness came over Rowan then.  This guy had worked so hard in life and spent nearly a century condemned to walk the mortal world in death and he’d just been forgotten, even by his family, seeing as they couldn’t be bothered to make sure his grave was well-kept.  She knew a little something about being alone and forgotten; she could only imagine what it must be like for him.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she hastily wiped them away.  She prided herself on having a heart of stone.  She wasn’t gonna wimp out now and get weepy over some dead person she didn’t even really know.  Not ever.  Especially when she’d sworn to herself never to cry about a boy for any reason again.  Fuck that shit.

Still, seeing Rufus’s grave like this bothered her, so she took out her pocket knife and began to clear off the vegetation.  When she was done, she stood back and admired her work.  The thing looked like a proper marker now, readable from more than a couple feet away.  She was about to walk away but the instinct to leave something to be respectful nagged at her and she looked about for a nice rock of any kind.  There were a few pebbles amongst the grass, but nothing worthwhile.  

With a frustrated sigh, she pulled a polished black stone the size of her palm from the pocket of her jacket and looked at it, tracing her thumb over the runes carved into it.  She didn’t want to give it up.  She’d bought it at the occult shop last week and it hadn’t been cheap.  Besides, it wasn’t her policy to just give things away.  The world had never been generous to her, why should she be generous?  What was a dead Jewish guy gonna do with a pagan rock, anyway?  Some other part of herself, probably the part that was always bringing out the phrase “momma didn’t raise no animal”, prodded at her with notions of respect and good intent.  She’d already put forth the effort to clean up the grave, how hard could it be to go the rest of the mile and leave the protection stone?

In the end, that pang of empathy she’d felt for Rufus earlier returned to grant victory to her moral conscience and she bent down to place the stone against his grave marker.

“If you make me break anymore of my rules for you, I’m gonna hex you,” she murmured, wiping her hand across his name one last time before she got up and briskly walked away.

- - -

The next week and a half was strange, at least from Rowan’s perspective.  Since visiting Rufus’s grave, she had also made trips to the eerie-ass danger zone that was the site of the old meatpacking plant, with its half-collapsed building and sinkhole that was dark brown with the animal blood that had caused it.  She hadn’t found anything but some dumbass kids playing with a ouija board and a lot of old and dangerous equipment.  Nothing seemed to tell her anything new about Rufus’s death and continued existence in her marine biology class.

And the class?  Well, it was getting more bizarre by the day.  It wasn’t just Rufus who was odd.  Tyra kept referring to her own body in strange ways.  The first time, Rowan hadn’t paid it much attention.  Slips of the tongue happen.  But the girl just kept doing it.

“The hands are really cold,” she’d said in their latest lab, clenching and unclenching her hands, and it was at this point that Rowan decided Rufus Investigation Time was now Rufus and Tyra Investigation Time.  It didn’t take much to find out that Tyra’s entire being from California backstory was total bullshit.  This girl didn’t seem to exist before about two years ago, so what was she?  People who were in witness protection or some shit didn’t generally talk about their own bodies like objects.  Nobody does that.  So something clearly supernatural was going on there.

And Olivia?  For a while, Rowan was fairly confident that that girl was a normie.  After all, she’d known of Olivia since they were kids and nothing had been really off about her.  Sure, there was the whole thing about the Bennett house burning down, but it wasn’t like that kind of thing never happened.  But then Olivia accidentally left her locket necklace behind at lab and Rowan, ever the opportunist, picked it up.  When she opened it later, she found it contained not a picture, but a pocket of blood.

First of all, what the actual fuck?  Second, Rowan knew enough about dark magic to know that this was some seriously dark shit, putting Olivia firmly in her Shady-Ass Motherfucker Book and adding her to the theory board in her room dedicated to figuring out what sort of creatures Rufus and Tyra were.

What was even more strange than all of this was the question of how the four of them, little monsters all, had managed to end up in the same class, in the same lab group together.  Something definitely weird was going on.

Rowan would have her answers, one way or another.  And if she could pull a few favours out of them in the process, so much the better.

#Monsterhearts #Rowan Axel #fanfic #High School Never Ends #The Dungeoning

[romanceinthevice]

Early Refills for the Lonely Girl’s Soul

Chapter One: “Life Skills to Kill”

“The tide is high but I’m holding on.”

And the tide is made up of 75 (edit: 80mg actually, they allowed me an increase today) milligrams of thick Methadone that runs a marathon through my bloodstream. It always wins the race for nothing. It’s all for big nothing.

Welcome to the static years. I’ll be your unreliable narrator with a heart of a darkness. Did anyone else read that in University English-lit? I couldn’t get through that book. Then again, I could barely get through campus mid semester.

Die with the lie? (Insert French for yes)

I’m questionable at best. And a terrible fake crier at worst. I need my Methadone every morning or I think about stabbing the walls of my apartment. I need my coffee for the ride to the clinic or I think about crying in the middle of the parking lot. Middle-class tragedy. Spoiled since day one. I NEED. I NEED. I NEED. I need you to read this.

My death wishes used to be bad-girl-charming at 22. Cute in that worried type of way. “She’s such a mess, isn’t it fabulous? I just love how complicated Cat makes everything.” Fast forward three psychiatrists, two evictions, one overdose and a series of voided lovers. Currently they’re just a broken record of empty. No! Really! I look in the mirror and regret it instantly. These days I see right through my own smoke and static; the attempts to distract my social circle from the rattling pharmacy bottles. There’s not enough black lipstick to mute a friend who cares. But there should be. (MAC, take note.)

Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the shameful of them all.

You are. You really are.

End of Chapter One

But maybe it’s mandatory for an author to have a loud reputation. You know what?A writers persona should be shrouded in rumors anyway. Fuck it. The checkered past. An affair with their professor. Or maybe their student. A secret arrest during the holidays years back. Maybe a forgotten relative with unfinished business. A hit and run inspired by Johnny Walker Red. A blood soaked sweater in the back of their closet to remember.

I have convinced myself that every writer deserves a notoriety to keep the masses at arms length. My, my, my, the mystery!

But the troubled-addict-writer is a cliche. And writers hate cliches. But writers also hate themselves.

Well, the good ones do anyway. What? Too far? And where was I before I launched a tangent of misplaced-poor me-bullshit?

Mmmmm. Methadone. My clinic has the pink kind.

I’m not the only one hurting myself, I tell myself over and over.

I think about how dramatic I’m trying to be, wanting to sound right and profoundly right at that. I feel like a bad actress in a dying career resurrecting a classic play. No need for an encore. Just cut. Besides there’s an after-party that I need to disappear into for eight hours.

I hate introducing myself in the first blog. Anything I write feels like the wrong thing. It’s so forced, I’m convinced no one knows themselves that well. Especially not I. Isn’t it better to keep a distance? Perhaps we can be strangers who make prolonged eye contact across the room.

Hi, I’m Cat. I feel like I just moved here. (Wherever here is.) I don’t know how to describe myself without comparing myself to the status quo. So, shallow generalizations about women, here I come!

Most girls find peace in an afternoon of shopping. Or make-up at Ulta. They get lost in the aisles and yell funny remarks to their friends about fashion sensitive culture. Maybe I’m jealous. And by maybe, I mean, absolutely.

Or perhaps They stalk their ex’s social media for clues about them, as if they were solving a murder. A new Facebook friend? An instagram story that makes no sense? It’s not adding up now, but it will. Oh, it will. By the way, who the fuck is Alicia and why are you tagging her?

I’ve always been sicker than the others.i win! Damnit. As the in crowd of seventh grade used to call it, I am “fuckin’ weird, no offense.”

“None taken” I nodded back taking a knee during gym class.

I do like to shop, although always by myself in the lonelier corners of shopping centers. And duh! I stalk many lucky persons on a semi-regular basis. It’s the American way at this point, I do it for my country. But on top of these typical hobbies of the expected feminine divine, I’m orbiting a different side of town. The side that no one thinks to go to for good reason; it smells weird and has no relevance to most standards of living.

Bare with me.

I’m a curious party. I’m also a drug addict in the harshest way. The combination of these two factors equal my favorite hobby; reading pharmacology research papers. Yes, sir. complete with abstracts and hypothesis that outlines the right balance of factual accuracy. Gets me giddy just thinking about it!

I like knowing what the new, FDA approved antidepressants are categorized as. And why they aren’t as good as Prozac. But better than Paxil. And less harmful to the female orgasm. Ladies, you know what I mean. It’s a cruel game when you finally stop thinking suicidal thoughts but suddenly can’t orgasm. God is really a piece of work. A sexist piece of work, come to think of it.

These new prescriptions hold possibilities, a potential change for an addict in the screaming cycle of addiction. It’s hope, baby. I’ve got that shit, I can’t play the bad ass who doesn’t care about anything anymore. I’ve been there and got the t-shirt. I had to rip it off.

Goodbye apathy. I’m blowing you a kiss. Of death.

I’ve been a pharmacy baby since day one. Hell, I was a pharmacy baby hopeful-groupie-wannabe-poser before ever cashing my first Celexa prescription. Or maybe it was Lexapro. Oh well. Same thing. I was so excited to be an official member of all the statistics I read about.

The few. The proud. The prescribed.

It began with therapy in ninth grade for a knot of emotional problems that caused me to isolate and skip class 80% of the school day. My counselor found this worrying. I thought nothing of it. Who gives a fuck about geometry? I wanted to listen to Celebrity Skin on my disc man and walk around the outdoors. If life was a one off, I was going to sit in this meadow with Malibu blaring my ears into deafening bliss.

Girl power. I understood my selfishness on a promising level, one that spoke volumes about who I was going to be, a stunningly poised sociopath with nothing to offer most of society. Adults felt the aura on me most of the time and soon their would be meetings about my “goals” and “friends.”

No wonder people were worried. I was a walking red-flag of rage and I hadn’t even gotten my first period. I didn’t have many good reasons to be pissed off and I was usually morbid about something if I wasn’t in my bed. This wasn’t looking ideal for a freshman with zero college ambition and no interest in recreational activities that would accompany academia and no doubt introduce me to new social groups. I wasn’t athletic enough to play school sports, and I was too wrapped up in my depression (which had no real cause, according to my family).

And they were rightful in their judgment. I was better off than most of my school friends, sporting the latest lava lamp that glowed my room a deep purple or concert tickets that we would countdown the days too. I got to see Ja Rule and Ashanti up close and personal much to the dismay of my classmates deep in the bleachers bitching constant complaints.

I didn’t have it bad. And I knew it, which made me feel worse. I hadn’t the faintest idea what my problem was. I couldn’t smile anything or even pretend to for the sake of my parents, who just wanted me to have a normal teenage existence that didn’t kill every mood with some invisible, existential threat. I must have been the most annoying fourteen year old with a lava lamp.

This stubborn depression led me to weekly ninety-dollar checks that were flawlessly made out to one Dr. Pat. Pharmacy Baby’s first shrink. Awww!

We all have to start somewhere. My start was Thursday’s at 4pm. This appointment made me vacate the bu on an earlier stop than the routine one. Kids soon began to take notice. And they couldn’t comprehend why I had to see a doctor four times a month. I must have leukemia or some other young person disease they saw on Dawson’s Creek. I must have been really sick, dying really! Afterall, my sole school-bus pal Kendra saw her hair stylist more than her primary care physician and the dentist combined. Highlights are a serious thing, she would state this as seriously as a heart attack. It made me chuckle and she never understood.

Unfortunately, the punchline was that I was dying. At fourteen years old I knew this was the start of a love-hate relationship with “irony.”

At my worst I was existing and not knowing why. I was wanting to sleep life away. Sleep was the answer.

At my best I was killing my old-self, the girl who reeked of unexplained trauma and bad moods and now this annoying trademark “irony.” The metamorphosis came around the third month of counseling. An anniversary with Dr. Pat meant we drank hot cocoa and did worksheets revolving around behavior and choices. Fuck prom, I had Dr. Pat! I was blossoming.

And i was learning about the power that was “change” and how it could empower you like a butterfly. Or whatever insect fit the worksheets. I sometimes felt like a spider, but I never told Dr. Pat this.

It’s never easy to kill the old you. Even more demanding to bury the old body, and just praying it won’t come back from the dead and replace you. Hoping wasn’t enough. I had to ask with my eyes closed.

I wanted to be a butterfly. I needed my wings. (Commence the beginning of secret plans that were thoughtlessly detailed in my diary, ready to be exposed any minute to a league of jealous girls re-enacting Mean Girls). The writer inside me cringed. Privacy truly died before Twitter. No girls thoughts were safe. They would never be safe. I would need to find new ways for my secrets and dreams. Then, I would fly away into the night, into a new city of strangers, outside of a small minded town of familiars. I wouldn’t need numbers in my yearbook. I was going to find what I was looking for.

But what the fuck was I looking for. Sweet sixteen started to taste sour.

I remembered Dr. Pat told me, “Happiness is a butterfly.”

I wrote it down in my diary, much to my own dismay, hoping that it would be both safe and true.

By: Caitlin Alysabeth Thomas, March 10, 2020, “pharmacy baby blogs,” “Romance in the Vice.”