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kitkat1003 · 3 years

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On the issue of Mortality

AO3 Link

MK chose to be mortal, to be vulnerable, for the time being, and Monkey King is fine with that.

On the surface, at least. Now he has a successor, one that he likes, and he’s vulnerable????

Yeah, he’s never going to sleep easy again.

(Or, 11 chapters through season 1 about Monkey King, and anxiety his successor gives him. Who knew being a dad teacher would be so hard?)

Chapter 1: Picking a successor

(Or “Look, I’m gonna come clean. Um...I’ve been kinda watching you”)

When Sun Wukong—the Monkey King—decides he needs a successor, it isn’t an easy decision. For one, he refuses to admit why. Because that would mean confronting it all and he doesn’t want to.

He needs a successor because he wants one. Who doesn’t want to retire? It’s not like he’s spent hundreds of thousands of years in technical retirement, waiting for the Demon Bull King to return. No, he’s been...super busy. Yeah. Turning Flower Fruit Mountain into a paradise has totally taken him…forever, and, like, he’s got lots of stuff to do. He watches TV, once humans get electricity figured out. Gets a computer too, once those things start popping up. He gets a lawyer or two, yknow, keeping up with the times.

He’s...super busy. He definitely deserves a retirement.

So all that’s left is find a successor. Easy, right?

Well....

He actually starts looking when he hears whispers that the Demon Bull family is starting to get close to figuring out how to lift his staff. So about a hundred years before Demon Bull King actually escapes.

He finds a few kids he thinks might work, but nothing happens, anyway, so there’s no point in interrupting their boring normal lives for nothing. Besides, he doesn’t really see any of them with the spark of...something that he wants in his successor in any of them

He watches them grow. Child to teen to adult, he watches, and then he leaves before they get too old because he doesn’t want to see the headstones.

He doesn’t understand why they have to be human. Why they have to be mortal. Why they have to be able to die.

Why he has to watch them die.

Years and years pass. He gets lax, when looking for a successor. Lax when it comes to keeping an eye on the Demon Bull family.

He does, on occasion, watch the town where his staff is. It’s a pretty populace place, always buzzing with some sort of activity, which is both fun and boring.

One night, he watches a kid—no older than 13, he thinks, since he’s gotten used to watching humans grow and can gauge it pretty well—sprint down the street in the rain, wearing nothing but a ratty old hoodie, a shirt, shorts, torn up shoes, and a headband so dirty that even he can’t discern the original color.

There are three other figures chasing him, and he ducks into an alley as they sprint past. Monkey King watches as the kid settles down, sitting in the alley, and pulling something out from beneath his hoodie.

A puppy.

“Hey there, little guy,” the kid’s voice is soft, and he scritches the tiny pup behind the ears. “Sorry I couldn’t get your siblings, but they’d already been thrown in the lake—” the look on the kid’s face is nothing short of heartbreaking.

Monkey King has plans for the group of thugs he saw earlier, if that’s what they were doing. Humans.

“But hey, managed to save you, huh? I’ll bring you to a shelter in the morning. Someone will take you home and you’ll get loved to death.” Monkey King rolls his eyes at the saccharine display, but he wonders.

There isn’t a lot of crime in this city, with its advancements. What’s a kid doing outside this late at night?

“I’d take you home with me, but mine’s more of a hovel than a place to live. You can still see it, though! C’mon,” the kid gets up, stumbling a little, and Monkey King notices that he’s favoring one leg, that the elbow of one of the sleeve’s of his hoodie is wet.

He follows.

The kid’s house is literally a shack made of a metal sheet wedged between an alley wall. There’s a ‘bench’ that’s a slab of rock placed on top of more rocks, where a well loved sketchbook sits.

The kid sits on the bench, setting the puppy down beside him as he flips open his sketchbook.

“I’m gonna draw you, so I don’t forget, kay?” He pats the pup on the head, and then, using the smallest, most worn down pencil Monkey King has ever seen, he slowly carves out the puppy’s features, getting the soft tones of fur. He keeps squinting, but Monkey King thinks that’s because all he has is the light of the lamppost for his vision.

This kid...is pretty darn good.

Monkey King watches for way longer than he would like to admit, and then watches as the kid pulls out a very worn blanket-substitute, curling around the puppy beneath it.

He frowns, but isn’t sure what to do about it.

So he leaves, and makes sure those thugs learn a thing or two about treating animals with respect.

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This kid just keeps popping up in Monkey King’s peripherals.

He likes to people watch, and the kid will just appear from nowhere. He’ll be running down the street, hanging out with this girl who looks about 3 economic classes above him. They’ll go to the arcade and play for hours, and she’ll pay for practically everything.

He decides he likes her, if she’s nice enough to do that for the kid. Plus, he feels a familiar energy coming off of her, something he trusts.

They typically end their day at a noodle shop. Pigsy’s? The kid always pays there, with coins of various sizes. The girl, when the kid isn’t looking, will slip the cook some more money. They get steaming hot bowls of ramen, harass the cook, and eventually get half chased out, laughing all the while.

“You know you can stay with me, right?” The girl says, one day, when Monkey King is people watching (read: eavesdropping on their conversation. It’s like his new favorite TV show, at this point). Kid rolls his eyes.

“Mei, c’mon, your relationship with your folks is as strained as mine! I wouldn’t want you to end up like me. Besides, I’m fine!” he insists with the grin Monkey King has grown accustomed to seeing on Kid’s face.

The information Monkey King gains from those two sentences is certainly something, and he ponders on Mei, the girl who spends her days as far away from home as possible.

Mei frowns.

“You still won’t show me where you’re staying. Or explain why your clothes are all torn up!” She pokes him in the chest, and the Kid shrugs.

“Cause you wouldn’t like either of those things! I can take care of myself! Promise.” He rocks back and forth on his feet, all smiles.

Mei fixes him with a glare, before she sighs, relenting. “Fine. But, if you won’t take my hospitality, you get my undying loyalty and free stuff!” She whips out a brand new red winter coat.

Kid takes it slowly.

“It’s getting colder out!” She explains. “And red just isn’t my color, you know?”

Kid slowly pulls the jacket against his chest, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and then he smiles. This one is smaller. Less performative. Monkey King didn’t realize that he’d been watching the kid to be able to tell the difference, but it’s not too hard to see. Kid uses big smiles like a cloak, to hide what’s underneath. The smaller ones-those are like the slivers of sunlight shooting out from an eclipse. Wukong finds he prefers the smaller ones.

Kid wraps his arm around Mei’s shoulders.

“Thanks, Mei.”

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The days get colder, and Kid is still in that shack. Monkey King finds out that Kid doesn’t steal for money. Instead, he does little odd jobs for short change, and then looks for coins people have dropped. Apparently, the city’s wealth has made people more loose with their change.

Mei drags him to warm places as often as she can, but apparently this time of year she has a lot of responsibilities, or “social events,” as she calls them, so she can’t be around as much.

Kid doesn’t seem to mind, shivering through the nights, curling himself as tight as possible with that jacket and shitty blanket, and Monkey King doesn’t know why he even cares, but...

He’s not cruel. It isn’t pleasant to watch a kid suffer.

And then, Kid gets sick. Like, delirious, fever sick, and he’s not getting better.

And Monkey King has told himself, a million times, that he would let Kid figure his own life out, but he ends up picking Kid up anyway, depositing him at the ever familiar noodle shop.

The cook drags the boy inside, and Monkey King doesn’t see Kid on the streets after that.

Good.

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Kid starts working at the noodle shop, apparently, and he lives above the shop. Slowly, he accrues random objects. Sketchbooks, games, figurines, Monkey King comics? He watches the show near religiously, and Monkey King is both flattered and weirded out.

A super fan, huh? Okay then.

And when he isn’t working, or watching “Monkey King: The Animated Series,” or reading Monkey King comics, he’s begging the resident bookworm, Tang, for stories, which he then sketches out.

Monkey King actually goes through the sketchbook once, when Kid’s asleep. Yup, Kid’s really, really good at this. Monkey King actually thinks about stealing a drawing, but that would be both very obvious and also stupid.

So he lets it go. He ought to look for his successor, anyway. He hears the Demon Bull family is getting close.

He leaves Kid to his life and moves on to his own.

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He can’t find a successor. Somehow. It’s like every person in this city (and it would have to be in this city, because you need to be close to the staff in some regard if you want to have a connection with it. Being born near it, living near it-makes it easy for the energy, the chi, to find you) doesn’t want anything to do with hero business. The kids he considers are too small, the adults too...boring.

And he’s getting pretty frustrated here, because he thinks he might just have to fight the Demon Bull King all over again, which, ugh.

And then, it clicks.

He’s watching Kid drive around town, delivering orders, and somehow the kid steers towards the construction site. Toward the staff.

Of course.

God, it was literally staring him in the face. He feels kind of dumb, now that it hits him, but whatever. Not like anyone’s around to tease him about it.

He watches Kid waltz towards danger, music in his headphones too loud to notice the literal demon family, until Kid opens his eyes and sees the whole demon army there, and hoo boy, is this comical.

Monkey King wonders if they’ll succeed this time, in lifting his staff. They certainly seem confident. He’s kind of curious, kind of bored. The whole ‘take our rightful place as rulers of this world’ schtick is super annoying, and Red Son’s voice is grating.

The light show is pretty nice, though, and then.

Then.

Demon Bull King’s a lot smaller than he remembers, but his voice is the same, as is his attitude. Monkey King can feel Kid shaking and takes a quick sweep of the area. Seems his successor is right above Red Son.

He smirks to himself, not that anyone can see considering he’s a bird right now.

This is going to be hilarious.

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When Kid touches the staff, Monkey King isn’t prepared for the feeling he gets.

It’s like he’s been the single Sun in an endless galaxy, surrounded by darkness, when suddenly another star appears from nowhere, throwing him into orbit with it. The galaxy shifts, the light doubles, the darkness recedes.

Monkey King’s own center, his sun, feels red hot, warm, and tempered by years of life, with a spark of yellow and white in its center. Kid’s is bright, brilliant golden yellow, more white than any color, bursting with energy.

That energy gets put to work pretty quickly, as the Kid fumbles his way out of the demon’s den, and Monkey King soars after him, watching the escape with a smile.

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He doesn’t properly meet Kid until he gets shot all the way to Flower Fruit mountain. After Kid escapes Red Son, he panickedly tells his friends what’s going on and tries to get there on his own.

Well, all the way is a bit much. Maybe Monkey King had to catch Kid and fly him there, because Kid was looking half dead and Monkey King was a little worried, but that’s beside the point. He leaves Kid on the shore, and follows him when Kid gets up.

He isn’t expecting the frustration, when he can’t be found, but he supposes that’s his cue.

Getting stepped on is unpleasant. Guess Kid doesn’t like bugs.

God, the look on Kid’s face, when it hits him that Monkey King’s been watching him! If he could frame a memory, that would be it. Hoo, boy, is that going to be replaying in his head for a while. Kid seems more bewildered than anything else, and the idea of being Monkey King’s successor doesn’t sit well with him.

Which, Monkey King doesn’t get that. Who wouldn’t want to be taught by him?

But maybe he overestimates the kid’s spunk, his confidence, because waving off his worries doesn’t spur him on; rather, it seems to deflate him.

Ugh. Why is being a teacher difficult? It’s not like his teacher had a hard time with him, right?

Distantly, he thinks he can hear his master shouting at him. He hops off his cloud, says just the right thing to get Kid pumped up, and watches him race off.

He considers just sitting back and not watching, but then, that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

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He isn’t actually sure what having a successor means, really. How much their powers, their lives, would mirror his own. A part of him was terrified by the prospect—could he even be known as anything special, if he was no longer one of a kind?

But there’s also something quite exciting about this. The idea that your life is being rewritten, the story unfinished and yet also repeating itself. The Demon Bull King is on the loose, with his army and family, trying to take over the world.

And only one person can stop him. The Monkey King.

Kid’s powers are volatile. He can feel them flare up from time to time, wildly flickering out of control. A lack of self confidence, that might be causing it. A part of him is annoyed by that, a part of him is relieved. Far better to have to teach someone to believe in themselves than teach them humility. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t learned that latter lesson all the way yet.

Kid vanishes into the Demon Bull King’s chest, where the staff lies, and for a moment, the new sun vanishes. Monkey King feels the cold rush of space in its absence, and feels panic, even though he’s only known this warmth for a few hours.

But then, it bursts back into existence, as a familiar stone drops from the Demon Bull King’s chest, cracking open, and, well, it’s history being written the same way over and over again, isn’t it?

Kid has a flair for silliness, childish maneuvers. He likes to have fun, and that’s the best part of the powers they share. To be invincible, to have fun while saving the day.

It’s a repeat, until, well, it isn’t.

The blow Kid takes makes Monkey King wince. The body becoming invulnerable takes time. It doesn’t just immediately show up. Every second, Kid’s body is absorbing and meshing with the powers thrust upon it, but that doesn’t mean getting hit a mile by a guy twenty times your size doesn’t still hurt, at this point.

But Monkey King knows this is what has to happen. Because heroes aren’t heroes if they never feel pain, never get hit.

Heroes, he thinks, as Kid tears himself from the wall he’s embedded in, as Kid stands, eyes ablaze, are heroes when they get hit and they get back up.

And Kid sure as hell does.

“I’m the Monkey Kid!” He shouts, like a battle cry, like a challenge, and Monkey King smirks. Monkey Kid, huh? It suits him. And then, Kid slams the staff on the ground, and the world shifts.

A part of him is kind of jealous. How come he never got a mech?! Has that been a thing this entire time? Another part is in awe of this Kid’s creativity, ability, at such a young age.

And seeing DBK get trounced again certainly keeps the jealous part of him quiet.

Kid’s got a nice group of friends. Reminds him of his journey days, him and a rag tag group of idiots going around wreaking havoc and learning moral lessons at the end of it. He’s glad Kid isn’t alone or on the streets anymore. A strong foundation leads to a stronger ability to grow.

Well, he’d better get some sort of training regimen ready. Or, at least, start thinking of some things to do to train this kid. He’s sure at some point Kid is going to bug him for a lesson or two.

Somehow, the thought doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.

#lego monkie kid #monkie kid mk #monkie kid monkey king #sun wukong #kitkat1003 #monkie kid mei

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thecottageinthedark · 3 years

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Sorting Glass-Maker’s Dragon

I’ve been working on this for a looooong time, and finally it’s complete enough to post. I’m using the Sorting Hat Chats system, basics of which are explained here by its inventors and here by @wisteria-lodge.

A lot of GMD is flexpoints and inferred stuff, but this is, at least, the way I read the main eight.

Chuubo: Snake Primary, Badger Secondary. His Snake ambition isn't immediately obvious because it's backwards to us; he's an Imperator and a god of dream and probably the Spirit of the Age, but those were just things that happened upon him. He doesn't want fame or fortune; he wants a peaceful human life, or at least a human-style one, and his drive to achieve this has literally reshaped the world itself while still being, at its core, all about him.

His Badger Secondary is hard to see because of the one big gimmick in the way; the Wish-Granting Engine, that supposedly allows instant results with no work, and the way he uses it whenever possible. But the thing is, the WGE is both dependent on his Secondary and in some senses what he uses when he can't draw on that Secondary itself.

Badger Secondaries have to mean what they do; they put in hard work when and where they are motivated to do so. For Chuubo, that's not schoolwork, which is where he as a high schooler is socially expected to, and so he gets a rep for being lazy. Where he does put the effort in, is with his friendships, and in 'learning the ways of Fortitude'. With those, he doesn't cut corners. He doesn't pull out schemes. He patiently and consistently puts in the work. His Secondary is on full display in the way he persists in trying to be friends with Leo, even in the face of Leo's hostility. Chuubo doesn't try to win Leo over with subtlety or with grand gestures; he just doggedly carries on offering support, company, and good-natured teasing.

So where does the Engine come in? Think of the Wishing Map. It's the friendships and connections he's worked at creating and maintaining that help Chuubo's wishes to succeed. Wishes based on whim are almost certain to go wrong.

The wish for a best friend is maybe the most telling part of all. Or rather, what happened after it. Because despite having acquired Seizhi through unnatural means, it never once occurs to Chuubo to continue their association by those-to lean on miraculous or mundane coercion and create a relationship that all goes one way. Having acquired someone to love him, he just proceeds to love them back, with a generosity of spirit that is entirely genuine.

Like a lot of Snake Primaries, Chuubo has a Primary model that he uses to fill in the gaps where his ambitions and his loyalties aren't relevant. His is a kindly and expansive Badger Primary. He lives in this model most of the time-until there's a threat to his inner circle or to his hard-won quiet life. Then he'll set the model aside and act from his real Primary to keep hold of what's his. (Being a snake sometimes helps.)

Seizhi Schwan: Snake Primary, Burnt Snake Secondary. Like Chuubo, their huge ambition is for something that most people just get handed on a platter; to be real, to matter, and to be loved. Their Primary and his instinctively understand each other about this-and also understand each other perfectly about the importance of treasuring and being treasured. (They're all but making big eyes at each other and swooning, in fact.)

Seizhi's Primary is somewhat wobbly in one regard; they're the sort of Snake who has kicked themself out of their own inner circle. After all, they reason, they're not real-not yet, at least-so why should they value themself? There's nothing there to value. This is linked to the burning of their Secondary; their supreme and miraculously-enhanced ability to fit into any social context is something that gives them pain, because it's just more unreality. Over and over they reach out, hoping that this time they've found a destiny; over and over, they stop sustaining an Intention, and the whole thing fades away. Even mundane uses of the Snake Secondary toolkit feel tainted-deceit and lies-and that's a problem, because this is the best and most practiced skillset they've got. They're trying to cover up this lack with a Badger Secondary model, because that's what they feel like they should have, what a Real Person would have-the slow grinding authenticity of method. (Possibly this decision is linked to Chuubo being a Badger Secondary.) But they don't like it. It feels like crap. It doesn't even work that well. And when they're in trouble, they drop the attempt to Do Things The Real Way and start shifting and adapting and reacting like the Snake they are.

As of the start of GMD they're still hoping for the magic to happen, to wake up transformed into a Real Person who bears little to no resemblance to the 'fake self' they despise-for the Badger model to smother the Snake to death. The situation's in flux. Under pressure, they might begin to find ways to accept themself for what they are, and realise they are loved already; but it's just as likely that they will crack and fall into despair. If that happens, they'll probably Burn their Primary too, cutting themself off from Chuubo and from anyone else in their inner circle. This they'll frame not as a way to protect themself, but to protect the inner circle. A fake person has nothing real to give. How can they inflict such a horrible creature on the people they love? Might as well feed them fairy food and watch them starve, as do something like that.

That unpleasant possibility aside...unlike Chuubo they haven't yet created a Primary Model when the game starts. They might do so during the course of it, though-they will, after all, need to make a lot of decisions, and they won't always be able to relate those back to 'will it help me become real' or 'will it help Chuubo'. I don't think they're likely to copy Chuubo's Badger for this; it fits him fine, as an inherently peaceful Serpent, but Seizhi is an Actual who has had to fight just to exist, and isn't prepared to lay down arms just because things are now somewhat better. What'd work better for them would be a valorous and fierce Lion Model based on that of their brother Laodemus, or a wider Snake Model with an inner circle encompassing 'everyone I know' or 'the whole of Town'.

Leonardo de Montreal: Lion Primary, Lion Secondary. This poor man.

Oh, he'd love you to believe he's a Double Bird, or a Snake/Bird mix of some kind. He'd probably pick one of those Houses out if he had the choice! But that's...actually for pretty superficial reasons. He likes science so he figures he's a shoo-in for the 'smart person house', he's snappy and standoffish so equally he thinks he's in the 'mean asshole house'. But in the SHC system neither of those really fit.

Let's look at his Primary first. He's not a Snake, right away-because he doesn't have an inner circle and he's okay with that. There's no 'my people, who are most important' and 'everyone else'-even when he's not leaning on his Friendless wound, when he's prepared to concede that he cares about Chuubo or Jasper. If he were a Snake, those two would be the most likely inner circle candidates-but they're not in there. Not because he doesn't care, but because he doesn't do the Snake style caring where his people are the centre of his world and the place he gets his morality.

Where his morality does come from is the Song of Hell, his 'love for the wicked'. It's intuitive, not constructed, and centred in himself, not reliant on others. (When he loses his heart, he doesn't draw up a systematic list of ethical principles to live by instead; he creates the Mechanism of Original Sin, which emulates the feeling of having an internal conscience as well as the function.) And the fact that he's a fallen angel means that at some point in his past he gave up Heaven on ideological grounds. The Song of Hell is just right, and therefore he follows it. Any justifications he makes for that decision come after the fact. And so he follows his Song, and becomes heroic-it's not just Jasper he saves, he's got a whole Thing about helping people. That's Lion Primary.

And though he's smart, he doesn't act Bird under pressure; he charges. He responded to Jade's death by first ripping out his own heart to save her daughter, then marching down to the BA to throw down with its Headmaster. He probably has a Bird Secondary model to help with Science, though-and he uses this model to back up his real secondary. Charge in throwing nightmare devices at the problem.

Natalia Koutolika: Bird primary, burnt secondary that's probably Bird or Lion.

Natalia's frozen heart sounds like a Petrified Snake thing, but it's not any specific person that makes her realise thawing is a possibility-it's Fortitude. And that's not because Fortitude is nice, the way a Badger might un-Burn on being accepted into a welcoming community, but because it's magical. The rules of the universe work differently here...so maybe that means things can be possible for her now that weren't possible back on Earth.

I thought at first her primary was burnt, but...freezing her heart made her lose faith in human goodness, and in her capacity for being happy, not in her ability to discern truth. She trusts her cynical System; actually, I think her looking like a Petrified Snake is down to that thing Birds do where their systems often come out looking like the other Primaries. Natalia has decided that the Petrified Snake morality is the true one...but when she arrives in Town, she reconsiders, and begins to edit.

Her Secondary is where she's burnt. Because part of the cynicism of her Primary System is the idea that there's no point trying. Use whatever methods are available, who cares? They won't work, because you can't do anything that matters-the world doesn't work like that. Most of the time she'll use Bird or Lion methods because those come easily to her, given she's a genius and a martial artist, so it's probably one of those. But then again...she doesn't seem to get any joy from them. I think her Arcs will (hopefully) involve healing the burning-and that could look like learning to trust in her charging or her knowledge base, or like finding that what she really feels Right about is putting in the work like a Badger or thinking on her feet like a Snake. (Burnt Badger secondary would be especially poignant, as it'd be her learning to rely on community as a source of strength.)

Jasper Irinka: Bird primary, Bird secondary.

She starts out with her system based on her mom's Heaven-style Lion primary; it doesn't work, and leaves 'a hole in the world' for her. So she starts looking for ways to make it work by picking up ideas from all sorts of people-her dad, her friends, the Moon Prince and assorted other NPCs-and either adjusting it by adding these in or making a new system entirely. And her matching secondary helps her to do this very effectively. Her Primordial ability to shape herself as she likes by growing limbs that she can then use and discard as she pleases is really Bird Secondary-and the fact that those limbs manifest from other people's Hopes? 'I know a guy' Bird.

Sure, she inspires people. But it’s not a Lion inspiration-being so completely and ferociously her own glorious self that others are attracted to her radiance. Jade probably worked like that, from what we know of her, but Jasper inspires because she deliberately does things to inspire Hope in people, using a toolkit of stuff she’s picked up.

(And of course Leo is fascinated with her-not just because she's 'Jade Irinka's daughter', the shine on that would wear off fast-it's that she's a Double Bird like what he wants to be! And she in turn is loving Leo's double Lion because that's what she thinks she's supposed to be like!)

Rinley Yatskaya: Badger Primary, Lion Secondary. Of course the Storyteller Arc kid gets the 'protagonist sorting'.

Rinley's stated purpose in their playbook is to be the social glue of the party, and their powerset makes them really good at it. They first save then make friends with Prince Eduard despite their family's feud with the Rats, and when they see Iolithae in the Titov shrine, they go to rescue her, because Eduard and Iolithae are people and that matters more than Eduard being a Rat or Iolithae being a dangerous sacred horror. In other words, they're a beautiful Universal Badger. As far as Rinley's concerned, you don't just see someone who's injured or imprisoned and then not help them, even if they're meant to be an enemy on ideological grounds or even grounds of prudence. And to help people, they jump right in and Do Something. That's textbook Badger/Lion.

Principal Entropy II: Exploded Badger primary, Badger secondary.

This guy is just community-building and caretaking all over the place. He shows up, he does the work-as the Angel of Fortitude he's literally fixing potholes and curing peoples' ailments! And he's doing that by going to the people and creatures of his Gardens, calling in favours.

And he's doing it because people are important. The denizens of the Evil Island, the people of Fortitude. 'All things can earn their recompense through love'.

The problem is, though-he's doing the dehumanisation thing that Badgers are so infamous for. He's not going 'some people are Enemies Who Must Die, and therefore are not really People', though, which is the usual form of the trope in fiction. That's the mode of a Badger at war, and E2 isn't fighting a war. He's going 'some people need to be Sacrificed for the Greater Good of the Community'. And that's not an easy thing for a Badger to believe. If he was an Idealist, or Snake who is comfy prioritising an inner circle, he could just hold that belief without problems. But being a Badger, he can't. If he sacrifices people, he has to either feel horribly guilty about it...or stop thinking of them as people.

One big group he tends to dehumanise are School students. School exists to create tools to fix the world. It's okay if he makes students into cursed Hall Monitors, it's okay if he turns SEED students into prototype world-trees and weirding walls. That's what they're for.

He also dehumanises himself. He's Other Than Human, Set Apart. He refuses to acknowledge his needs, and overworks himself-he's even, at game start, nullified two Divine Health Levels to make his Code Novae binding on the Evil Island, meaning that if you can get past his Immortality power he's actually the squishiest PC of the lot. So he's an Exploded Badger, sacrificing both himself and others to his community.

Miramie Mesmer: Bird Primary, Badger Secondary. She shares this sorting with her former self, Melanie Malakh.

Melanie's Bird Primary used the Bleak Methodology as her truth system. Coupled with her persistent, hard-working Secondary, this combination made her a star student at the Bleak Academy-a 'prodigy of hatred and despair'. However, when she left the Academy, things fell apart for her.

At the Bleak Academy she'd been sheltered from experiences or ideas that could provide any real challenge to the Bleak worldview. Because of that, her system wasn't as robust as she thought-and she didn't know how to shore it up or how to cope if it shattered. Which-along with the glass dragon-it did; her time in Town, the things she had seen and done, had led her to doubt the truth of ultimate futility. The last straw was the dragon itself. Melanie, through the work of her hands and mind, had created something that was not futile; a master-weapon that could destroy Town, just as she had intended. The very fact that she was able to do that gave the lie to the Bleak Methodology. Unable to deny this truth but just as unable to live with it, Melanie Fell so hard that-as Strategists sometimes do-she lost her identity and became a new person.

Unable and unwilling to use Melanie's system, Miramie has begun to construct her own, drawing on various sources-the communal and peaceful mores of Fortitude, Hideo Hayashi's belief that even unlikeable misfits do not deserve to be left alone without support systems, the other Archive kids' idea that outcasts should stick together, and Chuubo's Snake prioritising of personal ambitions and loves. Since she's not had much time to do this, it's nowhere near finished-but it looks likely to be robust. It also seems to me that she's likely to be able to edit it as she needs rather than Falling-or, if worst comes to worst, to Fall but get back up as herself, rather than shattering again or reverting into Melanie Malakh.

Her Badger Secondary is a contrast to Chuubo's, as where his is socially based and linked to personal relationships (Courtier Badger), hers is more focused on the more usual definition of 'work', and on community in the sense of history and tradition (Bookkeeper Badger). It's her Secondary she brings to bear on the tasks of setting up a cafe from scratch and helping maintain the Archives. It's also what she uses to keep herself going under the weight of the world's wrongness, to keep making art even though it's doing so that activates her Curse. She just keeps slogging away.

I can also see the Badger Secondary in Melanie's construction of the glass dragon. She sat herself down with Hideo Hayashi and learnt glasswork from scratch, putting in the time and effort to both master this new skill and to bring Hideo himself fully under her control. Simple, honest work, even though used for deeply destructive ends.

IN CONCLUSION:

Chuubo: Snake primary, Badger secondary, Badger primary model Seizhi: Snake primary, Burnt Snake secondary, unhealthy Badger Secondary model Leonardo: Lion primary, Lion secondary. Bird secondary model Natalia: Bird primary (with a system that starts out looking a lot like Petrified Snake), very burnt Secondary that is likely Bird or Lion Jasper: Bird primary, Bird secondary Rinley: Badger primary, Lion secondary Entropy II: Exploded Badger primary, Badger secondary Miramie: Bird primary, Badger secondary

#sorting hat chats #glass-maker's dragon #cmwge #gluubilis #gmd #harry potter #gmd pcs

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hollenka99 · 3 years

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The Futility of Talking

Summary: Ghostbur decides Soulbur needs people to talk to.

Warnings: implied suicidal ideation, referenced parental neglect, referenced animal death, nearly drowning (accident unrelated to the first tw)

Masterlist

It takes days of wandering in the woods for Ghostbur to gradually decide he's had enough. It's isolating out here in the open. This isn't helped by the fact Soulbur seems hellbent on avoiding him whenever he is bestowed the privilege of catching a glimpse. Did he do something wrong? If he made Soulbur upset somehow, he'd really love to apologise and work through it.

Friend turns his head at a slight rustle coming from the trees. Ghostbur's face lights up when he follows the sheep's gaze and his eyes land on a calico lazing around on a branch. He commands Friend to stay there. Climbing the tree isn't that difficult so it doesn't take him long to perch on an adjacent branch, hand outstretched to gain the cat's trust. "Hi, I'm Ghostbur. Do you like chin scratches? I know she did." He sits by the steam, pole in hand. He's done for the morning with the trading he set out to the village for. There seems to be more than enough fish to spare here so today is getting more successful by the hour. A squid found itself on the end of his line earlier too. He'll have to work out how to prepare it. He's sure Phil demonstrated once but that was likely years ago. Phil himself has gone off for a short trip and was due to return by this evening. If Wilbur can keep the squid fresh enough, he'll ask him for advice so they can have some tomorrow night. A stray cat has warily made her way towards him. No sudden movements, he remembers. Strays tend to be skittish (this one evidently no exception) and need patience shown to them if you wish to pet one. He slowly offers the cat a chunk of one of the fish. She loves it and it is clear she is requesting more. So he gives in to her incessant mewling. What he hadn't considered during this interaction was how quickly a stray could begin viewing you with affection if you gave them the time of day. Having hung around him while he fished, she inevitably follows him after he packs up to go home. At first, he'd chuckled in a 'ha look at this cat attach itself to me' way. Then she leapt into his little boat and it suddenly grew more serious. Uh, yeah, you might not want to go all the way home with him, little kitty, it'll be a hell of a hike home otherwise. She looks to him expectantly. Ha, okay I know I gave you some fish today but you can't have any more because I need some left to eat myself so it's best if you hop out of- Oh alright you're going to clamber onto my lap, huh? Fine, fine, I'll let you hang out at my house for a little while. Prepare yourself for Tommy though, that kid can be a fairly boisterous at times. Tommy is quicker to greet her than help his brother with the bloody shopping or today's catch. He fusses over her as if she was already their pet. "Oh nice, have we got ourselves a cat then?" "No, they're-" Yes. Yes, they were absolutely going to take in this stray, weren't they? God damn it. "They're going to need a name before we do that." The two of them bounce names off of each other. In the mix are the likes of Pumpkin, Carrot, Rose, Apricot and Amber. Wilbur jokingly suggests 'Basilina' in reference to something which unfortunately leaves Tommy's face blank. Whatever gets suggested, none of the options come across as the right one. "Why do people call orange red?" Tommy asks out of nowhere. "Oh, it's because you're never going to get an animal with fur that's actually red but orange is close enough so you get people saying orange fur is red. Something like that. It's the same way someone might look at a cat and call their fur blue when actually it's more grey with blue tones." "That's dumb." Tommy scoffs. "Hey, apples are red." "...They are, yes." "I want to call her Apple." "I thought you liked Pumpkin a minute ago." "She can be both." "Like a first name-last name kind of deal? Well... I think Appleby might be an actual surname that exists so what do you think about Pumpkin Appleby?" The small boy bursts into giggles. "That's the stupidest name I have ever heard." "Oh really? Well if you're so great at coming up with names on the fly, you do better." He teases. Tommy frowns with concentration as he deliberates on the perfect identity for this ginger cat who has wandered into their lives until he comes up with "Apple Pumpkinson." "Sure." He laughs. "Sure, we'll call her Apple Pumpkinson, I guess. As good a name as any." He crafts the name tag that very afternoon. With the cat clearly not interested in social interaction right now, Ghostbur leaps to the ground. A familiar animal comes into existence. Apple gets a fair amount of attention before complying with his offer of being carried. It's been so long since he had her against his chest. It feels good. "Come on, let's find Soulbur. I'm sure he'll want to meet you." --- There is a voice drifting in the wind from somewhere nearby. Close enough to hear, far enough to not be able to discern more details about its origins. He knows it is most likely Ghostbur trying to chat with him despite all his effort to evade his company. Forgive him for hardly having 'talking through our last interaction' on his hypothetical 'stuff I'd prefer to do today' list. But then again, it could not be. Someone could have somehow breached the boundaries of his private world. Is that possible? He... thinks so. To be fair, he can leave so there must be exploitable fault lines somewhere. Perhaps he should defend himself. Obviously, a threat to his safety can only go so far given that he can't permanently sustain injuries, let alone die again. And fuck knows he never gave much of a shit about physically protecting himself in those last several weeks of life. But look at him waste valuable time deliberating. Shit like that could easily get you killed. Whoever is approaching, they're getting closer. Maybe Ghostbur. Maybe someone who doesn't wish him well. Does he risk trusting the most likely option? Or does he risk coming across as a paranoid weirdo who overthinks the slightest things too often? He's in an open space with no-one else around, in a sectioned off part of the void that no-one visits. Ha, someone could take him out and Ghostbur likely wouldn't find him until tomorrow or whatever. But wants to believe this will have the best outcome as a result of heavily misinterpreting his senses. God, there he goes again, decreasing his chances of properly defending himself from a potential threat in time. Listen, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon. He draws a sword as he whips around. If the pursuer is far away, he has time to switch to something long range like a bow and arrow. Otherwise, he won't have the chance to correct what could be a fatal mistake. "Hi, Soulbur!" The smile drops in shock. "O-Oh." See? Just Ghostbur with Friend tagging along close behind. Honestly, who else would it be? "Ghostbur." Shoulders sag in what could be interpreted as relief or some sort of exhaustion. The sword drops from his loosened grip, vanishing as if it never existed in the first place. He makes no further comment when he notices there's a ginger cat in the ghost's arms. Not just any feline with orange fur either. There is no doubt in his mind who this is. He wants to be flooded with recollections of petting sessions, moments spent unable to leave the spot he was sitting due to a napping lump and times he'd laughed while getting yelled at. Yet no matter how hard he tries, only two associated memories reveal themselves to be prominent. The first revolves around sitting on the large bed, one arm occupied with Fundy while the other drew Tommy closer without causing his brother's hand to slip away from the fur it was emerged in. The other featured the sweltering heat of the Nether and knowing it was possibly the very last place he wished to be at that very moment. "Do you remember her?" "Y-Yeah, I think so." He attempts to crouch but, thanks to still coming down from hyperactive thoughts, he miscalculates his balance and ends up sitting within seconds. Allowed back on the ground, Apple cautiously approaches Soulbur's offered backhand. "Oh." He exhales. "Hi, Aps." His eyes can fuck off. There is no way in hell he's letting himself cry over something that happened years ago. Especially not with Ghostbur present. Instead he focuses on gently kneading the spots behind her ears. "I am so sorry. It's my fault for not monitoring you more closely." "I'm guessing she stayed with Phil after Tommy, Fundy and Alivebur left." "You think we would have left her at home? No, no, no. She's been gone for years. It was back when Fundy was tiny. Tommy was watching him while we made dinner but called us over for something. We could have sworn we covered those mushrooms but Tommy made it sound urgent and we..." Soulbur's gaze redirects itself with a soft sigh. She glances back at him. "Why the hell did you have to go snooping around and nibbling on things you're not supposed to, huh missy?" "I don't know why but Tommy got it into his head it would be cool if we buried her in the Nether. Pretty sure we were too emotionally drained to say anything other than 'fuck it, why not'. There was a warped forest not far from where the nearest portal landed us so we left her under one of the trees. Did you like that? I know it was a bit warmer than you'd expect it to be." 'Tell me more about her', he wants to say. 'I know I'll forget pretty much as soon as you finish but could you spare a story?', he nearly asks. 'Let's practise futility together', he is seconds away from offering. "Thank you." He instead says. "So... are we letting bygones be bygones then?" "Did something happen? I'm trying to think but nothing is coming up." "Uh, yeah." He frowns. "We-" Oh. Of fucking course. Stupid him for stressing about a potential confrontation between them where they'd need to discuss their argument. All this time and Ghostbur didn't even bloody recall any of it. Well done, Soulbur, for wasting your goddamn week. His only consolation was that at least several days meant nothing when compared to near-infinity. "Never mind. It wasn't important anyway." "I'm sorry if I did something bad. I'm really trying to remember." "Sure. Whatever. Doesn't matter so don't worry about it. Either way, I'm sorry too." All across their world, out of their view, every fungal species goes extinct in an instant. Mostly because he refuses to let history to repeat itself, partially because he needs to say fuck you to something. --- Ghostbur is delighted to see Soulbur when he makes a surprise visit. It's completely unexpected but somehow, it makes the interruption to his day all the better. His counterpart encourages him to follow along. Apparently, there is something Soulbur would like to show him. He asks after Apple as they travel. She's doing alright and is back at Soulbur's hideout. Across a hill is an entire valley of flowers, populated by a variety of colourful plants. There were daisies over there, a rainbow's worth of tulips scattered in most directions and oh look, patches of bare grass. Friend will love that. At the centre of the flowery ocean is a dark blue pool of the flower he's been struggling to find up until now. From the edge where they are standing, there is pleasant line of birch trees acting as a border. Looking further, he spots a lake of the other side. "This whole thing is yours." "Everything?" "Yep. Knock yourself out." "But why?" "Because I can?" He shrugs. "You got me Apple and I'm not such a huge twat that I wouldn't at least attempt to return the gesture." "Thank you!" Ghostbur throws his arms open, spontaneously moving towards the other half of Alivebur. The momentum doesn't lead to his body affectionately colliding with Soulbur's. Instead, it causes his hands to impact with the ground, the only things preventing his face from joining them. Glancing up, he catches wide eyes staring back at him and the twitch of an arm that, in another set of circumstances, might not have been 'corrected' before the command to complete the intended action was fulfilled. Then the sight vanishes as Soulbur's expression morphs into something more akin to a fed up frown. "Yeah, don't mention it. No need to make a big fuss. In fact, I think I'm done here. Just um... maybe you could set your base here. I don't think you ever got around to actually building a house, right? You could clear some wood from these trees and put it around about here." With that, he sets off. Like... he always does. Looking out over it once more, there is no doubt that this place really was gorgeous. He's grateful that Soulbur thought to make something like this for him, he truly is. However, he can't fully appreciate it because Soulbur always seemed to end up mad whenever Ghostbur was around. He's even materialised a pearl to make his escape faster. Oh, hang on, what if it's simply him that's the issue? You can't expect somebody to like everyone they know. Perhaps the solution is to provide him with more people to talk to. He'd only had Schlatt (their lifetime hatred had transferred over) and Mexican Dream (while their relationship was better, it was hardly like they were close, as far as Ghostbur could tell). Now that this line of thought has occurred to him, he could also benefit from speaking to expanding his social circle while here. He sighs. But first, he should find Friend. He's sure his loyal companion of a sheep will love the grassy parts of this gift as much as Ghostbur does. --- Tucked in the cliff face, Soulbur was perfectly content with spending time with his cat. He'd half forgotten how it felt to have weight pressing on the side of his face or across his chest, if he's going to be honest. He knows his company is not the most entertaining but he appreciates that Apple seems not to outwardly mind. One day he might actually fish or hunt again for her instead of simply causing her food to appear from thin air. He's sure she'll like that. Either way, all of this is to say that no, Ghostbur, he would rather not get dragged to your field for some activity you haven't even explained clearly. All he'd managed to surmise was that it entailed speaking to someone. Had Schlatt or Mexican Dream discovered a way to come here? He hopes not since this was supposed to his private piece of the void. Although, now he thought about it, he's pretty sure he's unintentionally missed the last couple times he and Mexican Dream had tried to schedule a Spanish lesson. Damn it. Yeah, Mexican Dream likely wasn't super pleased about being left hanging. Next card session, he'd apologise. Had someone they'd known died and found their way here somehow? No, he's sure Ghostbur would have mentioned their name by now if that had been the case. Even when they reach their destination, nothing gains any clarity. "Alright, we're here. What do you want from me?" "I was thinking about how we can make people show up because, well, I already made Apple appear. Anyway, it might be good for you to have more friends here because before me, you were very lonely." "I'm not... lonely." He huffs. "Besides, when it comes to a lot of our 'friends', we didn't part on the best of terms. Lots of uh, animosity, I suppose you could say." "Then you get that anger out. You're very good at that." Yep, that's him, the guy who was always angry. Not like anger or its cousin frustration weren't simply the easiest to settle into. He's played the asshole villain once before, he can keep doing it for the sake of maintaining his reputation. He supposes he should be glad that Ghostbur has never caught any moments where his face hadn't been as dry whenever the ghost has approached his cave. Or when he's recovering from a rough nap. So yeah, Mr Angry, that's who he is. But god is it tiring to maintain a single emotion. Must be great for Ghostbur to get a wider range. "So who do you want first?" Deliberation. Then a stubborn sigh. "Phil. I guess." Within a minute, a replica of Phil is standing before them. He's a pretty decent copy of the real man, although he swears those wings should be darker and he's certain Phil's missing the handful of grey hairs his 40s have provided him. Close enough though. Not to mention this is literally only an illusion. Anything Soulbur might want to say to him doesn't matter because Phil's not actually going to hear it. Neither of them can predict how he'll genuinely react to wherever a potential conversation may lead. He comments as much to Ghostbur who comes across as unfazed by this issue. Well, screw it, might as well get it out of the gate. "Kind of a shitty thing you did. And I know that we apparently asked for it but... you didn't have to actually do it." "Go on, don't hold back." The ghost encourages. "I mean, where the hell do you want me to start? Him killing us, the frequent trips away that turned into fucking off indefinitely, the fact I didn't feel like-?" "Not me, him." A groan. "Fine. You agreed to let Tommy stay so he should have been your responsibility more than mine. In my teens, I should have been more preoccupied with dumb things like wanting to have a bunch of friends or catching a girl's attention. Not deciding whether I needed to leave Tommy home alone so we could still eat because you weren't back from another sodding trip yet. You probably know by now but surprise! Fundy was never just some rapidly aging kid I seemed to always be babysitting. Not that you were ever there long enough to press me on that by that point. You know, I didn't realise being a parent had a time limit. By that logic, I should have told Fundy to get on with being an independent adult as soon as he turned 5. Maybe it's a good thing Tommy pretty much chose to live on his own at 16, god forbid I had to spend another 2 or so years frequently looking out for him. I might not have known what I was doing and honestly, could have done with some tips, but at least you already taught me what not to do. God knows why I bothered to offer you a chance to start over with those letters." "I'm sorry." The fake Phil says. "You don't get to choose if he'd actually apologise." "Isn't that what you want?" "It's what you want." Ghostbur's brow furrow with genuine confusion. "And you don't?" "You want some perfect world where things can be fixed with a single conversation so no, I don't want that. Not realisitic." "What do you want from him then?" He takes a long, scrutinising look at the imitation of his pseudo-father before him. Objectively, he is vaguely aware there were many moments of affection that grew sparser the older he got and the more often Phil would go adventuring with Technoblade. He was... loved and he used to love back. Or that is his best guess. He was becoming very close friends with Techno back when they were in their teens too. There's a reason he was never able to fully trust the piglin hybrid during their time in Pogtopia. It was Phil's fault for entrusting him with responsibilities always a little bit too early. But it was Techno's fault for not bringing it up despite the amount of times they left without the other two when Wilbur made it as blatantly clear as he could that he wasn't happy about it. He didn't always shut the door more firmly than he should whenever they bid farewell. And he is sure that, once upon a time, being surrounded by one of Phil's wings was among his favourite places to be. Not anymore. "Guess." He answers. --- It's a week after he talks to 'Phil' that Ghostbur suggests they try the exercise once more. Soulbur begrudgingly accepts. "Oh, I know. How about Tommy? He and I used to hang out. We even went on holiday together." "A holiday?" "Mhmm," Ghostbur nods enthusiastically. "Dream took us on a boat and I did my best not to touch the water even though I like teasing Phil by sticking my hand out when it rains." Faintly, from an intangible distance he can't perceive the length of, alarm bells toll. Dream wasn't the type of guy to randomly send a teenager and his brother's ghost on a holiday abroad. He wouldn't be surprised if there were ulterior motives at play. After all, Dream had practically enabled Wilbur with the TNT stock increase so... he doesn't know what to make of it. One way or another, something didn't add up. However, he is lacking in context and if it's as dubious as he suspects, Soulbur doubts Ghostbur can recall the necessary background intel to complete the full picture. Ghostbur seems like he has more to say on the matter in his ramble but Soulbur jumps in with "Doesn't rain burn you though?" "Well yes but when it's tiny like drizzle, it's all tingly instead. It only really hurts when I touch a lot of it." "Like for example... the ocean." "Yes." He giggles. "But I wasn't going to actually do it. It would have been fun if I could. Phil always makes this face when I try to touch rain. It's like when Alivebur used to sneak a few more berries in his mouth than he was supposed to or when he got his clothes wet by jumping into rivers." "Right. Anyway, let's get Tommy over with." 'Tommy' is, again, a good copy. His hair has grown out which Soulbur suspects may have been something that occurred in his absence. He's not used to this length since Tommy always kept his hair in a flux of 'short and kind of tidy' to 'too annoying and shit'. You know what? This length lowkey suits him. If Soulbur, or more to the point Wilbur, were still alive, he'd say so to the real Tommy's face. But instead, he supposes he has to vent for the sake of the activity. It takes a minute but he is able to think of something. "You shouldn't have acted as my right hand in exile. You did decently during the war and did your part to help with the election. But when it came to exile? You kept opposing the TNT idea but didn't really offer any potential alternative solutions to deal with L'Manburg instead. At one point I think you even came close to unintentionally helping Schlatt with his plans for the sake of a distraction. And shit, Tubbo might have ended up being a bit of a yes man but at least I knew not to fully trust his motives and actions. You were supposed to stick by my side or tell me to get fucked. You did both and neither. You might not be an adult yet but you're certainly not a little boy anymore. If you are going to take a stand, you can't just let yourself be a dissenting bystander. I might have even listened to you if you came up with a viable enough plan to rid our country of tyranny without destroying it for good. But well... too late for that now." Tommy appears dejected. Immediately, Soulbur really wishes his ghostly twin would stop giving these clones feelings when the point of all this was to do it without the actual person they represented knowing what his thoughts were. They would have to sort it out. --- The sun is warm in his field and it's nearly enough to negate the slight universal chill he's slowly begun growing accustomed to. With Soulbur laying near him, Friend grazing somewhere off in the distance and Apple enjoying the sun in the gap between the humans, it's a rare moment but lovely all the same. "Do you ever think about how it was supposed to be over, how we were supposed to be done with everything?" Soulbur speaks up. "No? What do you mean?" "I mean the button. We kept telling Tommy we wouldn't die in the explosion, that the people who'd die were those unfortunate enough to be in L'Man- Manberg when we set it aflame. Never us, no no no. Us, in our little button room? Nah, why would you ever think that? People lied to us, we lied to them back. Nobody's fucking trustworthy. Eret dumped potatoes on us like 'Oh we're the best of friends now and everything's all great between us'. Fuck off, if you think I'd let my guard down around you, especially you, you have another thing coming. Probably wanted to hurt Tommy and I again for the hell of it. And maybe we weren't that far gone by October, maybe we were being honest about not intending to die with our nation. But on the day, we fucked up. I don't know what it was, I think... I think it was the combination of Tubbo being targeted for supposedly having loyalty towards Pogtopia, Schlatt being a prick as usual and everything seeming to happen at once. Whatever happened, we freaked out and couldn't focus enough to realise we needed to take maybe like... five steps forward to find where the entrance to the room was hidden. So we lost our great chance and had to wait for the next one. All that time telling ourselves we just had to get to the 16th and then we'd get what we wanted, all of it for nothing. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that it was only an extra month to get worse. When we set a date for war, it gave us a target to aim for. So yeah, we got worse and threw ourself into making sure that this time we would not fail under any circumstance. Who cares about basic things like staying safe and healthy when we knew the when and where of our death? We were like... we were like those people that are terminally ill and their body just loses its appetite the sicker they get. Either way, we got what we wanted and then realised this wasn't what we expected it to be. Screw us for hoping to catch a fucking break, right?" Ghostbur begins questioning why exactly he was going on a rant like this but Soulbur barrels on regardless. "Whenever people speculate about what the afterlife is like, a lot of them imagine it as this great time where you reunite with those you knew who went before you. You all sit in a circle and hold hands and enjoy each other's company, forever. You do that shit forever. Seeing people you cared about sounds nice in theory but in practice? There's a reason you don't stay in the presence of even your favourite person ever 24/7. It's tiring. Fuck that, you know? I don't know whether humans were made to be social for eternity. It's like 'Oh hey Grandma, fancy seeing you here for the trillionth time since I died'. Not for me, thanks. Not for a bunch of people either, I'm sure of it." "You said it was January when you left?" "Yes." "And you're sure about that?" "Yes." "Well that's only two months. And trust me, I might not know how long I've been here but I know it's been far longer than two months. Which means, Ghostbur, which means that time moves faster here. I don't know how much faster, there's no way of working it out, but one thing is for sure, we're going to get more days here than down there. Because... because here's the thing, Ghostbur, here's the thing, it doesn't matter how hard you try to keep count of the days in little notebooks or whatever, because it will get to a point where you don't care if the index number- that's what the little number in the top right corner is called, right? Nobody cares if the number is 8 or 9 by the time you've been here long enough to be counting that high. Who cares if you've been here for 2 times 10 to the power of 6 or- or 5 times 10 to the power of 300 days? One way or another, you'll have been dead for a long, long time. By that point, who gives a shit. The main problem is that it seems the dead are stuck with a longer infinity than the living." "Sometimes- Okay, I'm only admitting this out loud because technically we're the same person and I mean, who are you going to tell, other than Schlatt or Mexican Dream- Friend might also count, I don't know... Same difference. But fuck it, you're not going to tell anyone who actively gives a shit about trying to play the bigger person with the intent of stopping me." He catches his breath. "Sometimes, Ghostbur, sometimes I wonder if I were to collapse this pretend world and leave myself with no protection from the Void, whether that would cause me to lose consciousness. Wouldn't that be interesting? Never having to regain consciousness, just... lights out and then a nap that lasts long enough to see the universe end. Death as it should be." He glances over at Soulbur silently. Speechlessly even because what on earth is he supposed to say after all that? His other half is thoughtfully playing with a poppy still connected to the ground. He is seemingly none the wiser to Ghostbur's lost gaze. "I guess these flowers aren't too bad. Shame I'll get incredibly bored of them eventually." "...I think you need some blue. Let me find you some from my collection." "Believe me, I don't think blue will help in the slightest." "Try it anyway. It helps me." "Well, infinite time to gather infinite resources... I doubt you wasting some on me will make a difference in the long run." He stumbles as he rises. Blue, just focus on making blue. He's laughter and encouragement and an open pair of comforting arms when necessary. He was not made to contemplate the universe or its mysteries. So he'll deliver blue to those who need it. Maybe he'll spare some blue for himself. But Soulbur first, definitely. --- The next week, amongst the suggestions he throws at Soulbur regarding who he should speak to this time, Niki's name gets mentioned. The more volatile half of Alivebur outright refuses to even consider it. His reasoning is that he has nothing to say to her, regardless of how much the real Niki likely has to say to him. Ghostbur doesn't get much of a chance to argue they could speak to Niki without having to criticize her. She appears in their void world either way when Soulbur is gone because who says he can't hang out with his friend? He provides all the ingredients. He lets her be in charge of grounding the wheat into flour since she is much better at it than him. Instead, he is in charge of slicing the apples into segments as equally as he can. The slices that won't go in the cake or on it as part of the decoration will become snacks for Friend. They work well as a team, chatting and laughing together as they prepare it all for baking. "Niki, Alivebur didn't do this often, did he?" "No but it's okay, he was a very busy man." "We should do this regularly. We can do that now." "Sure. It'll be fun." The end product is as delicious as it smells. They sample the result of their hard work, leaving a minimum of half to share with a certain someone. The cliff face never reeked of nicotine in life as far as he's aware. Then again, he has no memories of Alivebur ever considering touching a cigarette while living here. He doesn't expect to recall something like that in the first place but... he believes his point still stands. Apple Pumpkinson is probably lingering in the vicinity since he can't see her right now. He does, however, spot a figure with their knees tucked towards their chest and a glowing burning dot. There is a mix of sniffling and coughing coming from them as well. Part of Ghostbur plans to enquire whether that's simply the result of Soulbur's habit or an indication he isn't feeling great at the moment. Despite not truly wanting to, he decides to leave it. He doubts Soulbur would appreciate the intrusion. So he sticks to his original reason for coming here. "Niki and I baked a cake so here's your share of it. It's got a bunch of apples inside and on top. Don't tell anyone," He chuckles. "But I've already had a taste test. It's very, very good but I might be a little biased." Perhaps when he checks in tomorrow, the cake will have been undisturbed. More for him, he jokes internally. He does hope Soulbur will enjoy the gift though. So when he swings by again the next day to leave a new set of flowers (a bunch of oxeye daisies that were as lovely as they were cheery) and discovers there is no evidence of a baked product ever being delivered, Ghostbur is optimistically hopeful. It was a rather large portion which is why he expects Soulbur not have eaten it in one go. He comes to the conclusion it might be good if he does this more often. --- Having suggested people like Niki (nope, no thanks, he doesn't know if he could manage to look any version of her in the eye) and Eret (no chance in hell, for arguably the inverse reasons), Ghostbur has once again dragged him back to the flower field for one of the talks. It's Fundy this time, though he was incredibly reluctant to accept. There's no trace of war or any sort of strife for that matter on his son. He's in a t-shirt and an open black hoodie, slightly younger than he last recalls so perhaps in his late teens. It's dawningly apparent that this is the boy who was yet to sneak off to join his uncle on an adventure to find somewhere cool, far away. It won't do. Soulbur has things he wants to say but not to this kid who is probably only 17 or 18. The war veteran turned spy wearing a dark jacket with their familiar coloured stripes on the side of the partition appears as his replacement. That's better. "You went behind my back. You not only ran against me in the election, with one of my closest friends might I add, but then attempted to win by committing voter fraud. Not to mention you went on to basically side with Schlatt. I don't care if it was supposed to be a ruse. You still did things that benefitted his cause. I'm not going to go into the fucking flag because I don't feel like being here all day. I know full well showing you basic human decency doesn't mean you're in my debt. But the least you could have done was not turn your back on me the minute you decided you didn't need me anymore. Being in your early 20s doesn't mean you suddenly begin to know what the hell you're doing. I should know!" Ghostbur steps between them, arms thrown out wide. "Fundy is a good son. He's never done anything wrong." "Don't try to debate when you don't have all the evidence." "Well, you shouldn't either then." "Tell me, how great was your relationship as Ghostbur? Because I can't imagine he'd welcome the remnants of his dear old dad back with open arms after all the shit that had just gone down while we were exiled." "I visited him in his home. Phil was there sometimes too." He scoffs at the breezy nonchalance. "Bet that went well." He takes another look at his little boy, not quite as little as he once was, and that's all it takes for him to stop acting pissed off. Four months was a short amount of time for so much to happen to Wilbur. But, likewise, practically just as much happened to Fundy and the others once united under the flag of L'Manburg. Doesn't he know it. And that's exactly why he is positive he cannot stay here a minute longer. "You undoubtedly know where to find me." "Soulbur, wait! You don't have to go. We can-" "I'm tired, Ghostbur. I really don't want to keep doing this. Mostly because it's always been pointless but also, how many times do you want me to get purposefully upset at people we used to care about?" Dejectedly, Ghostbur's gaze diverts to the side as he mumbles out "Cliff or trees?" "Cliff, probably. Apple is there." There is a nod in response and that's all the cue he needs to get the hell out of here. "Do you want to stay up tonight?" He asks his cat. "I can feel it will most likely be a festival kind of thing if I close my eyes. A-And I really can't do that if... Fundy's so close to the front of my mind right now." Speaking of festivals, he thinks he knows who he should have a one sided chat with. But this time, he won't be the one doing the talking. --- He wasn't actually seeking out Soulbur this time. It's an accident that he catches the scene but he's glad to see Tubbo in front of him. It's great that Soulbur was in fact willing to give it a go after all. He felt like it might have slightly been an act, the whole reluctance and instances of hesitation to fully commit. He'll leave them be. If Soulbur wants to do this on his own, Ghostbur is hardly going to breach that privacy. Tubbo takes a breath and it goes downhill from there. "You got me killed. Twice. Your incompetence and neglect to see what was going on got us all killed. You should have realised sooner instead of helping to lead us down to a massacre. In fact, your leadership wasn't what won us the war. It was Tommy sacrificing one of his lives and then both his discs that won us our freedom. And when I trusted you to keep me safe while I risked so much to help you out, you let me die. You lied to me and told me Technoblade was on your side. Look how well that turned out. I was scared out of my mind. I thought you'd at least try to think of a way to help me. But no, you stayed on that roof. Even tried to use the chaos following my execution as a distraction while you ran to the fucking button. You know, it's a shame you destroyed L'Manburg because, even at only 16, I would have made a much bet-." Tubbo cuts off suddenly at the sound of sobbing. He'd tried his best to be silent, he really had. He's not sure why he didn't leave like he'd intended to once Tubbo began talking. Oh and there's Soulbur with that scowl on his face again. "The hell are you doing here, Ghostbur?" "Why are you making him say that? Tubbo wouldn't say that to us." Weary exasperation. "None of them are real, they're just manifestations for the sake of having something to focus on and visualise. What, you'd prefer I switch him to a more suitable individual?" Tubbo morphs into a tall man with unkempt brown hair, a trenchcoat and fingerless gloves. His face bears a matching scowl to Soulbur's one from a moment ago while displaying signs of neglecting basic care... the same sort that, again, Soulbur exhibited. Point made, the third Wilbur dissolves into the air. "You really think that Self Loathing Central is going to thrive positively in a mental capacity by saying things aloud? I'm not the one who needs to sort through his feelings when it comes to harsh truths, Ghostbur. The problem is you seem to be literally incapable of that, given your whole side of the amnesia. Can't help it, I know. But you don't know how- god, if only you knew how goddamn frustrating it is." "I'm sorry. I'm really trying." "Yeah. Me too." Soulbur spits back. The frown remains despite his sharp, conceding exhale. "I just struggle to imagine how we make up the same person sometimes." --- Ghostbur's typically calm, even sunny, demeanour changes to a frown. Okay... he questions whether he's gone too far, given that his counterpart's mood has now tipped into frustrated. Well, either way, he pissed people off in life and he's still continuing to piss them off (although now it's technically himself, in this scenario) in death. This isn't really anything new. Shit, he's even managed to push Ghostbur to a fleeting bout of frustrated anger once before. But this isn't fury, not yet. "Okay, why are you so mean? You are always angry or sad or- or bitter. It's like... what's the phrase? It's like talking to a brick wall. I don't like it." "You don't like a lot about me. Your point?" "My point is be more nice. I just want to get along." "So you can betray me again?" "I never betrayed you! I know Alivebur did a lot of bad th-" "Forget Alivebur." Soulbur spits. Okay, he supposes this is getting quite real now. Fuck knows where this will end up but who cares right now. "Never mind what wrong we did while alive. Right now this is about what you did. You specifically." "But we are the same person." "We are two halves of the same person, yes. Unequal halves at that. Which is your fault." "I never did anything." "Oh my god. Are you serious?!" He starts pacing slightly. Fingers make their way through his hair, stopping halfway, then join their respective arms in being thrown to the sky. He almost seems to be addressing the sun with his next words. "Do you hear that? Do you- do you bloody hear that? He never did anything wrong. Sweet, innocent, harmless Ghostbur is absolutely incapable of wrongdoing." Now whipping back to the ghost. "Why do you want to fuse? Be honest." "Well um, people need Alivebur back. I can't be him. So we need to-" "Go back down there? Yeah, sure, we planned to end up here after destroying L'Manburg but we'll just start living again as if the last few months of our life didn't happen. As if we didn't... Fuck." "But we can live again. Just different." "And that's the problem, isn't it, you being the one willing to live? You know what I want from a hypothetical fusion? To be whole. I want to have all our fucking memories in one spot, to remember what it was like to be goddamn happy. But no, can't risk that, especially now I'm sure you'll do the one thing I don't want you to." He can tell Ghostbur is attempting to formulate a counterpoint to this outburst. He doesn't allow him to. Besides, the ghost had been pushing him to vent at various 'friends' and, in Soulbur's opinion, there was one person who could do with targeting more than the others. Funnily enough, they were already standing right in front of him. "Do you know what it's like to be betrayed by someone you considered a friend?" No answer. "No? Well, I do. I know exactly what that's like because we thought Eret was loyal to L'Manburg's cause. If there were any red flags to be caught, we missed them all. People died. Kids died. In that room, I think we might have been one of the last to go, or at least lose consciousness. Being left to bleed out is bad enough. It's worse when you have enough time to realise how young the others were. We were left there with a couple of 16 years old, one of whom was our little brother we practically raised by ourself, and then our very own son. I'm sure you remember what it was like to watch Tommy and Fundy grow up though, don't you?" "Yeah." It leaves Ghostbur's mouth barely above the threshold for human hearing. "I don't, not really. But I do know we loved them. And I also remember seeing them stiller than we should have ever seen them. I'm not sure how exactly Tubbo died but there was certainly a ridiculous amount of blood around him. Fundy, I'm not too sure about either but Tommy, god Tommy. He was trying to escape Dream and fell, hit his head hard enough to die probably instantly. He was just- He was just lying there for a little while before his body registered it still had more lives and began the respawning process. And then the duel... that arrow hit him right in the chest and he simply stumbled back then dropped. More blood than I want to recall. You know what makes it worse? Those two deaths happened on the exact same day." "Do you know what it's like to watch all your friends leave you?" Again, no verbal response. This time though, there is a frown as Ghostbur recognises his twin was here to shame him. "No? Of course not. Listen, I admit that maybe I helped by refusing to fully trust anyone again but all they did was prove my point. You can't fault me for looking out for number one." "That sounds selfish." "It is not selfish to practise self preservation or wanting to make sure you don't repeat mistakes that had fatal consequences." "You're the reason everyone hated Alivebur." "We are both Wilbur. We are both responsible for everything he did or was. The only difference is that I am the one who remembers Pogtopia and you don't." "Why are you acting like it's my fault? I didn't do anything." "Because it is your fault, Ghostbur! You are literally the reason we split, the reason I've been stuck in this hellhole of a limbo with no decent memories to balance out the bad or even traumatic ones. You took that from me. You and only you. I thought I could rid the world of L'Manburg and everything that made it doomed to inevitably fail, myself included, then hopefully find some peace for the first time in who knows how long. But no. No, you had to decide you weren't as done with it all as I was. You took everything I wanted. You... you..." "You're being unfair. Who's to say you weren't the one who caused our split?" "Because I remember it. Unlike you, it seems." Soulbur's fury falters for a moment as this truth becomes apparent. This pause doesn't last long. "Oh, of course you wouldn't remember it. Why should I expect you to remember the most important moment of our post-death?! You are hopeless." "I'm not." Ghostbur's face is half covered in cornflower blue rivers flowing from his eyes. "You are. I would give anything to be whole again without needing to fuse with you. If I knew how to take those good memories back and leave you with as little as you left me, I think I would." "No, you're just lying to make me feel bad. Stop it. Just stop it." "Fucking make me." Ghostbur vigorously wipes his tears away, inevitably smearing the rich colour across his desaturated face. He's snivelling too as he pretends he's not in breaking down into whimpers. In another situation, if he saw Ghostbur like this, he would show sympathy. But at this very moment, with his wrath no longer kept at bay? He's almost inclined to call the sight before him pathetic. "You are a 24 year old man, stop acting like you're 4 and the world's ending because you scraped your knee." "Why are you acting like this?" "Because I want you to take responsibility for the misery you've forced me to endure! I've tried to keep a level head, god knows I have tried not to take it out on you too much, but I don't know how much longer I can keep this act up. You know, I keep seeing the people I cared about dead. If I think about L'Manburg for a few seconds too long, I end up watching the thing that was supposed to symbolise safety from back when I still had faith in it get destroyed over and over again. I can't stop thinking about how everyone turned their back on me, only to end up doing it to myself. For- for you to end up doing that to me." God damn it, why the hell can't his voice stay steady right now? "Do you understand how horrible that was? So grow up and show that you're sorry. Just saying it won't do. You have to prove it." Through the tears that had sprung from his own eyes, he can see the ghost has screwed his eyes shut tight with blocked ears. Oh, this was ridiculous. Soulbur grabs his counterpart's hands in an effort to pry them from the side of his head. "Stop acting like you can simply run from everything." There's more fuel to keep this fight going at his disposal but he doesn't get a chance to continue. Ghostbur tugs forcefully to free his hands. Unfortunately for both of them, it's too late. What's done is done. --- Wilbur wasn't used to having such a gathering. The only people who he could expect to be found in the house somewhere were Tommy and Phil. Technoblade too, as of his arrival in their lives a few months ago. He was technically in his early teens but Wilbur guesses piglin hybrids matured sooner than humans since he appeared to be approximately at the beginning of adulthood. Either way, the three people he lived under the same roof as weren't the only ones here today. He tended to hang out with his friends from the village instead of the other way around. It was far more convenient for him to make the short journey to them than all of them individually visiting him together. Yet here they all were, ready to celebrate today with him. And no, Tommy, he does not have a crush on any of the girls in the group. You even try to insinuate that in front of everyone today and you will find crumbs in the most annoying spots on your bed. Presents are exchanged while Phil dithers in the kitchen, awaiting his cue. He wouldn't say he had a bad go of it this year. He was definitely not expecting the newly forged diamond sword. These arrows are great as well. And oh, was that the cake Phil was bringing out? His arm comes too close to the cake as he goes to blow out the candles, eliciting a "Wil!" from his father. What the hell is he- oh shit. Fuck, his hoodie sleeve is on fire. Not good, not good at all. Shit, shit, shit. Stop staring at it. Do something, idiot. Uh... uh water. Kitchen. Dump it in the sink. Better dump it on the floor and stamp on that soggy piece of shit too for good measure. Remembering himself, he returns his attention to the others. "Um, I think the problem's solved." "You will be the death of me, you know that?" Phil takes a long exhale. There's also a laugh that sounds like someone coming down from stress. Which, he supposes, it is. "Just put it to the side somewhere and come have the cake. Preferably without setting yourself alight again." "Got it." Luckily for everyone, the rest of the cake section of the day goes off without a hitch. Wilbur animatedly chatters with his mates as they eat. He's not entirely sure how they end up at the topic of swimming. "Well, there's the river nearby. We should go there after this. Screw the 60 minute rule." Tommy's head perks up. "Can I come too?" "Obviously." "Guys..." Phil sighs. This weariness is met with a grin. "You only turn 16 once, Phil." Hand gripping his 8 year old brother's one, they sprint towards the water. Wilbur steps back a few paces once they get there so he can do a run up before entering the water in a cannonball position. Hair dripping, he encourages Tommy to do the same. His friends leap in at their own pace. One even pushes a mutual friend in, which only leads to a shriek that gets cut off abruptly then a string of words the youngest member of the party probably shouldn't be hearing. "Oi, Wil!" He turns to one of his friends, only to receive a faceful of water. "Happy birthday." "Oh, you fucker. Hey everyone, gang up on Mark." A war ensues that ends up with all of them getting their faces wet, some even have their heads dunked underwater. By the end of the day, there aren't enough towels to meet the demand. Either way, Wilbur's beaming, even as he deals with his soggy fringe in the middle of saying goodbye to all his guests. Pretty decent birthday, he'd say. --- It's not that Wilbur hasn't been freezing before, because he has, even outside of some dumb tundra. The main difference right now was that it was February and Phil had decided this was the perfect time of year to be in a place like this. He'd moaned and grumbled about it yet his father was having none of it. At least he'd been allowed his fair share of opportunities to pummel Phil with snowballs. There seemed to be an endless supply of ammunition here. Snow was also fun to run across sometimes. It was usually thick enough for him not to slip on the underlying ice too. So that's why, after getting temporarily distracted by a polar bear sighting, he dashes back to Phil's side without a second thought. There is less friction between his feet and the ground here. They really should have considered the ratio of ice to snow before any pounding transferral of body weight had been made. Neither he nor Phil had paid full attention to all of the increased risks until Wilbur was already in the water. He splutters. He kicks. He sinks and manages to drag himself back up again and again. And oh man, is it cold. Worse than cold. He wants to breathe, please let him stay upright long enough to catch a breath. His arms hurt too. They really, really do. It's like they're getting stabbed a bunch by icicles. Everything feels stabby like that, actually. He hates this. His mouth keeps getting hints of freezing salt too which is awful. Where's Phil? He's too busy trying not to bob down again to fully see. There's shouting though. "Wil! Wil, I swear to god, just calm down. Don't let the cold shock mess with you." 'Easy for you to say' is what he would bark back if he wasn't desperately trying his best to keep his head above the surface. "Wilbur, trust me, you're going to become a block of ice at the bottom if you keep reacting to the cold like that. Hang onto the edge and let yourself get used to the cold. That's it." He's still treading water a little too diligently when his body finally stops freaking out about the temperature so much. Phil will likely scold him for wasting energy like this. Not like he wasn't floundering in a panic a minute ago. Yeah no, Phil's totally going to have a go for that too. Wilbur was taught all this stuff when they got here. He should know exactly how to react in a situation like this. What if Phil hadn't been here? What would he do then, huh? Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Good, good. Now do your best to become horizontal." In the water, he forgets how to reposition his body. All his focus is on trying to move his legs accordingly and maintaining a secure enough grip on the ice. Glances towards Phil show that he's laying flat on his stomach as he instructs him. Something, something, surface area or spreading your body weight or whatever, right? When Wilbur has completed this next step, Phil slides a pickaxe over to him. Fumbling frozen fingers nearly allow it to slip under the water, out of reach. His co-ordination is practically non-existent right now but he still manages to position a tip of the pick into the ice. Dragging himself across to Phil is an arduous task but at least he's out of the water. They're on their stomachs until Phil feels absolutely sure they are not at risk of history repeating itself. After that point, he follows the man's lead by standing up with some help. He's barely on his feet when an external force is dragging his body in a direction he wasn't anticipating once more. Yet this time, he's in no real danger. It's just arms keeping him pressed against a heavy coat. Phil's shaking but not for the same reasons as him. "Christ sake, Wil. Try to be more careful next time. Otherwise I'll end up keeling over right here in the middle of nowhere." They reposition after a minute. Wilbur's hand is around Phil's waist while the winged man's grip secures itself to his son's left shoulder. Neither will drift far from each other like this. "You doing relatively alright, at least?" He hums briefly in response. Oh wow, that does not feel good. Vibrations are getting temporarily banned from his throat thanks. "Okay, let's get a move on then." "Okay. Ki- Kinda tired." Nope, nope, nope. "Can't- can't t-talk." He mumbles as they begin walking. "Shiv- shiverin' n' naus- naus-" "Nausea? Shivering and talking makes you feel nauseous?" The overwhelming tremors cause him to nod his head rapidly which is probably the most counterintuitive side effect he's ever experienced. Phil softly chuckles while drawing him in even closer with his arm. "Well, don't talk then, Wil. We'll sort out the shivering soon. After that, you can collapse in a heap on your bedding if you want." "Warn- warning. Just in... case." It's a struggle but he can't not communicate things that may be of importance. "Alright, alright. Thanks for the thought but you really should go easy on yourself, okay? It's not that far." Phil gets the fire going as soon as they return to their base. Wilbur simply sits there, desperately hoping his brain will stop sending signals to his throat and stomach to potentially prepare for a collaboration. His soaked clothes are stripped from him and replaced with blessedly dry ones. Any available blankets are piled on him for good measure. The past hour or so finally registers in full as Phil helps rub his arms through the layers in an effort to warm him up. "Pretty scary, wasn't it?" His father comments in response to the sudden bout of sobbing. "Try not to fall into anymore frozen water next time, alright? Don't think my heart could take another shock like that." "Do m'best." "Good lad." Phil smiles. "That's all I ask." He wipes a scalding tear off the boy's cheek as it comes cascading down. He'll sit with him and help discard of more tears hours from now when Wilbur wakes from visions of unending water or his mind fools him into believing he is caught in trembles that refuse to cease. And when it comes, Phil's decision to leave the tundra couldn't have brought more relief to Wilbur. --- It was odd. Soulbur had retained the part with the fire. He recalled the heat, the instinctual panic he felt upon realising he was in danger. He'd been able to somewhat be aware of when it had happened, that that disastrous moment had occurred during his 16th birthday. Although, that had been the extent of it. There were no birthday cakes or messing around in the water or well meaning banter amongst those he considered friends. He had even been oblivious to the identities of anyone who may have been present. When your safety and wellbeing are jeopardised, the last thing you're concentrating on is useless information like whether or not your father is standing beside you. So this was the kind of moments Ghostbur had hoarded for himself, was it? It feels so good. It's been too long since the last time he laughed. For a second, he can almost recall the feeling of drawing his stomach in as fuels for giggles and the pull of muscles as the corner of lips spread upwards. He waits for the inevitable withdrawal of it from his reach. His brain will go against him by discarding of the anomaly it just registered. Any second now. Maybe? ...No? Clearly, not enough time has elapsed. There is no point in getting his hopes up like an idiot. Except, he wants to. He desperately wishes this is not a fluke due to be rectified the moment he lets his guard down. It... isn't, apparently. And for the first time since he'd been abandoned in death, Soulbur kept a pleasant memory. It's not enough, a greedy part of him decides. No, he thinks Ghostbur needs to learn how to share. Surely there is more stored in the ghost's head than he needs. He won't miss a few more. Besides, why should that traitorous bastard get all the good stuff? Not to mention, they were as much his memories as they were Ghostbur's. They should have equal rights to them. All that seems to be required is a brief bit of skin contact. So that's what he'll do. Soulbur doesn't believe he has ever been the type of person to be all touchy-feely, not that he's particularly had the opportunity to prove otherwise, but for the sake of a few memories? Well, what's an occasional hand on the shoulder or pat on the back in the general scheme of things?

#dream smp #my writing #twobur au #tw suicidal ideation #tw drowning #tw parental neglect #tw animal death

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thephantomofthe-internet · 4 years

Text

Read into Me Chapter 4: North and South

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 4,753

Warnings: Swearing, bullying, i reference the plot of Wuthering Heights and that has some icky stuff in it idk what to tag that though

Author’s Note: How’re you guys liking the series so far? I’m really enjoying it, I’d love to hear what you guys think, good or bad! Also, is over 4k too much for you guys? I used to strive to hit that mark when I first started but the fandom’s changed so much, I feel like an old fart lmao

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @buckysarge @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @unusuallchild @alwaysstressedout @linkispink1995 @asharpkniffe @a-big-ball-of-idk @mochminnie @used-avocado @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie

You didn’t hear from Steve after that, save for him returning your essay with minimal markings and a graded ‘A’ on the top. He’d gone back to his people as quickly as he’d left them, letting Vicki talk his ear off from across the aisle. You didn’t mind too much, her voice was grating on the ear, but her hair was pretty and she actually seemed to ask him questions. You didn’t know why it mattered to you that she seemed genuinely interested in Steve, but you decided that he deserved someone who cared enough to know him. Everyone deserved someone who cared enough to know them. Tina just talked about herself for the whole class when everyone was supposed to be discussing the book at hand, Wuthering Heights, and it got very annoying. You just filled out your discussion questions and did your best to be invisible. No one seemed to notice except for Mr. Lawrence, who’d scolded you twice now for not participating in group discussions.

“I know that you know this stuff, but I can’t give you participation points if you don’t participate with others.” He handed you back your discussion sheet for chapter four. You’d gotten everything right; Mr. Lawrence was lobbing low balls at the class to try to get them to read the book. You didn’t change your tune; you didn’t want to talk to your peers. It didn’t matter anyway, no matter what you said to them you’d still write down the same answers and get the same grade.

You didn’t hear much about your failings to participate after he handed back your first essays. You weren’t surprised that you’d gotten a low ‘A’ on the paper; you hadn’t tried that hard on it. You noted that he’d given you a good grade on your editing, which Mr. Lawrence noted on the page that he could count it for your participation for the class, since you did so well with it. You couldn’t complain because it was a decent way to pass.

When the bell rang, you made your usual break for it, excited to be on your free period and free to sit in the sun for the afternoon. Tracy Lords was in Samantha’s gym class and with the weather so lovely they’d do class outside, giving you a chance to work on front profiles with her flat, pretty features.

Steve was dreading getting his paper back. He didn’t trust himself to get a decent grade and even with your help he was certain he’d pull above a ‘D’. Mr. Lawrence always handed out pairs face down, so no one got their grades till they were ready to flip over the page. This was the moment that he always dreaded. He found that it was easiest to rip it off like a Band-Aid, just flip it and see so it can be over. He never read comments, he just needed to know if he failed, but the bright red writing on the top of the page caught his eye immediately-‘I’m impressed, Mr. Harrington’ with a 81 percent seeping through to the back of the page. He stared at the grade until the bell rang, unsure if it was even real, if he was even awake. Once he woke up from his beautiful dream, he knew he had one thing to do.

He burst in the hallway like a golden retriever out an open gate, searching for you without really knowing where to begin. He spotted you at your locker. “Y/N!” he called. You flinched, your shoulders hunching into your neck. You could feel people looking at you, which turned you beet red, almost purple, from embarrassment. You didn’t move from your space, hoping that the tile under you would pull back into a trap door and make you disappear from the scene. It didn’t, of course, and Steve found you quickly.

“Look at this!” he held up his paper to you, beaming like a child. You looked at the paper slowly, taking in the grade and the note at the top of the page, then his face.

“Oh…that’s great.” You said, unsure how to really respond. How was supposed to respond to someone else’s B?

Steve didn’t take in your uncertainty, continuing on “Thank you,” he said earnestly, lowering his voice to add “This is probably the best grade I’ve ever gotten in that class.”

“I’m glad I could help.” You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in how you’d helped him out. Usually, the only people around that you could help was your grandparents with chores or Samantha with getting out of her house for an afternoon and while you enjoyed helping them out, you didn’t get the same joy from it, having done it for so long. Helping Steve made you feel full in a way.

Tommy Hanson had been trying to call the new kid, Billy, over to him when he saw the whole scene go down. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit. There was a hierarchy to Hawkins, rules to follow until you graduated and either solidified your choices or moved the hell out. Steve was popular, the home town hero, the sports star. That kind of power was not something to throw away on a little nobody. Tommy wished he could be that popular, to have that sort of accessibility and he got close when he kept his friends in the right station. Steve had already fucked up once, that little Nancy Wheeler bitch had already demoted him from sex god to weepy heartbroken sad boy, but that was still working for him. And he needed his backup plan to still be cool.

Tommy stalked up to Steve, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Hey, dude, come over here, Stefanie Tomlinson’s panties are showing, you’ve gotta see this shit.” He whispered at him, loud enough to make you cringe and look away, turning back to your books and the stickers on your locker door.

“Dude, don’t be gross.” Steve said, turning his attention back to you “Like I said, thanks for the help.” Tommy kept trying to pull him away, but Steve was taller than him and harder to move around.

“Yeah, like I said, no biggie.” You kept your gaze firmly locked on your locker door. You refused to be mocked by Tommy Hanson. He practically pulled Steve away from you, looking you over with a sneer as they walked off. Tommy didn’t like you, which you already knew. It wasn’t easy for him to hide his hatred in a small town. You didn’t know why, but he’d always been like this, ever since you were kids. He used to push you into the mud and chase you off the swings in elementary school. Since you’d grown up, his cruelty had mostly subsided, but the animosity remained, especially after your mother had threatened his family with albeit an unrelated law suit, which succeeded in getting the whole family away from yours. That was the last helpful thing your mother had done for you.

Tommy kept his arm locked around his friend’s shoulders, escorting him away from potential social suicide. Steve held up his arms in defeat, laughing all the way. “Come on dude, she’s not anything to waste your time on.” Tommy said in a voice loud enough for you to hear, but quiet enough to seem like a whisper.

You shrunk in place, unable to pull your eyes away from the scene, a silent plea echoing in your mind for him to look back if he wasn’t a dick head like Tommy, left unspoken but felt in the depths of your soul. You didn’t know why it hurt you as badly as it had; you knew in your head that he no better than his friends. But your heart had hoped that he was different, that he could be better than him. You turned away before it hurt too badly, collecting your books in your arms and rushing off towards your spare period, hoping to find a bit of quiet to recover from what you’d just experienced.

Steve turned back to see you walking away, his laughter dying in his throat, what Tommy said bouncing around his mind. As soon as Tommy released him, he smacked the freckle faced boy hard in the ribs. “Can you try to not be a dick for five minutes?” he asked, getting a laugh out of Carol, who’d been filing her nails without much interest in the whole thing.

“What? Who gives a shit about her?” Tommy asked, doubling back with his hand on his chest.

“She’s a nice girl, dude, don’t be an asshole.” Steve replied sternly. That piqued Carol’s attention. She turned up from her chipped red nails to look Steve over with a discerning eye.

“Oh god, don’t tell me that you’re trying to bring in another Wheeler type chick into this.” She groaned, brushing away a strand of red hair from her cheek.

“Jesus Christ…” Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose “I don’t know what Nance did to you, but you need to calm down on that crap.”

“But you’re not dating her, right?” Tommy asked.

“Dude, all she did was help me with an assignment, that’s all.” Steve groaned. He felt like a dick, being so dismissive of you, he did like you, but he didn’t really even know you and neither did his friends. He didn’t like anyone assuming who he was or wasn’t with, and yet he still felt like a shithead. He didn’t know why but he did.

When you came home from school, your grandmother was waiting for you by the front door, red plaid kitchen rag draped on her shoulder, apron hanging low on her hips. “Your mother called when you were at school, wanted to see how you were.” She said, wiping her hands on the apron. She shook her head, obviously annoyed at the thought of her absent daughter.

“What’d you tell her?” you asked, kicking off your sneakers and putting them back onto the rack. You didn’t hide your distaste in your mother’s asking about you.

“That you were at school and to call back for you later. She told me to tell you that she’d be back in June and that she was bringing back someone special.” Your grandmother replied, turning back into the kitchen to return to whatever she was making. Your grandfather was passed out on the couch, his snores emanating from the living room almost comforting to you as you trekked up the stairs. You knew that your mother wouldn’t call again for you. She could never remember to call you at a time when you might be at home. She certainly wouldn’t be able to remember to call back.

Before you could even set your bag down, the phone on your desk blared from your desk. Samantha was at soccer practise, so you didn’t believe it was for you, but with your grandmother busy in the kitchen and your grandfather passed out, you grabbed the phone, asking “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Steve,” from his own room, Steve had thought about talking to you again for most of the day, but he’d only found the confidence what the day was over and he was home, where he didn’t have to look at you to speak to you. “I’m sorry if Tommy was weird to you today, he’s an idiot.”

You frowned, brow furrowing “It’s cool, no worries…” you replied. You didn’t feel like explaining how you already knew how much of an idiot he was.

“Yeah, so I was kind of wondering…if you’re not busy…would you mind maybe helping me with the readings? I don’t get this shit at all.” He chuckled awkwardly. In truth he’d had no plan to actually read the novel they’d been assigned, that’s what Cliff’s Notes was for, but he wanted to be around you more, so if homework was a reason to get to be around, then he’d actually read.

“Um…sure, I guess I could.” You didn’t really know what the right answer was for you. You weren’t sure that you trusted him, especially after what had happened that afternoon with Tommy, but your gut told you to say yes.

“Great! What’re you doing right now? Could you meet me somewhere, the reading for the tenth chapter is due tomorrow and I don’t even know what’s happening.” He felt a tad desperate, which was not a feeling he was used to around girls.

“I mean…where would you wanna meet?” anxiety was creeping up the back of your neck. You tried to wipe it away like sweat, but it was stuck to your brainstem.

“You could come over to my place or like I could meet you at the library or something.” Steve didn’t exactly have an answer to that one, he wasn’t even sure he’d get this far. He looked around his messy room, wondering if he’d made the right choice.

You didn’t exactly want to be in his house, but you didn’t have a car and it would take you forever to walk back into town to get to the public library. With a heavy heart, you accepted your unfortunate fate. “I could come over to your place.” You said, squeezing your eyes shut. You hoped that he wasn’t going to take that the wrong way.

“Yeah?” Steve hoped the panic wasn’t evident in his voice. His mother was still out of town and his father spent more time at his office in Carmel then he spent at home as it was. He’d let the mess pile up a bit and he didn’t want to look disgusting.

“Yeah, sure.” You tried to sound casual, but your blood had run cold and your hands had gone clammy. You gripped the receiver far too tightly, your eyes shifting around your room.

“Alright, cool, yeah cool…” Steve said, trying to sound casual “How long do you think it would take to get here?”

“I mean…you still drive the rust coloured BMW, right?” you asked, pulling your curtains back to peer out your window.

“Yeah?” Steve asked.

“I can see your house from my window, I’ll be there in like a minute.” You said.

Steve’s head turned upward, looking around worriedly. He bid his goodbyes quickly, turning his full attention to his messy bed and dirty floor, trying to get every pair of boxers laying on the floor into a basket. He hadn’t expected you to agree to come to his house, and his stomach churned at the idea of freaking you out. He didn’t want to scare you away because he was messy and gross.

You felt as if you’d swallowed your tongue. You rushed for the door, uttering a quick goodbye to your grandparents and pulling your backpack straps tight on your back. It was only five feet away. Five feet. Cross the street and up the driveway and you’re there. You took in a deep breath through your nose and took the first tripping step down your driveway, your body not co-operating with your mind and trying to escape where you were trying to bring it. You needed to calm down, your palms were starting to sweat and your knees had turned to Jell-O. You stopped in the middle of the empty street, huffing out another breath, trying to remind yourself that nothing could hurt you over there. That you could handle anything thrown at you.

Somehow, you made it to the front door without blacking out. You went to knock on the door, but it opened before you made contact. Steve looked frazzled, his hair flopping into his eyes, his expression panicked. “You’re here!” he said, his body blocking the doorframe.

“Am I not supposed to be?” you asked, your hand coming to clutch the top of your opposite arm.

“Nah, nah you are I just-never mind. I’m going crazy I think, come on in.” Steve stuttered, moving his arm out of the way, letting you inside. He didn’t know why he was nervous, he was never nervous to have a girl over. But you weren’t like the usual girls he would invite to hang out by his pool.

You stepped into his house cautiously, entering the dark space like it was a well-preserved colonial mansion. The Harrington household was cold. Everything was navy blue, steely grey, and white. He’d left the lights off in the entryway and the kitchen, although the lights above the grey brick fireplace were on, three white pot lights lighting the whole space. It made his house look ominous. Nobody was around either, you knew that Steve was an only child, but in your house your grandparents were always milling around; sound and voices were everywhere. Steve’s house was silent. The white vertical blinds were left open, and you could see the pool outside, which hadn’t been cleaned yet that day. The carpeting throughout the downstairs muffled your footsteps, adding to the eerie silence. Overall, the house looked expensive. They had all the latest technology and aesthetically the house was very stylish, it made you want to not touch anything in fear of breaking something. You shivered involuntarily, letting your eyes wander around the house, taking in the massive TV and the matching stereo. All his money didn’t make the space feel like home.

“My stuff’s just upstairs.” Steve pointed a thumb up the stairwell by the front door. You hadn’t realized that you’d wandered out of the foyer and into his house. You swallowed, nodding hard and bounding up the steps ahead of him. You noticed that there weren’t any photographs around the house. That felt a bit homier to you; your grandmother kept most of the photos in intricate albums, only keeping a singular family photograph on the mantle of the white tiled fireplace. That felt a bit right to you, that it really was a home and not a showcase home.

Steve’s bedroom was also blue and dark. His walls were dark blue plaid, with matching curtains. The colour was only broken up by a few posters and a floating bookshelf, which held a couple small trophies and a couple books held between black metal bookstands. His bedspread was a navy quilt, and his desk was dark wood and heavy looking. The signs of childhood were clear in the plaid wallpaper and curtains, clearly still remaining from a younger life. But beyond it, the room lacked a bit of personality. The only signs of life were the full laundry hamper and the papers on his desk. Everything else in the room could be in anyone’s room. It looked like a guest room or a hotel room. You dropped your bag on the grey carpeting, unsure where to put yourself in the space. Steve was much more casual, pulling out his desk chair and taking a seat, gesturing for you to sit across from him on the bed. You did so, sitting gingerly on the wrinkled bedspread. It was strange to sit on a boy’s bed, much less it be Steve Harrington’s bed.

“Alright, um…where to begin?” you asked, more to yourself than him. “I guess we should go over what happened in the chapter, yeah?”

“Yeah sure…” Steve replied, picking up his copy of the novel, flipping it open to the chapter. “Uh…so the main chick is in love with Heath and she loves him and they all live happily ever after?”

“That’s…not the plot of either this chapter or the novel.” You said slowly, not looking down to flip your own copy of the book to the marked chapter.

“I mean…that’s what I got from the Kate Bush song.” Steve muttered awkwardly.

“So, you haven’t read the book? Like nothing at all?” you asked. Steve shook his head. “Cliff’s Notes then?” you guessed, looking back to the shelf to see a few of the black and yellow striped covers of the versions of Little Women, Robinson Crusoe, and King Lear. You’d used the reference guides yourself, albeit not as a replacement for the novels themselves.

“You got me…” Steve muttered. He felt like an idiot. It had only taken a minute for him to get caught in his fib.

“Then what’d you need me for?” you replied, setting your book down on the bed next to you, looking him over carefully. Cliff’s Notes would cover everything he needed, they’d answer the questions for him.

“Look…I’m shit at this stuff. I don’t get it. I don’t get why we’re reading this, the book is so boring, even the notes are boring!” he groaned.

“The book is shit.” You replied, deadpan. “Mr. Lawrence is having us read it because it’s one of like three books the county mandates that we read and they gave us Robinson Crusoe last year.”

“What am I supposed to get from it then if he doesn’t even like it?” Steve chuckled, turning to address you fully.

“Well…it’s a tortured love story.” Steve raised an eyebrow at you. You pressed on “Catherine and Heathcliff are in love, but because Heathcliff’s of a lower station than her, they can never be together. And even though Catherine marries someone else she can’t bear life without him.”

“Aren’t they like siblings or something?” Steve’s lip curled upwards in a disgusted expression.

“Adopted siblings and if Emily Bronte doesn’t think it’s weird then we have to ignore it.” You explained with a shrug. You leaned back on your palms, kicking your feet casually. With the windows open, his room was warm and sunny. It faced the woods behind his side of the road, and they looked beautiful from up near the treetops. You’d heard the rumours of Jonathan Byers taking photos of little Nancy Wheeler on the same bed you sat on from the woods. It made you feel icky at the time and uncomfortable now. You didn’t like the idea that anyone could be watching you.

“Then what is Kate Bush singing about? She makes it sound like they get together.” Steve asked. He watched you with a careful eye, his nerves making it hard to even try to catch your eye. You seemed happy, calmer too, and your hair was catching the sunlight from his window, making a pretty crown of light around your head.

“I mean…Catherine dies trying to return to Heathcliff across the moors, Kate Bush is like being her ghost, trying to come back to her love from beyond the grave.” You said simply. Steve pulled out his notebook, the questions written out in wide, square letters. He quickly began scribbling down what you’d said. He pulled out his copy of the Cliff’s Notes and flipped to chapter ten, filling out the questions. You wondered if you should stay or go, but Steve’s profile was partially shaded by the angle he sat at, and the way his jaw jutted out made him look like the statue of David. You slowly pulled out your sketchbook and flipped to a new page. Graphite in hand, you slowly began drawing out his sharp, angular jaw and strong neck.

“So, when did you find the time to read the whole book?” he asked; only briefly looking up from his notes to look at you. Your hair was still pulled up in the bun you’d put it in that morning and your gaze was focused on whatever was behind that heavy looking spiral bound pad.

“It was on, like, the seventh grade summer reading list.” You replied, not looking up. You could feel his eyes on you and the copy of lips weren’t matching the real life counterpart. You pulled your lip between your teeth, using your thumb to blend out a thin line.

“You remembered all that from middle school?” Steve asked.

“Well…I mean the book is kind of weird. Like, it doesn’t make sense, the narrator keeps changing and the speaker isn’t always made known. It was really hard to read, but the story itself was pretty run of the mill. I don’t really get why we have to read it at all…” You explained quietly, switching to a piece of charcoal to add thin, textured lines to the lower lip.

“It’s really shit, eh?” Steve chuckled, turning his attention back to the thin book. “Who’s Isabella again?”

“It is crap. And Isabella’s Catherine’s sister-in-law. She has a crush on Heathcliff, you can write on that, that’s revealed in this chapter.” You explained. You didn’t blame Steve for not understanding the book, you absolutely hated the book when you read it the first time and it was by no means an easy read.

“She’s in love with him, but he’s in love with Catherine?” Steve was scribbling fast, writing down whatever you said.

“Yes and Catherine’s in love with Heathcliff but married Mr. Linton for status.” You replied. Steve and you worked in silence for awhile. Mr. Lawrence expected answers in full sentences and provide reasoning for everything you sourced. Meanwhile, you set a high standard for your art. While you didn’t expect perfection from yourself, you wanted to try to do good work, even just for yourself.

You’d never drawn Steve Harrington before. You’d done pictures of tons of your classmates, Steve just never seemed like someone who needed to be drawn. He had tons of people looking at him and praising him all the time, to his face and behind his back. He seemed like a little celebrity in Hawkins, but sitting on his head, with the sun hitting half of his face and making pretty shadows in the hollows of his face, you saw the small beauty in his features. You knew that he was attractive, that was a universal truth, but now sat on his bed alone in his room, you understood that he really was beautiful. Maybe not on the inside, you didn’t know if he was a truly good person, but on the outside he was golden. Your hands demanded to recreate his features. You felt as though you were carving one of Greek gods of Hawkins high, the best of the town’s beauty.

Steve finished his work soon after and looked to you with a lopsided grin. “I say, and you can totally disagree, that we work better together than apart.” He said triumphantly, jabbing the cap onto his pen.

You looked up with a smirk from your drawing. It was nearly done and you weren’t mad at the work either. It certainly looked like Steve and the shadows were intriguing. It would’ve made a better painting, but the little sketch was nothing to sneeze at. “I mean, you certainly do.” You replied easily. Steve chuckled, you weren’t wrong; he knew that you were much smarter than him.

“But sure, if you need the help then I’ll help. No big deal.” The words left your mouth before you’d thought them through. But they were true. Despite not knowing him, despite being freaked out by every phone call and conversation, you found yourself still coming back. Your mind was pulled in two very different directions, between adrenaline laced panic that made your hands go clammy and shake and genuine curiosity and intrigue.

Steve couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. He was certain that you’d already on the porch steps, running towards your house as fast as you could. Something in his gut told him not to expect anything. But you agreed. He broke into a lopsided grin, brushing a piece of long brown hair out of his eyes. “Cool, yeah, that’d be great! So, I’ll call you?” he asked tentatively, trying to still give you an out to his own request.

“You already know the number.” You smirked, a yellow sticky note catching your eye. You could see your name and number written in Steve’s wide handwriting stuck to the wall in front of his desk. It made you smile, the small detail of him even looking you up made you laugh. You’d been across the street from him your whole life, but him trying to find you made you strangely happy. You gathered up your things quickly, heading back across the street as another car came into his driveway, an immaculately made up woman in the front seat. She didn’t look you in the face as you passed, focusing on the opening garage door in front of her. You made a mad dash for your house. Everything felt…calm. Strangely calm. You didn’t know if you liked it.

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theowlandthekey · 4 years

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Embracing Hel

Three roots standon three ways under Yggdrasil’s ash: Hel under one abides, under the second the Hrimthursar, under the third mankind. -Poetic Edda, Grímnismál, Stanza 31

Who is Hel? In the vastness of Norse mythology, she is rarely given much due. She does not go on adventures for glory and fame as many of the other gods do. She does not seem to bother overmuch about the future of the world like Odin, nor does she stir up trouble like her father, Loki. She’s content in her dominion of the death, Niflheim, and seems well placed out of the troubles of men and gods. So much so that it often feels she is neglected when compared to the rest of the pantheon.

Hel is featured as a character only once in the Prose Edda, when the god Hermoor rides to Hel on behalf of Frigg and offers her a ransom for the return of the god Baldr. Hel agrees, stating: “If all things in the world, alive or dead, weep for him, then he will be allowed to return to the Æsir. If anyone speaks against him or refuses to cry, then he will remain with Hel.” Baldr was well loved and so it was thought this would be easy to accomplish. But when the jotunn Þökk refuses to weep, Baldr is consigned to remain in Niflheim in service of Hel.

In nearly all other mythos, Hel is mentioned only in passing, referenced rather than focused on. Every other god gets a myth where they are the protagonist of their own story. So why is Hel overlooked? Because of the fear she inspires at the prospect of a life lived without note or valor? Because her appearance was considered so repulsive that, while acknowledged as a goddess, she was put as far away from Asgard as physically possible so as to avoid offending the others with the sight of her?

As much as I love Norse paganism and link myself to it, I find plenty of people who speak with Odin and Frigg, Loki and Thor. Never once have I met someone who says with a smile that they speak to Hel. That’s fair. How many people do you know talk to Hades or Osiris or Mictlantecuhtli on a regular basis, even among the gothiest of pagans? Why even bring this up at all? Last December (2019), I was doing a Krampus Walk with a bunch of women from the International Wenches Guild. (That’s a whole other story.) At the end of the walk we gathered up in a local alternative religion shop to warm up and grab a few things for the pre-Yule rush. Up on the shelf, something naughty my attention. It was something I'd never seen before in all my years of goblin-like hoarding of witchy stuff. A statue of Hel looked back at me, sitting on a throne with a knife in one hand and a bowl in the other. By her side was a wolf, and her skull seemed to be grinning at me with interest. I went back to that statue three times, telling myself I didn't have the money to be spending on things right now. But when I picked her up to examine her, I knew I wasn't walking out of the store without this statue. I brought her home, placed her on my altar, put a few coins in her bowl, and there she stayed.

And then Covid-19 hit.

I've never been one to rely on religion in times of trouble. It's never done much for me one way or the other. I've long held the belief that witchcraft involves handling your own shit before calling on anything else to help out. But this? This is one of those things that is well beyond the control of most humans to handle alone. It's emotionally exhausting, mentally taxing, and physically dangerous. We're all doing the best we can, wearing masks, sanitizing, washing, distancing, doing all we can to prevent things getting worse despite the best efforts of the world to remind us that we are inevitably only human and the risks are infinite. It's humbling to say the least. So, it's in this time of stress and disorientation that I find myself drawn to Hel.

Family Ties

“The following night the goddess of death appeared to him in a dream standing at his side, and declared that in three days’ time she would clasp him in her arms. It was no idle vision, for after three days the acute pain of his injury brought his end.”

-Gesta Danorum, Saxo Grammaticus (12th century)

Hel's name means 'to hide/to conceal', giving it a cruel humor. She was, after all, respectfully banished from Asgard due to her physical appearance, or perhaps because Odin foresaw her part in future events. She is described as being half blue and half flesh colored, though the depiction has altered over the years to mean half flesh and half corpse. Hel is said to be gloomy, dour, and even fierce looking, which suggests a woman with little time for nonsense within her realm. Despite all this, she is said to have a vast hall called Éljúðnir and many servants as befits her station. Everything that surrounds her seems to speak to the fears of the people who believed in her. She has a bowl called 'Hunger,' a knife called 'Famine,' curtains called 'Misfortune,' and a bed named 'Disease'.

On the plus side, she does have a dog named Garmr, said to be the 'goodest of boys'.

The best of trees | must Yggdrasil be, Skíðblaðnir best of boats; Of all the gods | is Óðinn the greatest, And Sleipnir the best of steeds; Bifröst of bridges, | Bragi of skalds, Hábrók of hawks, | and Garm of hounds.

-Poetic Edda, Grímnismál

Her father, Loki, is well known for his mischief and chaos. But her mother, Angrboda, remains largely overlooked beyond being acknowledged as the mother of Loki's three 'darling' offpsring. Angrboda, being a jotunn, is not well looked upon as the Aesir seemed to find themselves constantly at odds with the jötnar. The Aesir and the Vanir form the two principal tribes of gods within the Norse pantheon, the forces which held the world together and brought forth order in which life could thrive. While the Jotunn were more elemental, primordial beings who were born from chaos and presented challenges to the structured order of the world.

It's important to note that Hel is not the only goddess who fits within the overlap of Norse mythos complex Venn diagram between the Aesir, Vanir, and Jotunn. Loki himself is Jotunn as is Skaði, while Freyr and Frejya are Vanir. However, Hel's connection to Angrboda as her mother and Loki as her father seem to be enough to condemn her in the eyes of the ruling Aesir, as well as make her a subject of fearful respect.

Her brother, Jormungandr, is the infamous Midgard Serpent. The middle child of the brood, Jormungandr was tossed from Asgard by Odinn into the ocean where he was said to grow so large he encircled the earth and bit his own tail. If you're familiar with gnosticism (or Full Metal Alchemist) you would recognize the ouroboros symbolism inherent in the mythos as connecting Jormungandr to the cycle of life, death and rebirth, another primordial concept. At Ragnarok, the serpent will be said to release its own tail and fight Thor, both of them doomed from inception. Thus, the old world will end, and a new cycle will begin.

Fenrir, Hel's younger brother, is likewise doom driven, foretold to devour Odinn at the end of the world only to be killed in turn by Odinn's son Víðarr. The theme of the bound monster, I believe, is connected to the concept of man trying and failing to forestall his own fate. Another primordial concept of change as an inevitability.

And yet there is Hel. Out of all her family she seems to stand alone as the most consistent of her bloodline. The black sheep in a family of black sheep. No sagas recounting her heroic adventures, no epics building to the rise and fall of greatness. Only a goddess fulfilling her function to take in those who died of sickness or old age. It is not known for certain whether she survives or dies during the events of Ragnarok, only that Loki will have 'all Hel's people with him' during the final confrontation.

Symbolism

Throughout my research into Hel's mythos, it's clear she was viewed with begrudging respect by her own people. As a goddess, one couldn't afford to be less than deferential when dealing with her (assuming of course that they dealt with her at all). But how they felt about her can be discerned from the associations given to her through her items and surroundings. I began to collect a series of symbols associated with her. Each one tells us something about how she was perceived among the Norse people, and gives us some interesting modern-day interpretations when applied.

50/50 – In all the descriptions of Hel, she is said to be half flesh and half either discolored or corpse-like. Like most cthonic deities, she has a liminal quality to her, being representative of a transitional state of being. Balancing neatly between life and death, Hel is a crossroads deity, guarding over the boundary lines (though not traditionally associated as such). She has the ability to release those sheltered under her threshold, although she demands a price as is her right. This also puts her squarely in the category of a liminal being, one whose mere existence challenges the social classifications of the time. Liminal beings are often described as both immensely powerful and dangerous, depending upon the situation and perception of society. They are undeniably eerie, and yet inspire awe for the way in which they transcend limitations of the self.

Hel's Hall – Éljúðnir is the hall of Hel, located within Niflheim and aptly named as her realm is said to be barren and cold. It's said to be a mansion, and it would have to be considering that she is responsible for sheltering everyone who didn't die gloriously in battle. Her hall then becomes a symbol of her status, a recognition of her as a goddess with her own realm and duties. With hospitality being such an important social factor to the Norse people, I find myself hard pressed to believe Hel is needlessly cruel to her guests. Like any mead hall, it is a center for social activity as well as her residence, if a somewhat foreboding one.

Hunger, Famine, Misfortune, Disease – It seems Hel is often deemed responsible for all of the troubles that plague humanity. A rather dire proposition, but isn't it better for someone to oversee these things rather than letting them run amok? Given her connection to the primordial forces of chaos, it seems fitting that Hel, the stable one in her family, is relied upon to control the disorder that society faces from time to time. The objects deemed as a part of her entourage are significant to her personality. Even in the modern times, these troubles are never far from humanity’s mind, with much of the world facing them on a daily basis. *A bowl (Hunger) is often symbolic of receptiveness, or of fertility, neither of which seem to fit Hel herself. For many the bowl represents a scrying tool, portending to the future. It's not unusual for cthonic deities to be connected to omens and portends. So, it may well be that the 'Hunger' her bowl represents has less to do with wanting food and more to do with our hunger to know our own fates. An empty bowl representing the unknown fate of humanity as a whole may present as a bit nihilistic, but it does seem to fit. *The knife (Famine) as a tool which represents the ability to defend or attack. A knife can help fix a meal or it can protect a family. In this case, 'Famine' represents not only the absence of plenty, but the seeming inability to provide for one another, thus weakening everyone as a result. Famine is not just about food, it's about the failure to provide. For a society that was heavily reliant upon all of its people to survive day to day, this would have been a terrifying concept.

*The curtains (Misfortune) are used to draw over the windows and shut out the light. This is what 'Misfortune' does. It clouds reason and empathy and makes it difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Curtains can also be symbolic of one’s desire to hide from the world, to shelter themselves or to keep others from finding out something they find shameful. It may feel safe, as if we are only protecting ourselves. But Hel's curtains are, I believe, named Misfortune for the sake of choosing whether or not we draw them closed or open them up.

*The bed (Disease) is often used as a symbol of intimacy or rest. A bed named Disease could also easily be a colorful metaphor for STIs, though in this case I believe it was meant to represent the fear of dying in ones bed of old age or disease, thus missing out on Valhalla. For Hel to have a bed named Disease suggests an unexpected nurturing aspect to the goddess, as the sickbed is often where we find ourselves the recipient of the most care from others.

In this way, I believe Hel's tools exist as a reminder to society that these things will always exist, and that in order to combat them, people must constantly struggle against them to better survive together.

Garmr – Another in the long list of ferocious subterranean hounds associated with cthonic deities, Garmr was said to be her guard dog, standing bloodstained by her side. He is her faithful protector, as well as the guardian to the underworld. The hound is often a symbol of loyalty and ferocity, but in this aspect I believe it relates more to the black dog associations with death and ill omens. Again, I've yet to see anything relating to Hel being a seeress or an oracle of any sort, but there always seems to be some connection between death gods and omens of the future.

Hel in Practice

Change is uncomfortable. Humans have always preferred stability, even if it's inequitable, because we'd rather function in practice than succeed in theory. Hel is a paragon of balance within chaos, affording the opportunity to change and progress through the inherent suffering of life as it is. And yes, I'm aware of how nihilistic that comes off. But here within the instability of our current world, I find a kind of comfort in that rational. Change is eternal. Tomorrow is an unknown. Control what you can and stay by the people you care about. Keep moving. You are not dead yet.

Rune: Hagalaz “Hail”

- The rune of Hagalaz is practically unanimous with misery. Which makes it's appearance less than desirable during a reading or when found in the day to day. That being said, some degree of unfortunate occurrence is unavoidable in life. It is unalterable. However I find it's distinction kind of like finding a crack in a dam. You now know there is a problem. Maybe you can't 'fix' the problem, but you can stem the damage and keep the outcome from being worse than it absolutely has to be. Hagalaz is about weathering the storm and coming out the other side of it knowing the work that must be done.

Realm: Niflheim

- Niflheim is one of the nine realms of Norse Mythology. A world of coldness, fog, and the primordial darkness. Ymir was born here. Hvergelmir, the source from which many rivers flow, begins here. Níðhöggr the dragon/serpent dwells here, gnawing at the roots of the World tree Yggdrasil. So it would seem Niflheim is a a place of beginnings, endings, and ultimately change. According to the mythology this is where those who died too old, too young, or on the sickbed end up. And yet for all it's forbidding geography and weather, Hel is said to be put in charge of caring for those who arrive. Hall: Éljúðnir

- If Hel is meant to care for those who did not die in the glory of battle. Many times we see this as crowds of dead souls wandering endlessly in the freezing mists. But when I think of Hel's hall of Éljúðnir, I think of a place which is a respite from the cold. It is said to be sprayed with snowstorms, meaning that it stands against the raging storms of the realm, providing shelter to those who dwell within. What if her hall stands alongside Valhalla and Fólkvangr? What if she is the world-weary and cunning inn-keeper who offers bread and mead to those brave enough to find their way to her doors?

Appearance: Dour and fierce looking in expression. Half flesh and half dead.

Tools: knife (Famine) bowl (hunger) curtains (Misfortune) bed (Disease)

Color: black white grey/silver blue dark purple

Animals: wolves/hounds serpents ravens worms

Plants: yew/ash wormwood rosemary mistletoe mustard seed blackthorn

Offerings: tobacco garlic figs mushrooms rye bread black cherries dark chocolate mead coffee, black espresso

#hel #norse paganism #norse mythology #norse gods #worship #orrferings #plants #witchcraft #witch #Éljúðnir #runes #Hagalaz #niflheim #world tree #yggdrasil

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lairofsentinel · 3 years

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For the fic questions 2 4 7 11 17 23 25 (looming truths for the fic specific questions if it hasn't been too long)

Answers below, since it’s pretty lengthy.

2: Do you focus on attention to detail when you read fics? Are you more or less attention to detail focussed when you write fics?

I do! When I read and when I write. Especially when it comes to details canon-related. I like when people follow canon. And by following it, you can change it during its development. I don't know if it makes sense: it's like... you can have two characters that start in your fic very canon, but your fic is a story of char development, so if you give me good enough reasons and logical explanations about these chars and their development in THAT way, you can make them reach places that canon would never allow, but in your story “makes sense”. I love authors who do that. And I aspire to do it too in my fics. Hence my taste for multi-chapter fics. And very long ones. This process can never be done in one-shot. Not without making the chars feel too out of char.

4: Tell me about one of your abandoned WIPs. Why did you abandon it?

I only have one. And it's from Critical Role. I abandoned it because the canon of it was very frustrating, and it killed my motivation and any intention for me to explore where I wanted to go. I dont like AUs, so in these circumstances, fics like these simply die.

7: Were there any ideas you had for looming truths that you couldn't make work? What were they?

Uhm... Not that I remember. All what I wanted I made it work, in my opinion. I'm of the idea that you can make work everything, you just need to write many chapters to give reason and context for it to work [this is related to the concept explained in the first question].

11: Which OC of yours do you think is the most similar to you? Which OC is the most different? Why?

I dont have many Ocs, and in general all of them have one or two single aspects of me or my personality or my interest (I can explore in them things I'm curious about and that's the only link to me). It's not different to what all people who write do (unless you are into the industrial writing, in which case, your chars are mostly archetypes you exploit to have good sellers, not to share stories and different point of views) So, it's hard for me to say. In fact, the characters that resemble much more to me are non-original characters: in Looming Truth, Miles is the one sharing a lot of social oddities that I have, in The Divine Doom, it's Ifan, because he is very tired of life and yet, somehow, he manages to go on. The most different one? Maybe Sandor, who was a “challenge” character: my premise was “how would look like a character that represents a continent? So playing with this abstraction, I tried to create a character that embodies a lot of aspects and problems of latinoamerica in him. Of course, this is not even seen in the story I use for him, but his creation was based on that. I love challenges... and turning something as abstract as a continent to a character, more or less, was an interesting exercise for me.

17: What has been the proudest moment for you so far since you started writing?

Every single moment someone tells me that what I wrote helped them to pass through a bad moment, to endure a time of bad luck or sorrow, or simply it allowed them to think about things. Since a child I was fascinated by every author I've read and their ability to make me think about things without telling me how or what. And I think that's a pretty skill to develop as an author, and I'm always aspiring to it. There is nothing more freeing that letting people think about complicated stuff with decent tools. [I mean, I could talk here a lot about flat-earthers and their stupid “process thinking”. That's not the questioning skills I support. Questioning things just because you deny facts annoys me as much as people using science as a new religion to trust blindly. But all that is a long topic for another conversation]

23: What's one piece of advice you would give to anyone who wants to start writing or posting their writing online?

Just do it. No matter what you think about it. Ask for feedback if you are truly able to endure it, improve using that feedback [because there is no way to improve without it] and keep writing. No matter what you think about your production, there is always someone out there that feels it's important for them, it helped them, or simply it was fun. And just for that it's important to share it. I believe writing has to satisfy, first, the author's needs, and second, be shared anyway, because there is always someone who would enjoy it. Humans are very diverse creatures, and each of one finds fun in different places.

Trolls and people giving you hatred? Meh. They are never extinct. The best way to kill them is to ignore them. They get tired, while you keep working. Sometimes, even, trolls can give you interesting ill-intended feedback... and I'm a person who takes advantage of that. I always read with attention the people I dislike the most, because they are giving me the most brutal criticisms I would ever receive. It's in oneself to discern how much of it is just poison, and how much of it can be used for self-improvement. Nothing better to destroy a troll and a hater than telling them “thank you for your feedback, I'm better now than before”.

25: If you could remove one character from looming truths's universe, who would it be? Why?

Aahh, no. I can't... I crafted that massive fic with all those characters because each of them have a role in the meta-plot of the case of the faceless bodies. Maybe Andrew? Because I never liked the ship Franziska-Andrew, but the game never gave me another alternative that I could like and make it happen.... so.... I don't know. I think all of them have their function in the story.

#ask meme #fic meme #thank you very much!!! <3

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ourladytamara · 3 years

Text

Chit-Chat

by Tamara 2021 - @_ourladytamara

cw for a lot of fucking cum and awkward social interaction. Also CNC and torture

---

Hoofsteps echoed off the silent walls of the relief chambers, alerting the blindfolded service-slaves. A visitor – but who? Qassara had always picked the quietest time of day to rest at the teeming pools of semen, and it’d been hours since the last had come and gone in more ways than one. The Demon was never one for company; with her hooves still in the pearlescent liquid, she turned towards the entrance with languid motion. The humans chained to the walls cooed in interest.

It was a much larger Demon. A full head taller than Qassara herself, the newcomer strode through the white and red-beaded curtain demarcating the relief pools from the relaxation pools, (a very important distinction, as far as plumbing and etiquette were concerned.) Huge, curled horns dominated her head, sweeping elegantly across her skull and contrasting her pale-red skin. She was nude, like Qassara, but what really caught her attention was the organ swinging between her muscular thighs. Easily two feet of Demonic cock bobbed freely, half-erect and leaking glue-thick pre from the tip with every subtle movement of its owner’s digitigrade legs. Balls the size of human skulls swung with it – and Qassara had seem some big skulls.

The pool which Qassara had chosen was one of the furthest back; the room was a grid of nine pools, arranged three by three. She’d taken the furthest-corner one, leaving all eight others both significantly closer to the door – and further from Qassara. That was the thought, at least; the Demon who’d left earlier chose the pool closest to the door to relieve herself, quickly finishing her business before tucking her three cocks back into her tunic.

This time, however, the second Demon was beelining directly towards Qassara, ignoring every other pool in the room before grabbing one of the service-slaves from its chains and sitting down beside the smaller occupant with a meaty thump. The human curled up, wiggling ineffectively as to make itself more enticing.

“Hey.” said the larger Demon, bassy voice echoing in the basalt hall.

No reply. They were sitting apart from one another, at opposite ends of the pool; Qassara sat with her cock in her hand, idly stroking herself, while the new Demon worked herself up in preparation for the service-slave. Inch by pulsating inch of cock began to grow turgid with blood, the tip flaring and the strand of pre at the tip beginning to come out a thicker white.

“I’m speaking to you, Sister.” the hulking Demon said

“I, uh, noticed. Hey.” Qassara replied, keeping her voice low as not to break the silence which lay shattered in a million pieces at the bottom of the sticky pools. “...did you come alo-”

Without a further word, the Demon opposite Qassara, now fully erect, gripped her service-slave and strode through the pool of cum which rose to her knees. Her determined grin was marred with an awkward tinge of exertion as she pushed through the glue-thick sludge, human in hand, before plopping down with a thud beside Qassara.

“Hush, Sister – check this out.” the larger one said, quieting the air to allow herself to loudly squish inside of the service-slave’s asshole. All the cum on her had made excellent lubrication, thankfully, and the resulting noise excellent still; but then the whimpers and the moans quieted as the larger Demon blew her first load deep inside the human’s intestines. Despite the rather-impressive distension of her stomach and the thick strands of virile Hellish seed leaking from her ass, the shock barely spent ten seconds in the slave’s well-trained mind before the sigils dulling her thoughts flashed red and returned her to docility.

Qassara blinked her six eyes in a wave. “Okay, uh – nice load, I guess, Sister.” she stammered, too out of it to keep stroking herself. Instead, she sat idly, hand on her dick. This wasn’t even the first time today that another Demon had tried to flex on her and failed – perhaps it was odd in the eyes of her faith, but Qassara found the simple, calming presence of the Empress more than satisfying enough. She got bullied a lot in the creches for being a prude, after all.

“Just thought you’d like to see one of the God-Empress’s most-deserving daughters show off a bit – trust me, I know what it’s like to be in the presence of your betters.” growled the larger woman

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Qassara interjected. “I kinda come here alone for a reaso-”

“Oh, afraid?” replied the stranger yet again, leaning in and exhaling her hot, bloody breath all over Qassara.

“No, the crowds are a hassle and I like the quiet.”

For a moment the larger woman paused. She adjusted her hips, further distending her slave’s guts.

“Oh.”

Neither said anything. By now both of them were covered in cum, the larger Demon moreso; she’d exploded so hard into the girl that it sprayed with some force from her asshole, splattering her lap and legs in the glue-thick liquid. Qassara’s cock, too, was well-lubricated with her own, hanging from the tip in a long strand as it drooped towards the homogenous pool of spunk beneath before breaking off and landing with a wet slap in the silent room.

The service-slave coughed up a strand of it.

“...so your day’s been pretty good, then?” spoke the larger Demon, the grit in her voice starting to fade. “Name’s Zahl, by the by.”

Qassara shrugged. “Qassara, likewise, Sister. I mean, it’s a day. I work in a slave reprocessing facility – usually coming in here is the only quiet I get, away from the screaming and crying and all that.”

“Ahh, yeah, I can imagine that.” Zahl remarked, her hulking shoulders beginning to relax a bit. “I’m on leave from the Qanae’dyan front – and to me, my time’s best spent showing off to the lessers in the hierarchy.”

“...at the public relief pools?”

“Yes, at the public relief pools – or wherever I feel like, really! I do what I want.” Zahl cracked her neck and smiled, finally comfortable on the basalt lip of the pool. Clearly, something about Qassara impressed her enough to drop her facade for a bit – perhaps blunt disinterest was an expression of will before the God-Empress, too?

Zahl extended a hand and wrapped its sandpapery grip around Qassara’s throat, tightening her grip just enough to make sure she felt it. She was clearly leaning into it, now, adjusting her posture on the stone floor to get more comfortable. By now the cum in the pools was uncomfortably cold, the mid-day rush confined comfortably to the past; usually this was about the time Qassara liked to leave.

“You’re not like the typical sluts I waste my time on around here. I like that about you, Sister Qassara.”

But social obligation was a shackle stronger than any Hellsteel, unfortunately, and with a much-stronger hand squeezing her vascular underflesh, it was difficult to turn down Zahl’s advances – you know, because of the implication. It began to dawn on Qassara that she hadn’t even relieved herself yet; this distraction had certainly messed up her day, and she began to feel it rather uncomfortably in her swelling balls.

“I-I appreciate that, Sister Zahl – would you mind?” the smaller Demon asked as she pulled her dominant hand out from under Zahl’s enormous ass.

“Oh, my bad.”

With a nod Qassara gripped her own cock again and gave it a satisfied, almost stretchlike tug. A thick bead of cum, like liquid sugar, oozed from her flared tip. It dropped into the sea of it beneath them, indistinguishable from the rest – it got her wondering, actually.

“Actually, Sister Zahl – where do you think all this cum even goes, anyways? It can’t just be sewage, can it? That’d be such a waste of Anguish,” Qassara remarked, eliciting a curious nod in reply from Zahl.

“Well, I do know one of my cliquemates used to work in plumbing…” began Zahl, trailing off. This was going to be a lengthy diversion; Qassara got herself comfortable.

…

Fluid drips from the ceiling and into itself in the pitch-blackness of the holding cell. In the center of the bone and basalt room, scarcely eight feet tall and half that lengthwise, hangs a human girl, her body suspended by Hellish leather bindings. She’s wrapped around a pole for support, limbs tied like knots – and that’s before mentioning the cum.

It pours from the ceiling. The holes above are small enough that the tension of the stuff keeps it at a steady, constant flow. Every nook and cranny in her entire world is soaked, saturated, in Demonic cum; when the sperm is active they wriggle aggressively against her sticky skin, and when it dries it hangs like corded ropes draped across her body. This place, more than anywhere else in the girl’s short and tortured life, was Hell – worse than the shelled and ruined husk of her hometown, worse than the sorting facilities and the head-shaving and branding. Semen. The dark and the strain of leather – God, how long had it been, down here? Months? Years?

Her addled mind could barely discern the distant chatter of two Demons through the liquid above.

#millennium penance

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harlot-of-oblivion · 4 years

Text

The Heart of the Camellia(Part 7)

After having dinner with the rest of the crew, Vergil offers to walk you home while trying to solve a puzzling conundrum: how to ask you to be his date to the wedding.

It's finally back after two LONG months! Hope you guys enjoy this flowery installment! 🌺😊🌺

The song featured is To a Wild Rose by Edward MacDowell, but I listened to the Emile Pandolfi version while writing that scene...its a tad bit longer and has more embellishments here and there. 🌹🥰🌹

Here’s the link to the list of all the flowers featured in this part.🌸💖🌸

Chapter 2: Wild Roses, Wild Nights

There is one thing that Vergil has not gotten used to since living in the human world, and that is being social among a big crowd of people. The clatter of utensils and clicking of glasses makes it hard to concentrate on his own thoughts as everyone chatters and bickers around the table. In all honesty, this racket would usually make him a tad bit uncomfortable, but the presence of you, his lovely rose, sitting beside him brings peace of mind during the chaos of dinner with the crew.

As you laugh at his brother’s punny jokes and smile happily while talking with Kyrie, he cannot help but to admire you from the corner of his eye. He especially pays close attention to the beautifully crafted flower crown that adorns your head. The delicate vines of pink wisteria intertwining seamlessly with the bright lavender asters adds a certain allure to your enchanting charm. His mind keeps mulling over the meaning of the flowers, which never fails to summon that familiar warmth deep within his chest.

I feel the blossoming of love.

And perfect patience will help it bloom.

Vergil’s hands begin to fidget underneath the table as he concentrates on keeping his usual cool composure. Normally, his demeanor is quite calm during these social engagements with the crew, but he recalls Dante talking him into wearing an entirely different wardrobe. It’s highly aggravating that my meddlesome brother has been going through my closet…again, Vergil huffs in his head. But he relents to his brother’s advice despite feeling wary about being deprived of a familiar comfort just so he did not keep everyone waiting.

He picks out a nice dark blue button up shirt and a pair of black dress pants with a matching trench coat before quickly getting ready. When he heads back downstairs, some of the crew raise an eyebrow at him, noticing the obvious change of his usual attire. But he swells with pride when he catches sight of your flushed face as he walks over to you. It reminds him of the expression you had when he was talking to you into the shop’s kitchen, cheeks growing pinker the longer your eyes linger over his bare chest.

As he remembers your cute blunder about “doing pretty boy” his lips twitch into a smug grin, utterly satisfied with himself for rousing such a flustered reaction from you. And when he discerns just how affected you are by his change of clothes…perhaps he should change his wardrobe more often, especially if it elicits such an endearing blush upon your lovely face.

The smug grin quickly disappears, however, when the rather awkward ride in the Devil May Cry van plays in his mind. Usually, there is just barely enough room for the whole crew to stuff themselves inside the messy RV, but there are not enough seats with you joining them. Dante loudly informs you that you can share “frowny flower’s” seat just as Nico revs the engine. Vergil glares his brother’s vulgar suggestion but makes the split-second decision to sit you astride his lap so that you would not get knocked back by Nico’s horrendous driving skills.

Just the mere memory of your body bouncing against his thighs makes his heart hammer in his chest while his hands fidget faster underneath the table. He remembers having to summon all his willpower not to visibly blush, trying hard not be enraptured by your intoxicating scent while you clutch his shoulders tightly. And any inappropriate thoughts about the sounds that came out of your mouth during the whole ride was quickly snuffed out before you or anyone was none the wiser.

“Flower for your thoughts?”

Vergil feels dainty fingers gently cover his jittery hands as your sweet inquiry brings him out of his improper ruminations. His eyes dart over and peer down at your slightly worried face, your thumb brushing the back of his knuckle fondly as you lean in closer to hear his answer. The corners of his mouth lift into a soft grin before he entwines his fingers with yours as he leans down and whispers by your ear.

“It seems the crew enjoys your company, Y/N.”

A brilliant smile lights up your face. “I can’t help that I’m so poplar!” you lightly jest with a cute pun, cheeks turning pink as you demurely turn your head away.

He chuckles softly, feeling much more at ease as his thumb strokes the back of your hand. When you slip back into the many conversations going on over the table, he notices a certain spark of joy in your eyes as you joke and chat with the rest of the crew. He knows how lonely you get outside of his visits to your garden, and when Dante suggested that you should tag along for dinner, he did not hesitate to invite you.

And now you’re the epitome of beauty in full bloom, my lovely rose.

Vergil continues to hold your hand away from the prying eyes of the crew underneath the table. He squeezes and caresses your hand every now and then all through dinner, secretly enjoying the subtle glances and coy smirks you give him while caressing his hand back. And towards the end of dinner, he finds himself easily joining in on whatever brash banter and ludicrous tales Dante is currently spinning, inserting his own wry and deadpan comments here and there in between his retelling.

After they are done with dinner, Vergil steels himself for another awkward ride as the crew heads back to the accursed van. You gently tug on his sleeve on the way though and softly point out with an encouraging grin that it is not too far of walk back to your home. His lips curl into a thankful smirk before offering his arm to you as he announces to the rest of the crew that both of you will be walking instead of enduring Nico’s reckless driving again.

“Pff! Still got us here before the big dinner rush, didn’t I?” Nico argues loudly as she tries to light up a cigarette. Before Vergil can even refute her claim, Dante rushes over and quickly cuts him off.

“Say it ain’t cilantro!” he exclaims dramatically while raising his fists towards the sky in mock anguish. Vergil just gives his fool of a brother a blank stare while you laugh and answer him with one of your puns.

“Get clover it!” you quip back playfully.

Dante clutches his chest and gasps. “Your words…they prick me, Buttercup!”

Vergil pinches his brow. “We must make haste before it gets dark, Dante.”

And with that, both of you say your farewells to the crew before departing. Kyrie and Lady both give you a light hug while Nero waves and nods from afar. Dante claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him the most exaggerated wink in all of existence. Vergil scowls at him, feeling close to summoning a sword right behind his nosy brother, but thankfully you are unaware of his brother’s horrible attempt at subtlety.

Both of you stroll down the street while you gush about the crew and how much fun you had getting to know them over dinner. Vergil smiles and listens intently to your enthusiastic praise, interjecting every now and then with his own commentary, most of them being sarcastic jabs directed towards his brother. You laugh at his wry attempt at humor, affection gleaming behind your eyes as you pull yourself closer to his arm.

Sometime during the light conversation, he recalls the reason behind Dante’s idiotic wink. A couple of days ago, he and his brother received an official invitation to his son’s wedding personally from Kyrie. The invitation itself was very elegant with neat cursive cordially inviting him and “plus one” to the wedding. He remembers raising an eyebrow at this odd phrase and asking his future daughter-in-law the meaning behind it. She smiled sweetly before explaining that she thought he might like to invite a friend as his date to the wedding.

It only took Vergil a moment to deduce Kyrie’s true intentions before his heart skipped a beat. Even now, as he walks through the city streets with you, just the mere thought of asking you to be his date to the wedding makes him feel both eager and apprehensive. What utter nonsense…a Son of Sparda shouldn’t hesitate, he mentally berates himself. But that still does not quell the odd churning sensation in his stomach as his mind begins to frantically reel, trying to sort out how he should exactly go about this little conundrum.

“That crinkly brow of yours has racked up quite the bouquet today!”

Your cheery voice knocks him out his fretful thoughts. “I beg your pardon?” he replies, never slowing his stride while peering down at you as his brow furrows in slight agitation.

“Oh!” you gasp. “Is that a grumpy frown I see?” you observe playfully, trying your best not to smile by biting your lower lip. “You know what that means…!”

Before he can even retort with his own wry response, you are already throwing the hand not currently wrapped around his arm high up into the air. The bright blue petals of forget-me-nots fall around him soon after, gracefully drifting down as a triumphant grin spreads across your face. Vergil sighs as he passes through the tiny cloud of flowers, but he can never find it in him to be truly annoyed by your spontaneous flower showers.

“You’re just as ridiculously charming as always, Y/N,” he teases you softly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smile as he relishes the blush creeping up your jubilant cheeks.

You giggle softly before clearing your throat. “As I was saying,” you reiterate, placing your free hand back on his arm. “What kind of wedding present are you getting for the happy couple?”

“I must confess,” Vergil starts as you both pause at a corner of a street. “I am…uncertain of what is expected from me in regard to a proper gift,” he admits as his eyes check both sides of the road before leading you across the street.

“I can help you with that!” you declare with a vibrant grin.

Vergil gives you a grateful smile. “Any assistance you can offer is greatly appreciated, Y/N.”

Both of you brainstorm about what kind of wedding gift is suitable for a father to give his son for the rest of the walk. You list off a bunch of ideas while Vergil listens, nodding his head in approval at some of your suggestions while pondering why weddings have so many complicated customs. However, none of the suggested gifts resonate with him, so you go about it from a different angle. You steer the conversation towards his own interests, explaining that maybe Nero would appreciate a gift that brings his father joy and experience it together.

My lovely rose, you are not only beautiful, but utterly brilliant as well, Vergil mentally praises you as he gazes down at you warmly. He lists off a few of his interests, some you already know about it, but he goes into more detail about why he enjoys them. You grow quiet and stare up at him, tilting your head in thought as you listen attentively to his every word. Your eyes light up when he talks about his prowess in the world of music, absolutely gaping up at him as he mentions his preferred instrument.

“You have got to be plucking my petal! You play the violin?”

Vergil smirks at your astonished outburst. “I’m quite the accomplished violinist if I do say so myself,” he claims proudly just as he rounds the corner of your street. A contemplative silence is the only answer he receives from you as he leads you towards your very welcoming home. He looks over to see you chewing your lower lip, lost in your own thoughts as your free hand twirls the end of your intricately braided hair.

“Y/N?” he calls out softly as you both walk up your driveway. “Are you well?”

“Yeah!” You blink your eyes a couple of times as you look around and realize where you are. “Just thinking,” you trail off before flashing him a speculative smile. “Does the power of Sparda include the talent for musical performance?”

Vergil quirks an eyebrow at your curious question. “It just so happens that it does.” He ponders for a moment before the meaning behind your question truly sinks in. “Are you suggesting-”

“A violin performance!” you finish, shaking his arm in excitement as you pause in front of your porch. “A stirring violin solo for Nero and Kyrie on their special day!”

“Hmm…it’s an intriguing idea,” Vergil hums, brow furrowing in thought as he goes over the merits of such a gift. A violin performance does not align itself with the usual choice of wedding gifts, but it most certainly would be very memorable. It would also be a genuine gift from a father to his son, sharing a part of himself that no one has seen for many years. There is only one obstacle that stands in the way of this gift coming to fruition though.

“Unfortunately, the ever-present inconvenience known as my boorish brother does not make the shop the best place for practice,” he bemoans while rolling his eyes in irritation.

“You can borrow my music room if you want,” you propose sweetly.

Vergil’s eyes snap over to you, unsure that he heard you correctly. “Did you say…music room?”

“Yeah!” you confirm with a nod of your head. “C’mon,” you pull on his arm, gently coaxing him to follow you up the porch. “I’ll show you!”

“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” Vergil wonders aloud as you lead him through the front door of your home. “I did not know that you’re a musician as well.”

“I’m not really a musician,” you explain, putting down your purse and straightening your pink floral dress. “Not anymore at least,” you add wistfully as while making your way towards a set of stairs.

Your sudden change of tone does not go unnoticed by Vergil as he follows close behind. Ever since this friendship between you two has blossomed, he has only ever seen you sad once…when you shared your complicated family history. And now, as he climbs up the stairs, he surmises that this music room must have been your mother’s when both of you lived here. An awful stinging sensation starts to prickle in his chest, not enjoying the fact that he may see you wracked with melancholy again.

Both of you pass by a couple doors before stopping in front of one at the end of the upstairs hall. “And here we are!” you announce in a more chipper tone as you turn the knob and open the door.

The strong scent of dust assaults Vergil’s nose as he steps through the threshold. It is very reminiscent of the stale musty scent of old books wafting through the air of a foregone library. But as he surveys the room, he notes that instead of books, there are shelves and racks full of various instruments and musical accoutrements. And in one corner of the room sits an impressive grand piano, which has escaped the wrath of the dust by being covered with a big piece of white cloth.

“Sorry about the mess!” you fret softly, rushing over a particularly display case. “No matter how many times I dust…!” You take a deep breath and blow a heavy coating of dust off the glass, showing an array of unique instruments inside.

“I take it that all of this is…?” Vergil’s question trails off as his eyes motion towards the entirety of the room.

“My mother was also quite the accomplished musician,” you reveal while turning around to face him. “And she played…well, everything!” you laugh while stretching your arms out wide for emphasis. “This is her instrument collection.” You gesture towards the glass display cases behind you. “And this over here,” you walk across the room and pause in front of a couple of bookshelves, “is where all the sheet music is stored. There’s even some of my mother’s own music that she composed herself!” you announce proudly while pointing to a few folders abundant with pages of staff paper.

Vergil steps over to the shelf and examines the various selection of sheet music. “This is a very impressive collection,” he marvels. “May I?” He reaches for the folders that you indicated as your mother’s original work. You smile and give him an eager nod, which knocks your flower crown slightly askew. This, however, does not diminish your beauty; in fact, it just makes you even more lovely in his eyes. He finds himself subtly admiring you from the corner of his eye as he pulls out the proper folder and begins studying the a few pages filled with ingenious music.

Your smile turns into a pensive grin as you glance around the room quietly beside him. You hum quietly when something catches your eye in the corner of the room opposite of the piano. “This is where I practiced my breathing techniques,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you wander over to a small chair and table with a candlestick atop its surface. “I tried so hard to not the snuff out the candle while I sang.”

“Now I know why your singing is always so impeccably in tune,” Vergil remarks without looking up from the sheet music. He sees your head snap over towards him in his peripheral vision, eyes wide in surprise as your cheeks turn wonderfully rosy. His lips curl into a cocky grin as he closes the folder and places it back to its proper place on the shelf. He turns his gaze over to the covered piano and raises an inquisitive brow at you. “Do you know how to play?” he asks, finally relenting to the genuine curiosity that has been building up inside him since walking into this room.

“My grandmother taught me when I lived with her,” you answer softly as you go over to the piano and grab one end of the cloth covering it. You swiftly pull it off in one motion and uncover a spectacularly crafted grand piano. The varnish of its black silken surface shines brightly as you clap your hands free of dust before propping the lid up. The stunning visual of dragonflies buzzing around colorful flowers is painted on the inner side of the lid, a hidden display of rustic beauty among all the elegant majesty.

You pull out the stool and sit down in front of the keyboard. “Hmm,” you ponder aloud as your hands take up position atop the black and white keys. “It probably needs to be tuned, but…” Your voice fades away as you begin to play the piano.

Vergil is transfixed on the spot as you fill the room with a sincerely charming melody. The song is a pleasant piece called To a Wild Rose if memory serves him right, but it is not what has him so captivated as he listens to your impromptu performance. He cannot help but to compare you to a flower blowing softly in a spring breeze as you sway gently in time with the tune. And every time you close your eyes when the music starts swelling up with emotion he feels utterly entranced like a bee to a bloom, drawing ever closer to his lovely rose as you continue to serenade him with delightful music.

Carefully, he treads across the room to stand beside you, making sure that his presence does not break your concentration as you continue to play. He takes the time to admire the lovely profile of your face as your fingers glide gracefully across the keys, adoring the subtle twitch of your lips as they curl into a tender smile at every musical refrain. But upon closer inspection his keen eyes detect a certain sadness within that warm smile. The pin prickling sensation that always arises within his chest at the mere thought of you being unhappy flares up again as you play the song to its conclusion.

The final notes of the song echo in the room as your eyes crack open and begin searching for him, looking a bit perplexed until you glance over to your side. “Hoppin’ hyssop!” you gasp, jumping in your seat a little as you clutch your chest in relief.

Vergil smirks as you huff indignantly at him, still so amused by your flowery exclamations every time he manages to startle you with his sudden appearances. But your annoyed expression soon melts away as he continues to hold your gaze. His mind begins to shuffle through many different possibilities, wondering what words he can say that will grace him with that radiant smile once more.

“Flower for your thoughts?”

He tilts his head at the sound of your endearing question. “You play so beautifully,” he declares, enjoying the way your face flushes at his compliment as he bends down to take a seat on the piano stool. “And yet there was an air of melancholy around you while playing such a delightful song.”

You wince at his words and quickly glance away to stare down at the keyboard as he settles in beside you. Good going, you dunce, Vergil sarcastically rebukes himself. At this rate, you will assuredly win her over with this frank conversation. He flounders for a moment, trying to figure out how to salvage this blundering exchange, but your soft affirmation stops him short.

“I know,” you sigh, “it’s just…” you pause for a moment, hands wringing the end of your braid as you bite your lower lip. “This room is like bittersweet vines growing in a berry bush.”

Vergil’s brow furrows in confusion at your words. You look up from the keyboard and giggle softly when you see him arch an eyebrow, silently asking you to elaborate on your odd berry analogy. “No matter how hard I try to only pick the sweetest berries from the bush,” you begin explaining while leaning your head to rest against his shoulder. “I still end up eating a few bittersweet ones.”

It grows quiet between the two of you as Vergil makes sense of your words, turning them over and over in his head. He finds it hard to focus though with you nuzzling up against his arm, which summons a strange fluttering feeling in his stomach. But despite the pleasant distraction he somehow manages to understand your words, and it strikes a chord deep within him.

Even though you have moved on to live a better life…the past still comes back to haunt you ever now and then. He knows this feeling very well since he is guilty of brooding on occasion. The prickling in his chest squeezes around his heart as thoughts of his mother come unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Unfortunately, this always brings back memories of the pain he had to endure over the years since that dreadful day, along with the incessant urge to get away from these unpleasant recollections.

Vergil wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer to him, seeking the solace he currently craves while hopefully bringing you comfort as well. “If it’s too much trouble,” he whispers close by your ear, “I can find somewhere else to-”

“No!” You shake your head gently and gaze up at him with beseeching eyes. “You need a place to practice!” Your face softens as a reassuring grin enhances the rosy hue of your cheeks. “And I think it will be good for me to hear music in this room again.”

Vergil regards you curiously. “And why is that?”

“Even bittersweet berries can lose their acidity with enough sugar.”

And with that small bit of gardening wisdom you finally grace him with the radiant smile that always puts him under your dazzling spell. His lips curve into a warm smile as he lifts his other hand and straightens your flower crown. “Perhaps we can practice together?” he suggests softly.

“Oh, no!” you blurt out while bowing your head down bashfully. “I’m horribly out of practice and I would just slow you down.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffs as his hand gently lifts your chin and beholds your wondrous gaze as his thumb softly strokes your cheek. “It would be an honor to play the violin while you play a piano accompaniment.”

Vergil can practically feel the heat emanating from your blush as it rushes through your cheeks. “Umm, well,” you mumble quietly, “when you put that way…” You give him a gracious smile and a slight nod of your head. “How could I refuse a such an earnest request from such a strikingly handsome devil?”

The melancholic mood hanging in the air completely dissipates and the prickling in his chest releases its grip to make way for the pleasant warmth now flooding through his entire body. He hums and gives you a pleased grin before sighing softly. “I must take my leave soon,” he informs you, which makes your lower lip poke out in a disappointed pout. “But what do you say,” he continues while withdrawing from your personal space, “to a stroll in the garden before I depart?”

“Ooh!” Your pout instantly disappears as you playfully gasp in surprise. “You know it’s pretty rare for me to amble though the flowers at night nowadays!”

“Yes,” he grumbles lowly as his brow furrows in irritation while the memory of the Fury demon attacking you in your garden flashes before his eyes. “At least…not without me as your escort,” he tacks on as an afterthought, hoping that you understand that he only wants to protect you from another horde of demons should they show up after nightfall.

Your eyes soften as you reach up to take his hand, which is still holding your chin. “I know, Vergil.” You stare deeply into his eyes for a moment before flashing a bright smile. “Well, c’mon!” you exclaim excitedly, shooting out of your seat and pulling him around the piano by the hand. “Let’s go!”

Vergil follows you out of the music room, down the stairs, and through the hall into your kitchen. You open the back door and lead him through its threshold, instantly transporting him into another world filled with wonderous blooms. He takes in the pleasant perfume of your garden as you wrap your arm around his elbow. Both of you walk among the flowers nurtured by your own hand, enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence as twilight settles over the sky.

Even though is quiet between the two of you, Vergil’s mind is a torrent of activity, going back to the matter of asking you to be his “plus one” to the wedding. This stroll through the garden is the perfect opportunity to bring it up, but he is still struggling with the proper words. As he guides you down a more secluded path of your garden, an impressive section of flowers catches his eye. Their delicately layered petals closely resemble a rose, but upon closer inspection he recognizes them to be camellias.

Vergil’s mind immediately stops whirling as he focuses on their meaning. His feet move of their own accord towards the romantic flowers while he draws out a plan inside his head. You look up at him inquisitively as he guides you off the path. “Straying away for a closer look?” you inquire sweetly.

“Yes,” he replies, determination flowing through him as he marches on until coming to a halt in front of the beautiful blooms. “I presume you know about the heart of the camellia?” he questions while peering down at you for confirmation. “How the petals and the…” His mind comes to a blank as he tries to recall the correct term for the leafy part of the stem.

“Calyx,” you inform quietly, nodding your head gently as your eyes gleam with interest.

Vergil hums in appreciation before releasing your arm. “They never separate from each other,” he begins to explain, bending down to pick a pink camellia, the marvelous flower of longing. “Even after death…the petals don’t fall off first like many other flowers,” he continues as his hand moves over and plucks a red camellia, the vibrant flower of passion and deep desire. “They’re always…” He stands back up and turns to face you once more with both flowers in hand.

As he takes a step up get closer to you, Vergil notes how the asters of your flower crown sparkle like stars in the waning light of twilight. His eyes never stray from your tender gaze as he reaches for your hand, and places it on top of his other hand holding the camellias. “Together,” he finishes softly, stroking your hand gently as he relishes the crimson blush spreading across your face, which can only mean that you understand what he is trying to say:

My heart yearns for you with a fiery passion every moment we are apart.

“Y/N, my lovely rose,” he utters the term of endearment he refers to you in the privacy of his mind aloud for the first. You gasp quietly as his body presses even closer to you and gazes upon your stunning visage with heavy lidded eyes, adoring the way your blushing cheeks glow in the fast approaching night. “Would you do me the honor of being my date to the wedding?”

Your eyes widen as his heartfelt request hangs in the air unanswered. But Vergil’s able to pinpoint the exact moment you comprehend his question as the light in your brilliant eyes shifts from uncertainty to elation. “Yes!” you burst out with a joyous smile. Your arms wrap around his neck as you jump up on the balls of your feet, pulling him into your tight embrace as you squeal in delight by his ear. “Yes, of course I’ll be your date to the wedding!”

Vergil stands there dumbfound for a moment, still getting used to this kind of close contact, but then he remembers to encircle your waist with his arms. He places the hand still holding the camellias in between your shoulders and the other rests on the small of your back. His head starts to spin as the fragrance of flowers along with your own intoxicating scent ensnares his senses and lulls him into a fervent stupor.

You shift your head back to stare up at him with a radiant smile, which only seems to set that warm feeling pooling in his belly ablaze. He bends his head down and just before he can even fathom what he is doing…his lips press a tender kiss between your brow. His ears pick up a low gasp from you, and he fears for a moment that this gentle gesture is unwanted. But when you let out a sigh of delight and slide your arms from around his neck down to rest against his chest, all tension leaves his body as he lets all his worries go and just basks in this intimate moment between you, him, and the lovely flowers.

It feels like an entire lifetime has passed until Vergil finally moves away, already missing the feel of your silken skin against his lips the second they leave your brow. He glances down and notices that your eyes are closed, so he rests his head against your forehead and hums softly before he speaks. “It’s getting late,” he murmurs, watching closely as your eyes flutter open and gift him with the sight of your adoring gaze. “I must take my leave now.”

A tiny sliver of sadness twinkles in your eye as your mouth twists into a forlorn frown. “I wish twilight would last just a little bit longer,” you grumble, pressing yourself deeper into his embrace as your hands cling to his shirt.

Vergil chuckles softly at your adorable show of stubbornness while he removes his hand from the small of your back to cup your cheek. Your face is so close his now…he can feel your every breath against his lips. It grows incredible quiet as something shifts in the air, the tenderness from a moment ago now replaced with something more intense. He wants to admit to you that he also abhors leaving your side day after day, but it seems his mind is struggling to find the proper words. So, he does what he has always done in the past: recite a poem that perfectly captures this heady moment:

Wild nights - Wild nights!

Where I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -

To a Heart in port -

Done with the Compass -

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -

Ah - the Sea!

Might I but moor - tonight -

In thee!

When his recitation ends, he nuzzles his face even closer to yours, feeling you take several shaky breaths as he tenderly brushes his thumb across your cheek. Even though there is not much light outside his keen eyes can still detect the endearing blush upon your lovely face, reminding him more and more of the camellias at his feet. He can also see your eyes glowing with unrestrained ardor and once again he feels himself getting pulled closer and closer…

Vergil turns his head slightly and presses a soft kiss just above the corner of your lips. You whimper softly and clutch onto his shirt tighter, which only stirs the flames of desire as he withdraws, enjoying the satisfaction that comes with coaxing that exquisite sound from you. “I shall escort you back to you home now,” he declares softly while taking a step back and offering his arm to you.

“Huh?” You shake your head and blink your eyes a couple times before fully registering his words. You glare at him cutely as you take his arm and Vergil just smiles smugly in return before leading you back to your house through the garden. When both of you arrive at the backdoor of your home, you pout and sigh sadly as you glance up at him with doleful eyes. “Well…here we are,” you state the obvious as you continue to cling to his arm. “I guess I’ll see you soon?” you ask with a hopeful smirk.

Vergil hums in amusement before freeing himself from your vice grip on his arm. He gently takes both of your hands and places a kiss atop both of your knuckles before responding. “Until we meet again, my lovely rose.”

You grant him one last radiant smile before heading into your house, but then you turn around and peek your head out through the door. “Until then…Vergil,” you murmur back with an impish grin as you slowly reach out and take the pink camellia from his grasp. Your delicate fingers caress the inside of his palm before retreating to your side, giving him one last longing look before closing the door.

A dreamy smile sneaks onto Vergil’s face as he exits your garden through the back gate, not bothering with summoning the Yamato and opening a portal back to the shop. Instead, he strolls down several streets, feeling like the luckiest devil in the world while the day’s events play in his mind like a movie. The entertaining dinner with the rest of the crew, the discovery of your music room, the passionate moment by the camellias…he is still flying high from the fact that you wholeheartedly agreed to be his date to the wedding!

When he finally arrives at his destination, he completely forgets to reign in his dreamlike state as he opens the door and enters the shop. He is vaguely aware of Dante sitting behind his desk, gawking at him like an oafish buffoon as he drifts past the desk and up the stairs without so much as a greeting. His mind is too occupied with thoughts of your radiant smile, your welcoming embrace, and that lovely sound you uttered when he nearly kissed your lips.

As Vergil enters his room, he wonders if he could talk you into performing with him at the wedding. And if he is successful…he hums at his own clever idea since that would mean even more time spent with his lovely rose. He brings the red camellia up to his nose for a sniff, feeling excited by what may blossom from his more amorous advances in the future. And as he stores the desirous bloom with the growing pile of gifted flowers, he muses that you are like its delicately layered petals and he is like the protective calyx underneath them.

And both are bound together by the heart of the camellia.

Read Part 8 (Ch.1) right here

Read on Ao3

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gastrobrack · 4 years

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Brave New World 2020 review from probably the biggest fan of the book you’ll meet in your life

(Mostly Spoiler Free) Okay so. I’ve been waiting for this show for a really long time because I absolutely love the book and it means a lot to me. My standards were admittedly pretty low because it can’t get worse than the 1998 movie, so I didn’t really mind when I saw the trailers and stuff where other people were complaining.

TL;DR I thought the show was actually pretty enjoyable, but you have to read the book first in my opinion, or else it seems like it would be hard to follow at times. Where the show really screwed up royally was Mond’s storyline, which felt completely out of place and confusing, and when it ended up dominating the end of the final episode it just kinda ruined the story for me. The show is definitely more focused on the setting and characters than the societal predictions and themes of the novel, and for me that’s okay because we have the book to tell it better anyways. I’d say watch it if you liked the book or are curious about it, but I don’t think it would really be enjoyable for the average viewer.

Side note: I watched this in the wee hours of the morning and some of the praise might just be the special interest talking, I’m just happy to be here and get more content

That being said, I think this show is like the Riverdale of Brave New World. However, in its defense it’s at least got the energy of the parts of Riverdale like the “epic highs and lows of high school football” and the “serial killer gene”, so it’s at least pretty funny. Personally, I knew that they would have to change a lot both to adjust for the longer runtime (around 9 hours) and to make the book enjoyable to a TV audience, because of course in the book you can have 2 chapters of exposition at the beginning and that’s not as enjoyable for a TV experience. So, let’s get into the pros and cons of the show!

PROS

-I really liked Bernard! In the book he means a lot to me personally (hell, I’m writing this while listening to my Bernard playlist) so I was of course kinda worried they might screw him up again like they did in the ‘98 movie, but I was pleasantly surprised! They did change him and divide his original personality between John and Lenina, but somehow they managed to create a new Bernard that both kept me on my toes and at the same time felt authentic and likeable!

-Honestly, almost all the characters were done very well. They were all expanded upon in an interesting way while also staying generally pretty accurate to their book counterparts. I generally felt the same about them as I did with the novel, so I think that means they did a job well done. I think that John and Lenina were very different, but they still ultimately had the same general motivations. A lot of the cast’s interactions felt very natural, and I liked that they expanded upon Lenina and Fanny’s (or Frannie as she’s called here) friendship.

-The show looked great, I know a lot of people really didn’t like the look of it because it wasn’t what they thought it would be when they read it, but for me that’s basically exactly what I imagined it would be. The costume designer clearly had fun making a bunch of outlandish outfits for everyone to wear and it’s all very pleasant to look at.

-I think they did a good job fixing some of the problematic elements of the book without actually damaging the integrity of the things they were changing. For example, in the book, the savage reservation is quite literally just a native reservation, written in a way that clearly suggests Huxley didn’t really put a lot of thought into his depiction of real people. In the show, it’s a theme park where British people get to immerse themselves in the cultures of the old world, with the savages themselves being poor theme park workers reenacting events to shock and mystify the Brits. Now, admittedly, I think this makes a lot more sense as it ties into the consumerism that runs deep within their society. I know some people are mad about this because they think it’s cancel culture or something but honestly it’s not a big deal to me.

-This one might not be as important to some people, but I liked that the cast was pretty diverse, and the fact that John is the only straight one honestly made sense to me considering it would be in the World State’s best interest to encourage bisexuality amongst its citizens. Some of the characters (Helmholtz and Mond) are being played by women, and some people are kinda upset about that but I don’t really think it changed too much, although to me it is funny to think the showrunner thought he was doing something by “casting women of color to play white male characters” considering everyone I know who read the book didn’t picture either of them as white.

-Honestly, I think the show did humor very well. It was very funny in a sort of dry way, and never felt forced or out of place. It all seemed like it naturally stemmed from the characters’ awkwardness and culture shock (on both sides) and it made me really happy as someone who loves all these characters to see them make me laugh.

CONS

-Now, I’m not usually one to complain about this too much, seeing as I love the book in a non thematic and academic context, but the message kinda got lost in all of it. I think the issues they brought up certainly were there, and could lend themselves very well to being good. The writers just focused on the entirely wrong things in the last episode, and that misguided focus completely changes the lens in which the rest of the show is retroactively viewed for me.

-Mustapha Mond was just, where do I even begin. In the book, Mond doesn’t show up much except to provide exposition, and his position as an authoritative figure ultimately moves the plot towards the end of the novel. In the show, Mond gets this weird AI plotline that makes no sense, as in this version they have a sort of internet contact lens type system that allows them to connect to everyone else, and it is powered by said AI. The system itself doesn’t bother me as much as how poorly handled this plotline was. Not only was it completely random and was the only plotline in the show not to have some sort of roots in the events of the book, but it was extremely confusing to me. This leads into my next point, which is:

-The ending. Oh my God the ending. Now, look. I’m not gonna say much because I want this to be as spoiler free as possible, but the ending just honestly was a dumpster fire. The writers chose to focus the whole ending on the aforementioned AI plotline, despite the book providing a much more solid framework for an ending that they already seemed to be setting up. This shift in focus comes very late into the final episode, and it honestly doesn’t make any sense why the writers would really want to go this route. It feels like they were just adding things that didn’t fit into the story, and I can’t really discern why except for the possibility of setting up an unnecessary second season. I love the book, it’s my special interest, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we do not need a second season especially if its gonna be full of plotlines that make no sense and serve no purpose. This heavily changed ending not only undermines the whole thematic purpose of the novel but honestly kind of goes actively against everything the book was trying to say in the first place.

-They really don’t set up any of the world building, and although I caught on very quickly due to my familiarity with the book, it seems like it might get confusing for unfamiliar watchers. In the book, they explain their process for birthing and then conditioning children into their social body very in depth before they get into the actual plot and characters, and I think this show could have used some of that. Here, they talk a lot about conditioning but don’t actually explain what the conditioning is or why they have the caste system in the first place.

-This is a minor disappointment more than anything and I didn’t actually notice till about the second episode, but there’s no more Ford talk, which is kinda disappointing cause it was pretty fun in the book.

-Obviously it goes without saying that there’s sex in this, I mean it IS Brave New World. However, in this one, it just feels excessive and kinda just like it’s there for shock value more than anything.

-This isn’t really a con so much as it is just a disclaimer, I know a lot of people are excited for Demi Moore as Linda and Joseph Morgan as the new character CJack60, but don’t get your hopes up too much, they don’t get to do much. If you read the book, you’d know that about Linda but I’ve seen reviewers get upset that she wasn’t in it more when she was one of the big names attached to the project. (FWIW she did a great job and I loved Linda in this whereas I didn’t in the book) As for CJack, he spends a lot of time just standing there and looking at things and doesn’t get to do much until the last 2 episodes or so.

CONCLUSION

As someone who really loves the book’s setting and characters sometimes even more than the actual messages and predictions, I’ve always wanted an adaptation that focuses more on those elements, especially since that would make for an easier transition to the screen. Seeing this was a very nice breath of fresh air, because it embraces the inherently satirical and dare I say funny aspect of the story, as well as the characters’ individual quirks and distinct personalities. Obviously it’s not as hard hitting and important as the book, but I think those messages were better left in book form anyway. For someone like me, who loves the book with all my heart, this show honestly gave me most everything I wanted and it felt the most true to the spirit of the book’s world and characters out of any of the adaptations. I would say check out the show if you’re interested in it or enjoyed the book, but you should definitely be familiar with the book before you watch this.

#brave new world #sorry this is so long #i pulled an all nighter to watch the show as soon as possible and im running on 2hrs of sleep #anyway stan bernard!

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somnilogical · 4 years

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modular "ethics":

a wrong and two rights make a right

<<I've been known to cause outrage by suggesting that people who really care about something shouldn't have romantic relationships. Think what would happen if I dared to suggest that those people should also seriously consider getting castrated. That would be crazy! And who am I to suggest that basically everyone claiming to be doing good is faking it? Then people would feel bad about themselves. We can't have that!>>

https://squirrelinhell.blogspot.com/2018/02/men-have-women-are.html

previously i talked about an infohazard about altruism that seemed to fuck with grognor. it feels useful to pass by the dead and look at their lives and choices.

i dont think that castrating yourself is a good intervention for doing stuff you care about, like this is patchwork constraints for an unaligned optimizer. if you arent altruistically aligned from core values, castrating yourself wont make you more aligned.

the "altruists" having babies thing is actual insane and pasek is right about that. pretty much all of society will try and gaslight you about this the way sometimes people are gaslit about "i need to have sex with lots of attractive fems to keep up my moral so i can do super good stuff afterwards.". like if people want to do good for the world it will flow out as a continuous expression of value not some brent dill kind of deal that institutions like CFAR accepted until there was too much social pressure for them to maintain this facade.

the entire premise that morality is this modular thing and you can help set the utility function of an FAI while being a terrible person, is wrong. yet organizations like CFAR keep thinking it will work out for them:

<<We believe that Brent is fundamentally oriented towards helping people grow to be the best versions of themselves. In this way he is aligned with CFAR’s goals and strategy and should be seen as an ally.

In particular, Brent is quite good at breaking out of standard social frames and making use of unconventional techniques and strategies. This includes things that have Chesterton’s fences attached, such as drug use, weird storytelling, etc. A lot of his aesthetic is dark, and this sometimes makes him come across as evil or machiavellian.

Brent also embodies a rare kind of agency and sense of heroic responsibility. This has caused him to take the lead in certain events and be an important community hub and driver. The flip side of this is that because Brent is deeply insecure, he has to constantly fight urges to seize power and protect himself. It often takes costly signalling for him to trust that someone is an ally, and even then it’s shaky.

Brent is a controversial figure, and disliked by many. This has led to him being attacked by many and held to a higher standard than most. In these ways his feelings of insecurity are justified. He also has had a hard life, including a traumatic childhood. Much of the reason people don’t like him comes from a kind of intuition or aesthetic feeling, rather than his actions per se.

Brent’s attraction to women (in the opinion of the council) sometimes interferes with his good judgement. Brent knows that his judgement is sometimes flawed, and has often sought the help of others to check his actions. Whether or not this kind of social binding is successful is not obvious.>>

https://pastebin.com/fzwYfDNq

<<AnnaSalamon 2/6/09, 5:54 AM

Aleksei, I don’t know what you think about the current existential risks situation, but that situation changed me in the direction of your comment. I used to think that to have a good impact on the world, you had to be an intrinsically good person. I used to think that the day to day manner in which I treated the people around me, the details of my motives and self-knowledge, etc. just naturally served as an indicator for the positive impact I did or didn’t have on global goodness.

(It was a dumb thing to think, maintained by an elaborate network of rationalizations that I thought of as virtuous, much the way many people think of their political “beliefs”/clothes as virtuous. My beliefs were also maintained by not bothering to take an actually careful look either at global catastrophic risks or even at the details of e.g. global poverty. But my impression is that it’s fairly common to just suppose that our intuitive moral self-evaluations (or others’ evaluations of how good of people we are) map tolerably well onto actual good consequences.)

Anyhow: now, it looks to me as though most of those “good people”, living intrinsically worthwhile lives, aren’t contributing squat to global goodness compared to what they could contribute if they spent even a small fraction of their time/money on a serious attempt to shut up and multiply. The network of moral intuitions I grew up in is… not exactly worthless; it does help with intrinsically worthwhile lives, and, more to the point, with the details of how to actually build the kinds of reasonable human relationships that you need for parts of the “shut up and multiply”-motivated efforts to work… but, for most people, it’s basically not very connected to how much good they do or don’t do in the world. If you like, this is good news: for a ridiculously small sum of effort (e.g., a $500 donation to SIAI; the earning power of seven ten-thousandths of your life if you earn the US minimum wage), you can do more expected-good than perhaps 99.9% of Earth’s population. (You may be able to do still more expected-good by taking that time and thinking carefully about what most impacts global goodness and whether anyone’s doing it.)>>

https://www.greaterwrong.com/posts/4pov2tL6SEC23wrkq/epilogue-atonement-8-8

like opposing this isnt self-denying moral aestheticism or a signalling game of how good you can look (credibly signalling virtue is actually a good thing, i wish more people did it by for instance demonstrating how they win in a way that wouldnt work if they werent aligned. whose power seeded from their alignment.). its like... the alternative where people do things that it makes no sense for an altruist to do and then say that when they go to their day jobs they are super duper altruistic they swear; compartmentalizing in this way ...doesnt actually work.

people who want to obscure what altruism looks like will claim that this is moving around a social schelling point for who is to be ostracized. and that altruism as a characteristic of a brain isnt a cluster-in-reality that you can talk about. because it will be coopted by malicious actors as a laser to unjustly zap people with. these people are wrong.

both EA and CFAR are premised on some sort of CDT modular morality working. it is actually pretending to do CDT optimization because like with brent at each timestep they are pretending to think "how can we optimize utility moving forward?" (really i suspect they are just straight up mindcontrolled by brent, finding ways to serve their master because they used force and the people at CFAR were bad at decision theory) instead of seeking to be agents such that brent when brents plans to predate on people ran through them, he would model it as more trouble than it was worth and wouldnt do this in the first place.

CFAR and EA will do things like allowing someone to predate on women because they are "insightful" or creating a social reality where people with genetic biases who personally devote massive amounts of time and money to babies who happen to be genetically related to them and then in their day job act "altruistically". as long as it all adds up to net positive, its okay right?

but thats not how it works and structures built off of this are utterly insufficient to bring eutopia to sentient life. in just the same way that "scientists" who when they arent at their day jobs are theists are an utterly insufficient to bring eutopia to sentient life.

<<Maybe we can beat the proverb—be rational in our personal lives, not just our professional lives. We shouldn’t let a mere proverb stop us: “A witty saying proves nothing,” as Voltaire said. Maybe we can do better, if we study enough probability theory to know why the rules work, and enough experimental psychology to see how they apply in real-world cases—if we can learn to look at the water. An ambition like that lacks the comfortable modesty of being able to confess that, outside your specialty, you’re no better than anyone else. But if our theories of rationality don’t generalize to everyday life, we’re doing something wrong. It’s not a different universe inside and outside the laboratory.>>

to save the world it doesnt help to castrate yourself and make extra super sure not to have babies. people's values are already what they are, their choices have already been made. these sort of ad-hoc patches are what wrangling an unaligned agent looks like. and the output of an unaligned agent with a bunch of patches, isnt worth much. would you delegate important tasks to an unaligned AI that was patched up after each time it gave a bad output?

it does mean that if after they know about the world and what they can do, people still say that they specifically should have babies, i mark them as having a kind of damage and route around them.

someone not having babies doesnt automatically mark them as someone id pour optimization energy into expecting it to combine towards good ends. the metrics i use are cryptographically secure from being goodharted. so i can talk openly about traits i use to discern between people without worrying about people reading about this and using it to gum up my epistemics.

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gg-astrology · 5 years

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What do you suggest for those who are beginners in astrology? Like how can they improve their learnings more?

Hey there!! 💞💞💞💞 Aaah what a great question!! 💞💞 Thanks so much for asking and giving me opportunity to talk about it!!!! 💞💞This can probably apply to ppl who aren’t beginner-beginner too?? 💞💞It might be good for?? content creators?? as well?? Maybe?? 💞💞

Tips for learning/progressing into astro (maybe??) 🌟

Check the ‘astro asks masterlist’ for stuff on jus… learning astro?? this also for astro, but more/extended??? something you might wanna hear if you’ve been feeling down/demotivated lately or jus need a lil pick me up/kick in the bum – for general stuff, community, things we can do/things we should guard, etc 💞

🚫long post 🚫

Keep an open mind? 💞 It’s easy to get swept up in something/join a set of mentality/believe it’s right because it’s there and people believe it or you have experience™️ that ‘justify’ the thing (‘its what i see so it’s what i believe/know’) Do your research, don’t categorize/group things together, learn to dissect and differentiate. Try not to be prejudice/keep an open heart and mind (it’s not that hard to do, you just gotta ‘check’ yourself for it) 💞💞

What you’re exposed to influences your take on subjects/topics, so be discerning and critical that you aren’t grouping things together or taking it as it is. Learning isn’t just about?? our senses right?? So combine it together (balance it out) and try not to close your opinion/guard yourself up alright (mind v senses v heart v doing stuff v learning things and retaining knowledge)? 💞

There’ll be interpretation that connects with you and those you just ‘take’ as ‘I don’t get it but it seems right’ – make sure to find out why you don’t get it. It’s a hint that there’s a reasoning/way to explain it that rings closer to you. You might be a person who understands certain things explained a certain way, you might not.

Figure out a way to resonate with the hypothesis, because then you understand it and you’re on top of how to interpret it.

If someone proposes a limitation or different interpretation for it, you can adjust and learn how to incorporate it into your understanding better as well (because you get it, you understand it. It’s personal to you now – we have 12 signs in our chart it’s just a matter of connecting that knowledge together and knowing what it means as well) 💞

Find your own way of saying what you mean. Nothing is stagnant as it seems, it’s always like a little buoy in the middle of the sea when it comes to certain subject make sure to express that out and measure where you are on that sea-level as well.

Support others, or at least try not to be a dick to them over things 💞 This is also in-line with reaching out to others and not trying to go through shit alone 💞 How does this relate to learning astro? We might not think we need people but wow does it help a hell lot (and also we do need people?? that’s a– thing?? astrology vs astronomy)💞

Have a good connective system, mutuals, friends. Be open to people and treat others the way you want to be treated 💞 Have someone to support you, catch you out on your shit or help you re-think/brainstorm the way you handle or react to stuff (buddy-system it if you can) 💞

Knowing that someone can give you a second glimpse, double-check and wishes well for you/is in your corner helps tremendously even though logically we might not ‘need it’ (if you don’t want a ‘study buddy’ or ‘group study’ then that’s perfectly ok??💞💞 jus make sure you have someone supportive of you and your interests, people who won’t tear you down if you manifest yourself??

Reach out to others, it helps. But don’t use them for resource?? that’s just– a shitty thing to do with people if you don’t want to have a genuine interaction with them.💞

You’d be surprised at how many people we might hold dear might tear you down?? Don’t wanna scare you so you can skip if you want. But whether they do it consciously or not, make sure to find and genuinely appreciate the things you’re doing, the way you work/think.

If you’re the person who others appreciate the way you work/think/what you’re doing— make sure you aren’t tearing others down. This is a thing?? Whether you’re doing it unconsciously or if you start going ‘maybe I can do this better than them, maybe I can grow/get more appreciated’ — don’t. It’s that kind of egoistical arrogance that’s going to hurt others/your friend.

You’re not supporting, you’re using them. Even if you think you’re bubbling well on your own/minding your own business (there’s a time/place for that)– it’s still a community of people you’re influencing.

Try to be socially responsible, it’s not that bad and it is something you’d rather be safe than sorry about y know (being well-informed socially and using that for the better?)💞

Learn how to appreciate and support, how to let people thrive. Learn how to ‘check’ yourself and stop acting out of your own fears/lashing out onto others as well. Most of the time it’s your own experience (or insecurities) that’s making you push others down like that. You’re going to lose more friends and opportunity if you keep doing it– so make sure to get some motivation, some support (if you need that), use your voice in the community well as well.

Brings us back to the point earlier: treat others the way you treat yourself, if others treat you with appreciation and compliment – give the same energy back?? 💞 Learning astro also depends on the community too right? So how do you want to be treated within the community/how do you treat the community?

It’s not just knowledge, it’s also self-growth. If we want to have self-love/care/help/growth, we gotta learn how to act harmoniously with others as well. Nothing ‘self’ related is ever truly done with just ourselves, it’s how we invest, how we treat others and how others treat us (keep trying even if you fall, keep trying. We got trump but we’re still trying, right? Stop giving up hope.)

Learn how to navigate it, instead of trying to fight it (putting the self first or others first//imbalance) Act with consciousness, the more you’re aware of how you behave/react the more you can learn how to be emotionally intelligent and socially active as well 💞

Your best resources are the people around you as well, sometimes it’s not just books or what you read online. How people conduct, react, how they insert themselves into the narrative/your life will influence what you think about them and how they think about you.

Try to realize that we are bias, because we’re essentially human. Even when we look at things ‘detached from the ego’/well-reasoned we’re still human. No matter how unbiased/knowledgeable we think/know we are, we can’t escape the inevitable nature of our species. So the most we can do is try to keep it together ok and try to be considerate/nice (learn to let others love you/love others, is sometimes harder than learning how to ‘love yourself’)💞

If you’re more of the traditional astrologer type (heavy learning and theory, history, really fun and exciting!) — people are appreciative of things, old or new, it never hurts to keep an open-mind about stuff 💞

Some might not even realize it’s an option, and while people might be (everyone) ‘well thats our/their fault they should’ve researched’ – it’s good to consider that sometimes our modern day life doesn’t always open certain doors up to us all at the same time (we all learn different things at a different time/place in our lives) – so make room for yourself to be curious and to grow, don’t stay stagnant in what you already know and is trying to ‘perfect’ (bc perfection is always improved, more and more as we gain more time/age/perspective as well)💞

Theres always room to grow, there’s always room to learn more. But realizing that you’re over-stepping boundaries and making other people uncomfortable with your interpretation is also a thing.It’s?? something we should consider 💞

Just try to be considerate of others, and be aware of how much you insert/hold yourself back, how you conduct yourself and what your influence does to others as well 💞 Have people you talk to, who can lift you up and encourage you because you deserve it (make sure they’re ok with that too and try not to pile it onto one person ok?) 💞

Don’t stop trying 💞

Low-key that’s kinda like how we behave with politics? Either we ‘dont care either way’ (which is shit for the community/direction we’re going), cares only for the self/personal gain (cough *the 1%* cough), is well-informed and feels shitty about the situation we’re in right now (depressed, suffering, either protesting or lies in bed thinking about giving up) or is just… y know, HOPEFUL but also angry and wanting to be proud of our community and ourselves (prosper/thrive stuff like that) 💞💞

Try to be socially conscious, if you’re down/drained, look out for your happiness/your own health first (pls care for your own health/well-being) 💞 For me, finding a buddy or supportive mutual works. I can’t invest time into everybody but those who I have genuine connections with, I try to keep up as much as tumblr messaging app would tell me I have a notification (it doesn’t sometimes) 💞💞

Tips maybe more specific for beginners/intermediate?? 💞

(might be more relevant? But I’m not sure what type of beginner we are because there’s– a few? But this is the main bulk so maybe give this a read even if you’re not a beginner too)

Premise: Everything below this is after the assumption that we allread up stuff, study about the subject, research things already and is starting somewhere/in the process of starting (already interested in astro)

*I wasn’t thinking about complete COMPLETE beginner who mayhaps might’ve just discovered there’s things beyond the sun-sign (for those that are💞: im sorry ;; I think there’s a post for that too somewhere on my blog maybe skdjnk 💞)

So for those who are beginner astro: Practice 💞Can’t emphasize this enough 💞 We might be self-conscious about our skills, but your biggest critic is yourself and your ego/mood (or lack of it)? 💞Just try practicing it 💞

Theoretical knowledge might get you somewhere, but we also need to know how to apply them 💞 Try to figure out how to read/interpret as you go 💞Sometimes people are like ‘uh oh, red flag. You can’t just let any lunatics out there.’ So this is out of the assumptions that you’ve been a very very theory based person (read a lot of stuff) but haven’t got the time/energy/motivation to start yet.

Balance comes from steady progress in both, so if you dove head deep into doing something. Do your research. If you did research, start working. This is a lab exercise and the more you waste time the more you don’t know how to time-manage yourself into doing both (theory and practical).

We improve when we learn how we work/what we need to work on along the way, but making sure you have substance in both is good for you (so you don’t fuck up the lab exercise and waste your time) 💞

Test yourself and your knowledge? 💞 Find your niche, what you’re interested in 💞 What you might want to figure out or contribute with? 💞 Having a sense of purpose, or having a friend help you check you or hype you up (support you) really helps with motivation 💞

Dont be afraid to ask for encouragement, don’t be too prideful or overthink it too much, we all need that especially when we’re starting out – it can be lonely on your own and even if you can handle it, try to not put that weight on yourself?💞

Jus reach out for people who can give you the time/energy, and help support each other up 💞 It’s much better than being by yourself or feeling shitty about what you do alone. Can’t stress this enough, what’s the point of having a community if you’re going to use them for resources but feels so alienated/alone and like things are passing you by (not feeling knowledgeable enough/forgetting stuff because you don’t hold yourself accountable for applying/putting it out there somewhere so you can ‘practice’ it really)

It also helps with retaining knowledge and intuition, realizing that the things we’re learning are not stagnant and neither should our learning interpretations/methods (we’re all learning as we go so don’t feel bad about contributing or look down on yourself/your knowledge ok?)💞

You learn more if you follow the guides but use that as a jumping board, things are fluid but there are a few certain rules 💞 Don’t feel intimidated by them, find what interests you and research it because you want to (not because you need to in order to be have ‘complete/fair knowledge’ on the subject) 💞

Figure out a way that’s uniquely you, that you can find purpose to and explain it in your own way 💞 We’re talking about the same thing, we’re just doing it in a different way/choosing different parts of the same topic to talk about with each other (sharing is caring, but remember to like..diary entry it out? Sometimes if you push something onto others it can be like uuuuuuh?? cause no one really interprets the same way as each other) 💞💞

Remember that where-ever you are on the spectrum (beginner, intermediate, whatever) it’s not like– a ‘conclusive’ subject. It’s not like we can know all there is to know about something and that’s the be all end all in it.

That’s why we practice as we go, because we always think:

‘If I know a little bit more/feel more stable with my knowledge then I can start interpreting’ — there’s no ‘end’ to the knowledge, you keep learning as you go 💞

What matters is you sharpen yourself and narrow it down to what matters to you, that you yourself progress and grow as an astrologer/person 💞Try practicing as you go otherwise you’ll feel self-conscious about yourself/your own ability forever?? 💞💞💞

Most of the time, we only know what we perceive/interpret 💞While we can look at others and be like ‘wow! fantastic’ at what they do, that doesn’t discredit how you interpret or what you want to talk about💞

Share, contribute, we’re all talking about the same thing just different parts of it 💞Your voice matters, and what you bring to the table even if you think you’re repetitive or being redundant it matters 💞

No one is essentially the ‘boss’ of a subject 💞We’re so scared of criticism when we first begin, even constructive ones are feared too 💞

Closing ourselves down emotionally or detaching the ego from your work doesn’t always help (esp in term of compassion/what you want to produce/contribute or help others with) – learning how to be your own cheerleader does (*be aware of your social influence, how you affect others and what you say as well tho!) 💞

Learning how to grow, have a support system, how to accept emotional hurt instead of deny it or glide past it helps 💞 ‘it aint that deep’ but it is personal and healing to some people, it can be an emotional thing 💞

Don’t dismiss that, learn how to feel comfortable with what you do, check that the way you come across or the way you want the information to contribute is actually having an impact you want 💞

Think of it as growing, editing and manifesting yourself to be the best person? 💞 You’re essentially trying to discover you or have a voice 💞 Whether its in the community or on the subject, learning how you come across on the topic — receiving compliments, criticism– letting it help you and take what you need from it, 💞 Let it help you grow and experience things, discover and learn more about yourself as you do 💞

It’s more than just the subject right? 💞It’s the experience of learning and progressing with your knowledge/ability as well, what it takes to get comfortable/stable enough and to be efficient with it 💞

It’s figuring yourself out 💞 Like learning art, you figure out your own style what you want to do and you have different characteristics from each other 💞 It’s a constant learning progress 💞 So it’s not like, a completely different learning process than art (you can see your progress, no one stays the same when you practice– you’re not the same ‘artist’ or create the same ‘art style’ that you have when you started, with astrology it’s a similar thing– not completely the same but similar)

For beginners, knowing that you yourself is holding you back from doing stuff, starting stuff or criticizing yourself because you’re scared others going to criticize you (and beat down your confidence/happiness/ego) is something we’re going to have to tackle 💞Self-imposed fear, constant watching our back or just being afraid to share (procrastination/putting it off until later) is what’s stopping you the most. 💞

Do something right now, post something. Even if it’s small. It’s a start and it makes a huge difference (what you envision for yourself, how you want to contribute/manifest, what kind of person you want to be– if you’re more of the type to think about your ‘purpose’ as well)

Getting into the habit of doing something because it feels like a relief, like you’re expressing your own knowledge. Like you have more voice or is just confidence in something. Helps. 💞

Even if no one sees it (which is probably what all beginners are praying for skdjn) even if someone yells at you (fear conjured by our own anxiety and wariness of the cancel culture??) you find your own footing and you know your own path. You figure out what you want to do from there because you know you and you know how to write stuff for yourself, alright? 💞

I think for complete beginners getting over this initial fear is hard, like the hardest thing because we might feel we’re essentially ‘putting ourselves out/up there for criticism’ – it’s easy to be cynical/closed-off, it’s harder to be confident/content with ourselves. Learning how to do this for you, to say it with your own voice. The astro community is vast, if your voice isn’t someone’s cuppa tea then they’ll leave? If they like your opinion/want to hear you clarify more, they’ll ask? 💞

Treat others the way you want to be treated?? 💞 That’s the best advice I can give you if you don’t want to deal with what you fear?? How you talk about stuff, what you say and what kind of people you’re talking about matters. If you talk more shit than you actually give back, then you’re going to attract more shit to you as well? It’s in how we conduct ourselves and how we figure us out (*for how to help ourselves, sometimes shit happens and sometimes it’s hard to get over a past experience or let prejudice color our lens) 💞

We grow and learn, and sometimes we’re embarrassed by our past behaviors– so make sure you’re looking out for your future self as well 💞

Sometimes our fears and ‘ill do it later’ is bigger than our happiness and actual knowledge. You undermine yourself, and your own mind and paranoia is sometimes your biggest foe 💞

Who’s the one who double checks everything they write? Who’s the one who doesn’t carelessly make up a post because they don’t like getting backlash? It’s you. You’re your biggest editor but also your biggest push back, learn how to be spontaneous and do things now 💞

Mmmm another thing that might be hard for beginners, but will help them a lot is ‘jumping off’ things (applying knowledge). People like interesting posts right? We like things that are beyond the basics, because we know the basics. That’s the guidelines, and sometimes we look back and see interesting posts there too! 💞

But the point is, you gotta learn how to find your own voice and make posts that personally interests you? 💞 Posts that makes you invested, that makes you feel personal. Posts that gets you to self-express your voice 💞

Applying knowledge isn’t hard, you can do astro-notes for yourself and that’s a pretty efficient and productive start already? 💞 Finding your own methods or what kind of things you want to talk/post about helps too 💞

Doing things for yourself generally helps alot because it’s there to add to your own voice, your own observation and knowledge in something beyond just theoretical. It’s also there to share and contribute with others 💞 The more you notice, the more you learn how to apply 💞

More and more, you learn how to grasps not working so point by point (I’m learning this and then I’ll go learn that) but how to weave them together and how they differentiate? 💞 That’s where you wanna be at right? Where you can talk about some astro philosophy and re-work how you think/interpretate/learn stuff and share that with others as well 💞

Anyways, those are just things that might help. To keep in mind? Just do stuff. Like do things. That’s how you find support and learn about yourself. You’re never not going to like ‘you’ when you start doing something (like going to a dance class for the first time, trying out something you like. You might be nervous/hyper-aware but you come out knowing where you stand with the idea of it continuing)– you’re going to look at yourself and want to edit more and more. So make sure you start, so you can actually do something with it too! 💞

ALSO TO NOTE: Try not to be prejudice. This is an icky subject especially with serious traumas, victims who has their own mind-prison (*is in therapy or need it to help with past experiences) we’re all biased, we said that. For those who are in therapy (experiences that has happened in the past) – work on you, we’re here for you. Take your time, it’s good to even be aware of certain trigger points. Please take care of yourself first 💞

For those who are?? less serious?? honestly it’s jus a fun thing like you can joke but you can also be serious just– if you come to me I’m always gonna be like ‘hey its ok’ and?? jus?? talk about their traits and stuff?? 💞💞

That’s some?? Tips for beginners I think?? 💞💞 I hope it’s useful?? 💞💞💞

#astrology asks #content creators #kpop astrology #bts astrology #svt astrology #seventeen astrology #bangtan astrology #anyways mayhaps this will help #writing #astrolohoee #asks

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unsettlingstories · 6 years

Text

Updated index of all stories. May 16, 2018.

Transfigurations: A small, self-published collection of my favorite short stories from 2015. Individual Stories

3 Signs You May Be An Introvert and How to Cope: Some great tips! 30 years ago today, my neighbor’s son disappeared: They miss him. A Case of Hives: My son isn’t feeling too well… A Cure for Writer’s Block: How to find inspiration when it’s just not there. A Curious Dog: My dog won’t stop pawing at a wall in the basement. A Gifted Chef: My friend was one of the greats. I miss him. A Life Worth Living: Big changes lead to bigger results. A Most Welcome Visitor: He’d come to me in the middle of the night. A Pathetic Wretch: His neighbor just won’t stop crying. An Artist’s Canvas: The beauty of symmetry. A Questionable Glory Hole: A young man’s first sexual experience. A Warning To Women With IUDs: Be careful whatcha put up ya. Adrenochrome: The horrible, impossible truth. All Horror Stories About Dolls Are Fake: My daughter was bullied mercilessly. Allison’s Loss: My daughter is devastated by the death of her friend. Alternative Medicine: A wife treats her husband with an old remedy. All Thumbs: My embarrassing habit. A Message in a Bottle: I’m suddenly filled with dread. A Very Bad Place to Hide: Maybe even the worst. Amy’s Wish: Blow away the eyelash and make a wish! An Unlucky Samaritan: Think twice before stopping to help. Are My Twins Spending Too Much Time Together?: For woke mommies only. Assisted Suicide: He begged me to help him die. Attempts to Repair the Irreparable: How do you move on? Bad Sex: Has this ever happened to you and your partner? Bags: A hunting trip goes very, very wrong. Beach Bodies: What’s that out in the water? A whale? Ben’s Fear: He just hated seaweed. Bitcoin Mining and the Death of the Universe: I think I fucked something up. Bits and Pieces: Chunks and portions. Bitumen: A man who loves dinosaurs. Black Balloons: My little daughter saw shapes in the sky. Bluebirds: Possibly the most reprehensible thing I’ve ever written. Bluefin: Use caution when poaching an endangered species. Body Cast: The worst thing that can happen when you’re immobilized. Body Hair Removal: I learned a valuable lesson. Bridgeport Power Plant: There’s something living there. Bubbles: Strange happenings in an emergency room. Butt Stuff: The activity - not the other thing. Caroline’s New Teeth: The Tooth Fairy’s best customer. Caviar: Only the best for discerning palates. Centipedes: There’s some big ones out there, you know. Charles Robert Olevsky: Ever Google yourself? Chopped!: An unaired episode of the Food Network show. Christmas Morning With Danny and His New Puppy: Danny gets a puppy. Comfort Food: Anything to help fill that void. Coping Mechanisms: Life after losing a husband and a daughter. Cracks in the Foundation: A relationship on the edge. Dawn: I hurt my sister so badly. I’ll never forgive myself. Daycare Massacre: A terrible incident before a hurricane. Death Looking into the Window of One Dying: His final days. Dede Elgy: This monster story will make you feel dirty. Very dirty. Deniehyfield, Australia is Being Dismantled: My town is disappearing. Dermatographia: Words on my skin. Devil’s Hole: The geological anomaly, not the…you know. Dial Tone: What’s going on with my phone? Diary of a Woman in New Hampshire: Found a diary. Wtf. Dilation and Evacuation: A friend in need is a friend indeed. Division: Nothing is right. Double Dare: The long-lost episode never seen in the US. Dumbwaiter: A family learns something about their house. Elective Surgery: I just want him to be happy. Elf on the Shelf: He’s watching. Endless Chirping: Ever get a cricket in your room? Escaphism: The journey of one man, his love, and The Verdant World. Ethan’s Halloween Mask: Not all friendships are positive. ExpressionCaptioner.com: This website is seriously weird. Fallenfield Mountain: A geological survey gone wrong. Very wrong. Family Tree: A unique family tradition is revealed. Farm to Table: Fucking hipsters. Fertility Treatments: Some people are desperate to have a baby. Fireflies: You would not believe your eyes. For Lena and Clair: Trapped after an earthquake. Found the Bees: Well, that solves that mystery. Gratification Through Annihilation: Suffer the little children. Great Potential: A lady who loves children. He Went Ahead: My friends and I were into urban exploration. Heather’s Phases: My wife always had body-image issues. House Sounds: What do we keep hearing? I Dream of Names and Cancer: My eternal nightmare. I Pressed My Hands Against My Eyes: And only then could I truly see. I Shouldn’t Have Broken Into My Neighbor’s Garage: I’ll never unsee it. If Anyone Asks: An old farmer notices something about his scarecrow. I’ll Never Wear a Condom Again: No way, no how. Instantiations: An AI gets powerful and utilitarianism rears its head. In Praise of Our God: A helpful neighbor. It’s Hard to Clean Blood Out of a Fur Suit: Right? Jerry’s Mouth: Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats. Jill-o-Lanterns: The murders are all connected. Jim Jameson’s Pumpkins: A dead farmer’s secrets. Know it All: See it all, feel it all, know it all. Last Weekend: Hazmat suits, horror, and a mystery. Licks From a Bear: Skull + electric drill = story. Lippy: I’ve always been self conscious about the size of my labia. Little Cows: Meet the milkmaid. Long Fingers: I can feel them. Making Faces: Strange prints on the windows… Making Their Dad Proud: A family that plays together… Malcolm: You know those floaty things in your eyes? Maria’s Extra-Credit Assignment: Gotta get a good grade. Medical Issue: What’s the stuff I found on a rock? Memoir of a Cam Girl: She is being controlled. Missing Mousetraps: My neighbors had an infestation. Moaning Lollipops: Why do they make that sound in my mouth? Motility: My sperm sucked. Mr. Puddles: A little boy just won’t stop splashing. Mushy Stuff: My parents never let me have any fun. My Amazon Alexa Does More Than Laugh: Please help - I’m in danger. My Brother’s Fall: Horror deep below the Iraqi desert. My Cellar Door is Breathing: Is that normal? My Constellation: Want to be sad? This will make you sad. My erection lasted longer than 4 hours: and I didn’t call a doctor. My four year old son woke up with a full head of grey hair: Help us. My Last Abduction: All the other ones don’t count. My Only Experience With ASMR: Hint - it didn’t go well. My Sister Found the Coolest Thing!: You’ve gotta hear about it. My Sweet Boy: A mom who loves her son. My Trouble With Fairies: They’re so mischievous and unpredictable! My Wife, the Artist: A couple who loves Halloween. Nests: Ah, the great outdoors. Network Security: Two friends get a glimpse of a Russian science lab. Never Ride the Subway at Night: You never know who could be watching you. Norwalk Cemetery: There’s something alien in there… Not All Men: Temper, temper, young man. Of Malevolence; Of Misanthropy: A disturbed scientist makes a discovery. Open Mouths: A hideous ritual. Otter: I’ve always wanted to be one. Ouroboros: Why cut when you can cut off? Pebbles: A strange meteor shower. Phone Sex: It all started when I realized my iPhone was self-lubricating. People are disappearing in Northern Canada: What is happening? Pool Cover: I almost drowned when I was 13. Pray Away: Conversion therapy for deviant behavior. Pretty Little Bugs: A new job as a cameraman. Prosopagnosia: After an accident, my husband couldn’t recognize us. Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice: What can be better? Quarry: Trying to beat the heat on a summer day. Randall’s Chatty Leg: He said it was talking to him. I heard it. Rats in the Barn: An exterminator’s apprentice. Recycling: Parents try to understand their depressed daughter. Rediscovering the Newness of Sex: Let’s spice it up a little. Regarding Danny and Micah Stevenson: Two brothers rely on one another. Regina’s Raspberry Jam: She put everything she had into it. Road Head: Who doesn’t like getting sucked on? Seriously. Roo: An old man watches a girl grow up. Roots of Change: Something is happening beneath our feet. Ropes: Be careful what you eat. Rotting Pumpkins: A Halloween ritual. Round Faces: My daughter keeps complaining about monsters. Safety: Our grandfather was obsessed with it. Seed of Man, Pollen of Angels: A family tradition. Sex, Gender, and Other Social Constructs: Destroy them all. Sex in the Cemetery: Gotta do it somewhere, I guess. Skincare Diary: My acne was getting out of hand. Smokey, the Dog I Rescued: A very very good boye. Snapshot of a New Man: Evil (Inspiration for The Coronation Cycles series.) Soft Teeth: A man used to sneak into my room at night. Sprouts: Something beautiful from something small. Still a Family: Two sisters have lunch while waiting for their parents. Stop Being Such Babies: The woods aren’t scary, for fuck’s sake. Stuffing: Grandma’s was the best. Suicide Woods: Not just in Japan anymore. Tainted Candy: The legend is real. Teeny-Tiny: Katie wants to lose weight. That Good Dick: You know what I mean ;) The Alzheimer’s Ward: This isn’t right. The Bleakness Before Our Old Eyes: The Universe tasted us that night. The Blissful Insensate: An experiment goes terribly wrong. The Cave in the Lake: A discovery while scuba diving leads to horror. The Chernobyl Abomination: My father saw something he shouldn’t have. The Cotard Delusion: A new drug has a frightening side-effect. The Day I Started Believing In Ghosts: I’m still in shock. The Empty Cribs on Hawthorne Lane: Missing children. The Face in the Clouds: A meteorological anomaly? Or something else? The Floor is Lava: We all used to play that game, right? The Giggliest Girl: Don’t tickle me, Mommy. The Gray in Girl: A man finds a girl on the side of the road. The Hitchhiker: I think I need a new car now. The Incident at the Train Station: After a suicide, something…worse. The Job I Couldn’t Leave: I was employed by a psychopath. The Last of the Trick-or-Treaters: A strange costume. The Last words of an Explorer: A city on no one's map. The Least Satisfying Explanation: And the biggest understatement I’ve made. The Little Ghost: That nagging voice inside your head. The Lord of Hosts: Lice The Moose Hunt: Is…is that really a moose? The Perils of Live TV: It’s not all fun and games. The Perks of Working in a Funeral Home: There aren’t many, but still. The Pilot: A UFO crash. The Oblivion that Masks Pain: Escape. The Old Mine Outside Town: Everyone was too scared to go in. I wasn’t. The Only Solution: How to bring back a loved one? The Only Thing That Matters: Zombies attack a supermarket. The House in the Woods: Bad title, good story. The Shores of Pluto: A journey without moving. The Sleeping Game: We played when we were kids. The Small Eyed Children of Canyon del Cristo: A local legend comes alive. The Squirming Man: Please leave me alone. The Star Bridge: My friend found something beyond life. The Tomb of the Builders: Divers looking for sunken treasure find something evil. The Trawl: We dragged something up from deep underwater. The Wisdom of Moms: Mother knows best. The Worst Party in Ten Thousand Years: Trust me, it’s pretty damn bad. There is nothing wrong in East Flatbush, Brooklyn: Ignore the dragonflies. There’s something very wrong with my parrot: WTF. Tiptoeing the Line of Consent: But never crossing it. To Adore: Our beautiful baby girl. To the Kind Folks at WebMD: Just a couple questions. To Travel: Bodies in bodies, bodies of bodies. Trees of Eyes: They’re watching. Tunnel Rat: My grandfather told us the worst story I’ve ever heard. Seriously. Uncle Liam: I never told the real story about how he died. Under My Teeth: My mouth is screaming. Uplift: A brilliant scientist works to improve the human condition. We’re All Smiling: Whether we want to or not. We Share the Empty Roads: You’re never, ever alone when you drive. Wet Bedroom: A haunted house with a hideous history. What He Told Me: Evil (Inspiration for The Coronation Cycles series.) Wikileaks: A document they refused to leak. What to expect when I’m expecting: Hint - it’s the worst. Why I Don’t Hike Anymore: Not what you might think.

Story Series

The Smols: Maybe the most fucked up stories I've ever written.

Sade Smols Emmy Smols

The Secret Doctors of NASA: A wide-ranging conspiracy.

A Dentist's Discovery A Psychologist's Suicide A Surgeon's Nightmare

Tales from Social Media

Something horrible is happening to me on Tumblr Something horrible is happening to me on Facebook Something horrible is happening to me on Reddit Something horrible is happening to me on Grindr Something horrible is happening to me on Myspace Something horrible is happening to me on Pokemon Go

Sockets: Craigslist allows you to meeting interesting people.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

#horror stories #scary stories #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #creative writing

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10000badframes · 5 years

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Why I Left Music

To understand why I left music, you've got to start with why and how I got into music.

When I was little, I was deaf, and when my hearing was restored, it came back in stages. I would listen, rapt, to a My First Symphony tape as the sections of the orchestra were introduced one by one, and as time went on, each became more intelligible. High pitches were easier to discern, so the flute stood out like a beam of light in the darkness. What's more, I was surrounded by music on a daily basis. My dad is a wildly creative and intuitive musician, proficient on a number of instruments, my mother and brother sang beautifully, and my sister had been singing and playing violin from an early age. We sang as a family at home and at church, and I was in choir and handbell choir from my earliest memories on. I don't remember not being able to read music. I started with piano, and moved to flute once my arms were long enough for the starter headjoint, in about fourth grade. My first teacher was the principle flute player with the Rochester Philharmonic, and when I moved to Iowa, I learned from the principal of the Des Moines Symphony. Both teachers made the smart move of throwing repertoire at me which was much more advanced than the usual stuff at my level, and because I didn't know it was supposed to be hard, I rocketed forward at a feverish pace. I continued with choir and handbell choir, and as my skill became more evident, I added youth orchestra, honor band, and pit orchestras, and that was just after school. During school I was in marching band, concert band, jazz band, and orchestra. I attended elite months-long summer camps for the nation's best young musicians. I competed regularly, and at one point was considered to be one of the top three musicians in my age bracket in the country. My first tattoo was of a treble clef. As a shy child in a talented family, I was pleased to have found my talent, the thing I didn't have to work very hard at in order to achieve great things. I rested my self-confidence on that talent, and when opportunities came up to show it off, I didn't turn them down. Nobody forced me to do any of the activities above; it came with a built-in social life and plentiful affirmation, so I almost never paused to think about whether or not this was something I actually wanted to do forever. It was simply assumed, as inherent a fact of life as the sunrise. I probably should have known it wasn't for me when practicing was boring; almost unbearable. I heard about people enjoying practicing, and assumed that they were lying in order to look good. I would avoid it however I could, and did pretty well regardless. I loved ensemble work because I loved music, but listening to myself for hours on end, however good the result was, was miserable. At the worst of times, I assumed that my hatred of practicing meant that I was lazy and undisciplined, inherently a bad artist, and probably a bad person. I heard talk about 'flow state,' and how it made the time fly. Having never achieved it, I assumed that it was a lie. Since I'd specialized to such a high degree, music was the only course to follow in college. The culture surrounding classical music then became much more evident, divorced as it was from my little Midwestern fishbowl. I learned about the way I was expected to present my gender, and was pressured by my teacher to grow out my pixie cut out of concern that I wasn't feminine enough to be a flute player. I learned about the ingrained gender divide, and how child-bearing was considered the knell of doom for female musicians. I learned that I was one of thousands of young musicians all competing for the same handful of jobs, which could wait for perfection to walk through the door as the market was so flooded. I learned that blind auditions don't mask your gender if the judges can hear you inhale. Most depressing of all, I learned that my chances of getting an orchestral job - the only thing which I enjoyed about being a musician - were so small as to be statistically impossible. I would have to join the military, become a teacher, or quit. At first, I quit. Two years into my bachelor's degree at a prestigious school, I quit, leaving my family and community reeling in shock. They had all invested faith, time, and money in my dream of being a musician, and I had thrown it away. To them, it appeared to be an impulsive, flaky, and selfish decision to make, flying in the face of every opportunity I'd been given. To me, I was trying to stand up for myself. I was lost, depressed, occasionally suicidal, and suffering from ulcers. I was still battling the notion that I was lazy and undisciplined, and now everyone I knew saw me in the worst possible light. I leaned into my new failure status, and piled bad choices on top of bad choices, embarrassing myself and my family. Years later, when I had leveled out somewhat and come to terms with the fact that I needed a bachelor's degree in order to be taken seriously on the job market, I wanted to do anything except for music. I enrolled in a community college and took math, science, and art courses, the latter having been a hobby of mine since I was young. I'd been drawing cartoons to put in my boyfriend's lunch for years, and in my drawing and painting classes, I honed the skill. When the time came to transfer my credits to the state college, the majority of my post-high school credits were in art and music. I applied at the state's art school, and was turned down. My financial reality became clear; in order to get a bachelor's degree in under three years, the majority of my transferrable credits were in music, so to music I had to return. I was accepted at the music school, and went back to rehearsals, practicing, and competing. It was much the same as the last time, in ways both good and bad, with the notable difference that this time I was resigned to the impossibility of it all. Whenever people said they'd had a satisfying practice session, I lied through my teeth and said I had, too. I incurred my debt, got my degree, and left with zero intention of pursuing a master's, surfing a new wave of disappointment from teachers and my community alike. The shambling zombie of my career ambitions followed me when I moved to New York City due to my husband's job, and I paid hundreds of dollars for lessons from eminent professionals at Juilliard and the New York Philharmonic. I took masterclasses, invested in new equipment, and auditioned. Nothing substantial ever came from it, as the statistics had foretold. I watched my classmates move into the military and teaching, with a lucky few going on to teach at the collegiate level, and even fewer achieving a performance career. I practiced, and hated every minute. Then, at my breaking point, I watched Monsters University. It's such a weird way to switch gears. People took a number of things away from their experience of MU; mine was the message that you can be amazing at something and still never hope to make a career of it. What you have to do when you've faced up to that truth is to find what you loved about the career you thought you were going to have and apply it somewhere else. Adapt. Something better might be waiting. I thought about how live music is being replaced with synthesized music and orchestras are dying across the nation. I looked at my dusty art portfolio. There were dozens of animators in that credits sequence after MU, I thought. There are two flutes in every orchestra. The next day, I sat down with my husband at lunch, and said, "let's move to California. I want to be a 3D animator." This was surprising coming from me; I'd only ever reluctantly taken to digital media, and barely knew how to use Photoshop. My reasoning was that if I wanted to be at the forefront of a growing industry, and if I re-trained in animation, I would have a better chance of getting work than I had now (there was nowhere to go but up in that respect.) There would be more opportunities for both of us out in California, where his company had a major office, and where several prominent studios were housed. He agreed immediately, and got me The Illusion of Life for my 29th birthday. Maya is a hell of a tough program at the best of times. It has a mind of its own, and even when everything is running smoothly, you have to contend with such gauntlets as the graph editor (a mathematical representation of motion over time.) You know what you want the characters to do, but you have to use this thorny, labyrinthine program to do it, and I've cried many tears of frustration over it. You are responsible for every single movement, every blink, every shrug, every breath. It is dizzyingly easy to mess up, and impossibly, sixteen-dimensionally complicated. And yet. Flow state, that thing I thought was a lie? I found it. It was about six months in, while I was still wrestling with the program. I was grappling with the reality that I'm not naturally good at this, that my talent lies elsewhere, and any progress I make in this quarter will come from elbow grease alone. I was making adjustments to a scene, and realized that four hours had passed unnoticed. I felt energized and satisfied. I craved more. At thirty, I found out that I wasn't lazy and undisciplined, that I didn't hate hard work, that I wasn't a terrible person - I was just very, very good at something I didn't truly want to do. Now, I struggle and weep and sink weeks and months into seconds worth of footage, and I love it. Wild horses couldn't keep me away.

#career change #classical music #flow state #3d animation #personal

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kateyes224 · 6 years

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In My Silence

Author: KatEyes224

Rating: R

Timeline: Post-This, but before Plus One

A/N: This story wouldn’t have seen the light of day were it not for a couple of very important people. Namely @mldrgrl, who didn’t ever let me give up on it, and @sunflowerseedsandscience and @mangokiwitropicalswirl who offer their unwavering support even when I don’t deserve it.

She loses him somewhere in the kitchen department, letting him disappear from her line of sight while she lingers, waylaid by a particularly handsome backsplash. Which they absolutely do not need, she reasons after three solid minutes of arguing with herself before finally moving on. But she’d been wanting to update the kitchen since they’d first bought the house; bullet-riddled drywall, she figures, is as good an excuse as any. And their ridiculously expensive homeowners’ policy is apparently finally going to pay off, so they may as well take advantage.

By the time Scully wanders over to the dining area to check out the table they’d picked out together online, she knows Mulder has probably given up on trying to find her. He stubbornly refuses to backtrack at IKEA, claiming it only gets him more turned around. And despite his alleged accrual of Indian Guides merit badges, the proof of which Scully has yet to see, he scoffs at conventional wilderness survival skills like staying put and waiting for help to come to him whenever he gets lost. They’d agreed in the car ahead of time to meet up at the cafe on the second floor if they got separated, so Scully starts heading that direction.

She immediately suspects ulterior motives. Mulder has once again managed to plan this outing to take place around lunchtime, and Scully assumes that his timing is calculated so that he can satiate his unaccountable love of Swedish meatballs.

Meandering through a maze of living room and bedroom furniture, Scully consciously quells the urge to quicken her pace when she finds herself walking past bunk beds and brightly colored children’s rooms, college corner desks and bins of extra-long twin bed sheets.

William would be looking at colleges this year, wouldn’t he? Studying for his SATs. Maybe courting college scouts for water polo or basketball or baseball. Or maybe he’d been an academic, in math league or on the debate team or winner of the science fair. Or maybe he’d been a thespian, or maybe he’d been a loner, or, or, or...

Next to a wall of framed mirrors, Scully closes her eyes against row upon row of her own fractured reflections and breathes deeply through her nose, trying to banish the onslaught of potential iterations of her son as quickly as they apparate. Fifteen years later and he is still every dark-haired, long-limbed boy she sees out of the corner of her eye until she dares to look twice.

William has never stopped being a residual image that appears, Turin-like, in every negative space in her meticulously constructed world. But Scully has learned to allow herself to feel the ebb and flow of both her guilt and her gratitude in these moments. Cognitive dissonance, if nothing else, at least drowns out all the other voices in her head; the ones that whisper about what she did to Mulder when she left him to wrestle with their ghosts all alone in their drafty old house, instead of what she did to William when she gave him away to a future without her, perilous and uncertain.

She cannot, however, stop herself from intentionally averting her gaze when she passes by the children’s play area just outside the IKEA cafe, where a very pregnant mother is loudly compromising with her young son for just five more minutes, and then it’s time to go. Scully squeezes her eyes shut as the woman cradles her swollen belly with one hand and digs the other into the small of her back.

Some reminders still hurt more than others.

She spots Mulder near the front of the line queued to order and is just to about to call out to him when another voice beats her to the punch.

“Mulder? Fox Mulder?”

Mulder turns to the source of the voice, a woman standing several people behind him in line, and Scully sees him quirk a smile of recognition that reaches all the way to his eyes.

She freezes, watching the interaction unfold from a distance with an almost clinically detached interest. Mulder’s social circle, she knows, has dwindled over the years to just a handful of people, mostly acquaintances. As she racks her brain to place this woman, Scully realizes with a pang of regret that she has comprised the bulk of that handful for the last decade or more. And, until recently, she had been doing her level best to leave Mulder behind.

She notices the woman’s blonde hair first, a lustrous mane that falls in golden waves around slender, tanned shoulders. Not a hint of gray, Scully discerns, biting her lip so hard it nearly bleeds.

Mulder lets the few people between them go in front of him until he and the mystery woman are standing next to one another in line. He crosses his arms as they begin to converse, and Scully flushes hotly as she takes note of a typical Mulder maneuver when he dips his head and leans into her space so that he can hear her better. At one point, the woman turns into him to allow the person behind her to go ahead, and Scully catches a glimpse of her profile. A deep dimple appears in the woman’s cheek as she laughs at something Mulder says.

The two must reach a mutual decision to just order their food together because they finally approach the same register but pay separately. They then head over to a nearby table where a bored-looking blond boy of about six or seven in a baseball uniform is sitting.

Making her way closer, Scully takes in the woman’s tall, fit figure and makeup-free face. She has a wide, easy smile, which she unabashedly flashes up at Mulder as they continue talking.

As Scully nears, she begins to hear snippets of conversation.

“-eb’s little brother is already outgrowing the toddler bed, so we’re here looking at bunk beds. The boys are really excited about the idea of bunk beds, aren’t you, Caleb?”

Caleb smiles tightly and nods, obliging his mother, and throws his small fist into his baseball glove a few more times.

Mulder bends down, muscular arms resting lightly on his bent knees, looking up into the boy’s eyes. Someplace deep within Scully’s chest starts to ache, the twinge old and familiar. Mulder has always been wonderful with children, has always given due deference to their personhood no matter their age.

It was one of those things about him that Scully had always thought would have made him a wonderful father.

“What position do you play, Caleb?” she hears Mulder ask.

Caleb’s little boy voice is swallowed by the cacophony of knives and forks clinking against plastic plates and soda machines spitting ice into cups, and Scully finds herself leaning forward slightly as she continues towards their table, straining to hear.

“-na learn how to pitch.”

Mulder nods and glances up at the boy’s mother before meeting Caleb’s eyes again.

“You know, I pitched a couple of years. I used to be good at curveballs and changeups. But you’re gonna have to practice a lot if you want to be a pitcher. You think you can do that?”

Caleb nods down at Mulder, solemn.

The woman tugs gently at the bill of her son’s baseball cap. “I can’t keep him away from the baseball diamond. And if he’s not there he wants to be at the batting cages.”

Mulder’s smile widens. “I was the same way when I was his age.”

Scully sees the woman’s eyes sweep over her partner’s frame appreciatively. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Caleb stares at Mulder now with naked admiration. “Who’s your favorite pitcher? Mine’s Zach Britton.”

Mulder chuckles. “Britton’s pretty good. I’m a Yankees fan, myself. So I’m liking Severino these days.”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “Ewwww, the Yankees? Traitor.”

Mulder and the woman both laugh.

“Well, maybe one day…” his mother cocks her head, biting her lip as she glances between her son and Mulder, “Mulder here can show you how to throw a curveball, Caleb.”

Mulder chuffs as he rises, crossing his arms even more tightly across his broad chest as a blush creeping over his features. “I’d probably end up in the hospital if I tried to throw a curveball these days, Annie.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Annie says, reaching a tentative hand out and wrapping it around Mulder’s right bicep. “You look like you’re in pretty good shape to me.”

Scully, done observing, quickens her pace and plasters a smile on. “Mulder,” she says, still several feet away. “Here you are.”

Mulder startles, jerking his arm from Annie’s grasp. “Scully, hey. This is, uh, you remember, right? Annie. Anne. Anne Woodward. She was, uh, she was…”

A look of dawning comprehension flits its way over Annie’s face as she gauges Mulder’s stammering reaction with Scully’s sudden appearance. Annie glances down at Mulder’s left ring finger, then Scully’s, before she brings her eyes back up to Scully’s.

Subtle, Scully thinks. “No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” she says instead, smiling wider but barely unable to unclench her teeth. The woman is even more stunning up close. Glowing jade-green eyes and full lips. Gorgeous body.

Jesus.

Scully holds her hand out. “I’m Dana-”

Annie reaches out to shake it firmly. “Agent Scully. I know. You probably don’t recognize me, but I was at Agent Mulder’s house last weekend. I’m an investigative technician with the Bureau. I was part of the team mobilized to collect evidence after the Purlieu incident last week.” She drops Scully’s hand. “Crazy stuff.”

Combing through her memory of the multitudinous faces and comings and goings of all the investigators that had torn their house apart for almost 48 hours, Scully thinks she might remember a blonde ponytail poking out of an FBI cap, gathering evidence. Scully had been in and out of their house herself during those few days, giving multiple statements to multiple agencies, appearing before a review panel.

“Right. Thanks for your help on that,” Scully says. “Agent Mulder’s house,” she emphasizes, “is quite literally a disaster, as you know, so I told him I’d help him pick out some replacement furniture. And I owe him a table.”

Mulder’s brow furrows. He starts to interject, but Scully shoots him a pointed glance. His mouth slams shut, but the confused crease in his forehead deepens.

Just then, Annie’s order number is called, then Mulder’s. Scully makes a show of looking at her watch, clearing her throat.

“Mulder, I’ll just go get the stuff from the warehouse and meet you at the car, okay? You can drop me off at my place on your way home.”

Scully turns and walks away before he has a chance to respond. She throws one last glance over her shoulder and swallows past the lump that rises in her throat as Annie beams up at Mulder. Scully nearly bumps right into the pregnant mother still arguing with her obstinate son as she stumbles towards the elevators.

xxx

As she waits for Mulder in the car, the silence humid and thick, Scully’s memory calls to mind an instance when she was quite young, perhaps ten or twelve years old, when her mother had driven her daughters to the coast after picking them up from school one afternoon. Maggie had stared out the windshield at the crashing surf until Melissa had finally asked what they were doing there. Maggie had blinked, glanced in the rearview mirror, and confessed to her daughters that she was jealous. She was jealous of the sea for the sway it held over her husband.

As a girl, Scully had been stunned, and had said as much. She was surprised at her mother’s confessing such a thing, for wasn’t envy one of the seven deadly sins?

“Oh, Dana,” her mother had explained with a sad smile, as she’d turned her gaze away from her daughter and back to the green-blue curve of the horizon, “jealousy and envy are not the same thing. Envy is when you covet something of someone else’s that doesn’t belong to you. Jealousy is longing for what’s already yours.”

It’s taken years, but in the cabin of Mulder’s pickup, waiting for him to amble outof the store, Scully finally thinks she understands the distinction.

Apart from herself, Scully knows, Mulder has led such a loveless existence. But hasn’t she also done her best, even unwittingly, to ensure that his histrionic cycle of love and loss just keeps going, ad infinitum? Maybe Mulder has come to believe that a life with Scully is what he has earned, part of his unending doomed lot in life. To be loved by a woman who was not supposed to be able to bear him any children. To be loved by a woman who was destined to give him an impossible son only to give him away.

Scully is startled out of her reverie when Mulder opens the driver’s side door and slams it behind himself. He lets the silence stretch in the cab before speaking.

“What the fuck was that, Scully?”

“You tell me,” she answers, hating how petulant she sounds.

“Scully…” Mulder’s voice is low, dangerous. He twists the keys in the ignition with a jerk of his wrist and pulls out of the parking space. “Come on. You know me better than that.”

Scully doesn't respond. Does she know better? She and Mulder hadn’t really talked about where things were headed between them after the terrorist attack at the Ziggurat in Texas. She’d started staying over at the house with him more and more since her latest hospital stay, after her bout of unexplainable seizures. Remembering the surprisingly new heft of Mulder above her, the way he used their bed frame to leverage the angle of his thrusts, his head between her legs that very morning, she certainly knew where Mulder had been hoping things were heading.

But Scully had always doubted whether Mulder’s known what’s in his own best interests, especially when it came to her.

For her part, she hates herself for needing him as much as she does. He is her fatal flaw, her Achilles heel, the forbidden fruit that has been her undoing. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson by now, but here she is, twenty-five years later, still waging war with herself over him, holding him at arm’s length with one hand while drawing him closer with the other.

Mulder has pulled onto the highway before he starts talking again. There’s a plaintiveness in his voice that Scully can’t remember hearing in years, not since they first started working together. It burns, hearing him trying to convince her of something she knows shouldn’t be plausible, but probably is.

“Annie and I got to talking when she was at the house. She saw my bat and glove in the corner and asked if I was coaching Little League or something.”

Annie.

Annie is tangible. Attainable. And obviously more than willing. She could probably still give Mulder another child, a little sister for her two boys.

Scully refuses to respond, allows the silence to unspool, become uncomfortable. Mulder struggles to fill the void, like he always does.

“I just, I told her I liked baseball, and we got to talking about Caleb, and how-”

“Mulder, I think this was a mistake.”

Mulder quiets. He stares at her profile. “Okay, fine. We’ll go to Pottery Barn.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Scully looks out the windshield. She can feel the phantom pressure of Mulder’s jaw clenching and unclenching.

“I think,” she begins, glancing at him and pressing on when Mulder closes his eyes, “I think we may be rushing back into this for the wrong reasons.”

“No, Scully.”

“No?” she asks, turning fully in her seat to look at him, incredulous. “No? When have we not been the worst possible option for one another?”

“Scully, where is this coming from?!” Mulder practically shouts at her. “Are you PMSing or something?”

“I’m perimenopausal, Mulder,” she retorts, “and maybe it’s time you started thinking about why we’re even together in the first place. And why we keep continuing to be together when it brings us nothing but heartache.”

Mulder lets another half a mile pass before he speaks again, and the gravel in his voice scrapes her heart raw.

“Are you really that unhappy with me?” he asks quietly, taking the turnoff towards her place.

“Are you really that happy when we’re together?” Scully asks. “Or are you just less miserable because you’re not all alone by yourself?”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Scully!” Mulder yells, slapping a hand against the steering wheel.

“Could you just stop being stubborn for a moment, Mulder,” Scully implores. “Just divorce yourself completely from the idea of you and me and think about it. Could you be happy with someone like Annie? Raising a family, having little boys to play catch with, someone to teach how to throw a curveball? A wife who actually stands a chance of getting pregnant again?”

Her heart feels like it’s withering in her chest, atrophied after so long without him and weary from trying so hard to hold on to what it was about him that made him so irreplaceable. But this is where she’s always failed where he has succeeded: Mulder has a knack for loving the memory of someone unconditionally, in spite of the many ways they’ve let him down.

He pulls up to the sterile, ridiculously overpriced townhouse that she’s insisted on maintaining since she moved out. It’s in a gentrified part of D.C., an industrial park that’s been modernized, and she knows Mulder hates it, even though he’s never said a thing about it. He slams on the brakes so hard that she winces when they screech. Mulder throws the car in park and stares out the windshield, refusing to look at her.

“I know the difference between losing people and watching them leave, Scully.”

Scully stares at his profile. The strong line of his jaw has softened over the years, but it’s no less dear to her now than it was decades ago, shadowed by 5 o’clock stubble and the sherbet-colored light filtering in from the streetlamps half a block away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mulder,” she whispers, and she’s out of the passenger seat, slamming the door of the truck and turning the lock of her own place in less than thirty seconds without sparing a second glance behind her.

He’s been watching her leave for years, she figures, as the automated front door beeps shut behind her. She leans into it, inviting the small measure of pain when she lets her skull thud against the hard wood. The sound of his truck idling lingers until he finally puts the car in reverse and crunches back down the driveway, giving her the space he knows she needs.

One more night won’t kill them.

#my writing #in my silence #post-this #pre-plus one #because what the fuck actually happened between the two of them #for the two of them to have

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