#it's absurd and i am constantly astounded

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Sebek Zigvolt - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Sebek: That pedestal there is a reproduction from the King of Beasts' bedchamber, and that teacup yonder is ceramic wear with a Queen of Hearts motif.

Sebek: Heheh… That's right, my preparatory research is completely perfect. With this, there shall be no opportunity for me to embarrass myself due to a lack of artistic knowledge.

Sebek: There is no way I can allow myself to appear unsightly now that I've been appointed a supporter of the Land of Dawning National Museum of Art.

???: Hm? What's with this green light in the middle of the painting…? Oh, it's just a bonfire flame.

???: Those fairies look like they're having a blast partyin' like that, I wonder if something good happened.

Sebek: How dare you claim them to be "partying." This is a painting depicting the Thorn Fairy's men extolling her grand exploits!

Ace: Ack, Sebek… Looks like I got caught by an annoying one. So what, you're tellin' me this painting's got something to do with the Thorn Fairy?

Sebek: Exactly. It is often said that these men were as proud of the Thorn Fairy's achievements as if it were their own, and would express their joy with their whole body and soul.

Sebek: Anyone should be able to infer how magnificent the Thorn Fairy was just from witnessing these men's unwavering loyalty.

Ace: Uh-huh, okay. Kinda just looks to me like they're just partyin', maybe masking it as a celebration for the Thorn Fairy.

Sebek: Don't you dare liken them to superficial humans like yourself. Each one of those fae that appear in this tale are all diligent folk.

Sebek: Back in my hometown there are many stories of the Thorn Fairy and other fae passed down for generations. We even have special functions held to emulate their greatness.

Ace: Sure. Can't see those functions as being anything other than boring, though, if it's attended by lame, "diligent" faes～

Sebek: Heh, curious, are you? One such event that has been around for a long while now is a dress color changing competition. Whosoever is able to magically dye the dress to the color closest to the provided example is the victor.

Ace: Ugh, that pisses me off that it's actually kinda cool-soundin'…

Ace: But I guess the whole having to use magic for it just shows it really is an event in the fae-rich lands of Briar Valley.

Sebek: …In my youth, my elder brother and sister took me to witness one such competition and I was struck with amazement.

Sebek: I was completely taken in by everyone's astounding magical prowess to turn a dress vivid blue or pink in the blink of an eye…

Sebek: I remember how excited I was to learn magic as soon as possible so I may also take part in this contest.

Ace: Guess even you have adorable moments. So, what place in the competition did you get once your long-awaited magic finally manifested?

Sebek: Don't be absurd. Color changing magic is a course of study that human mages only learn in their courses at an arcane academy.

Sebek: This was merely something I found enchanting as a mere child. Obviously I would not take part in such a contest now.

Ace: You suuure? Sounds pretty fun to me. Oh hey, then how about you and me have our own little contest with color changing magic back at my dorm sometime.

Sebek: Why would I set foot in Heartslabyul…? Wait.

Sebek: Surely I am mistaken, but… Were you intending on shoving your rose-dying tasks onto my shoulders?

Ace: No way, I wasn't saying that at all! C'mon, don't you think it'd be a great little competition to have with a fellow freshman?

Sebek: Your excuses will not work on me! I know for a fact that you constantly complain over having to paint the roses.

Sebek: The only contest I had any interest in attempting was the dress color changing competition in Briary Valley. Do the tasks assigned to you on your own!

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Ace: Oh hey, I know this one. It's a painting of a girl and some talking flowers.

Sebek: According to the legends, the flowers native to the country the Queen of Hearts' presided over had the ability to speak.

Sebek: Who would have thought that the flowers cultivated there would be able to speak or sing as such. I'm sure it was disturbingly loud in the Queen's country.

Ace: Sure, probably. But hey, probably a lot less loud than your voice can get.

Sebek: …Perhaps if you were to cease your own impudent retorts, I wouldn't have a need to raise my voice.

Ace: Reeeaaally, you think? 'Cause to me it feels like you're always angry about something.

Sebek: Of course not. I simply find the uncouth antics of you humans to be utterly aggravating.

Sebek: I know there is a time and place for everything. I myself would never do something as rude as to throw a damper on enthusiastic festivities.

Sebek: In fact, I attended a performance at a live music club just the other day and I did not chide the audience for their overjoyed shouting one bit.

Ace: …Eh. What did you just say? YOU WENT TO SEE A LIVE MUSIC PERFORMANCE!!!???

Sebek: Why would you react as such?

Ace: I mean, come on, didn't strike you as someone who'd go to something like that. So, like, what was the live show you went to go see?

Sebek: My latest venture brought me to attend a small show that showcased a collaboration between bands that primarily performed heavy metal music.

Sebek: This was all due to Lilia-sama, who imparted on me that this was the best way to train my imagination, and that listening to live music is an important part of life.

Ace: Aaah, that makes sense now. But hey, do you even listen to heavy metal?

Ace: I mean sure, you can kinda get into it once you're at the concert even if you don't know the songs, but if you don't even like that kinda stuff in the first place, ain't it tough to actually take in?

Sebek: "Get into it once you're at the concert"? Don't liken me to someone like you. Of course I went to the show after doing my due diligence in research.

Sebek: If I were to attend the show without a full understand of what I am to partake in, it would be an absolute disservice to Lilia-sama's recommendation.

Sebek: I studied everything from the exact times the music club opened their doors and how the audience would be filed into the venue, to the established rules on refreshments, to the proper cheering behavior utilized by the crowd near the front of the house…

Sebek: I believe it is called a "mosh pit." Prior to attending the performance, I made sure to carve into my body and soul the different techniques and proper etiquette as well.

Sebek: On that day, I purport that I banged my head back and forth much harder than anyone else there, shouting and cheering alongside them.

Ace: Don't think I've ever heard of someone practicing to mosh before. But I guess it sounds like you had a pretty fun time, though.

Sebek: Indeed. Although, I did run into slight trouble.

Ace: Huh, what kind of trouble? Cause some mischief, did ya?

Sebek: Absolutely not! I'm not sure if they lost their footing during the show or what, but the performer fell forward towards the audience.

Sebek: I immediately caught the performer and returned them to the stage. After that, the show continued smoothly until the end.

Ace: PFFT! You seriously returned the performer to the stage!?

Sebek: Obviously. I could not allow this concert that Lilia-sama had recommended to me be cancelled merely because the performer had become injured!

Ace: Bwahahaha! Looks like all that prepping you went through didn't help at all. All they wanted to do was stage dive, too.

Sebek: A stage dive…? Hold on now, don't tell me that was part of the performance!?

Sebek: I suppose the performer did look rather stunned when I returned them to the stage… Ghurk, what a blunder…!

Ace: Oh man, that's so hilarious. Wish I was there to see it. Hey, let's hit up a show together next time.

Sebek: SHUT IT! WHO WOULD EVER GO ANYWHERE WITH YOU!?

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Sebek: This is a painting of the hyenas who served the King of Beasts, I see. Their countenance depicts an atmosphere overflowing with trust from their liege and confidence in their own abilities.

Ace: Yeah? To me it just looks like they're up to something.

Sebek: Isn't that due to your own wily tendencies?

Sebek: I have seen you multiple times in locations outside the gymnasium during what should be basketball club hours.

Ace: Hey, it's not like I'm slacking off or anything. C'mon, I'm a freshman, right? Sometimes I get saddled with odd jobs from the upperclassmen.

Ace: But, man… Sometimes I do want to skip morning lessons on cold days. Hey, aren't there times you don't want to get out of bed when it's way too cold out, too?

Sebek: It's true that back home it has happened that I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. However, that was not because I wished to skip my training!

Ace: W-Woah, really? I thought you woulda hit me back with another "Don't liken me to you!" or something.

Sebek: I could not help it. I was thoroughly chilled to the bone that morning. It was so cold that there were numerous icicles dangling from our roof, as well.

Sebek: I did not even wish to fathom the temperature outside, but… I somehow forced myself out of bed to begin my morning training.

Sebek: Perhaps it was due to not having slept well, but I could feel my eyelids start to droop. So I decided then to attempt to wake myself up further with the bitter taste of coffee.

Sebek: I swallowed down the strong black coffee and believed myself ready to go. But that was the last thing I remembered.

Sebek: I ended up falling back asleep on the couch and when I finally woke up, it was past noon… An absolute blunder. This is a blot that I will carry with me forever.

Ace: Hey now, that's pretty normal, c'mon. Pretty steep to say you'll carry that forever.

Sebek: No, you are just weak-willed. I, however, strived through trials and tribulations to overcome the bitter cold of mornings and finally found "that" thing.

Ace: What're you acting so pompous about now?

Sebek: Heh, of course you'd be curious. I suppose I can tell you. The thing I am talking about is… A HOT WATER BOTTLE!

Ace: A hot water bottle…? You're seriously using a hot water bottle? Even in this day and age when we have air conditioners and heaters!?

Sebek: Do you seriously not understand? That thing is a fantastic item that warms your entire body without fear of causing a fire or desiccation.

Sebek: Cold winter nights not only diminishes my ability to fall asleep, but also affects the quality of sleep I am able to get. In turn, that makes it difficult to rise from bed…

Sebek: However, a simple hot water bottle prepared at bedtime can warm my body and lull me to sleep even in the coldest winters!

Sebek: The temperature can even be easily adjusted by wrapping it in a towel, or adding water to the bottle. A very convenient item.

Ace: Huh, interesting. I mean, sure, it might not use electricity, but I'm surprised you're using a "human" item.

Sebek: I received this hot water bottle from my father. Back when he had just arrived in Briar Valley, it apparently was very useful in keeping him warm even without magic.

Ace: Oh, so it's a hand-me-down, huh. And here I thought I'd get to hear another hilarious story or something～

Ace: Since it sounds like there ain't gonna be a punchline anymore, I think I'll go check out the shop. Byeee―

Sebek: YOU ASKED THE QUESTION, HEAR ME OUT UNTIL THE END! Good grief, I can't stand that human. …Hm?

Sebek: This is… A painting depicting a the human chattering along with animals. I've read this story in a book my grandfather gifted me.

Sebek: This young lady speaks of her dreams to these critters… Does she truly believe that her wish will come true without any effort on her part? What a lazy creature.

Requested by Anonymous.

#twisted wonderland #twst #sebek zigvolt #ace trappola #twst sebek #twst ace #twst translation #twst birthday #mention: lilia #mention: baur

[remembering-the-future]

packed like sardines - it will happen!

Title: The Astonishing Revelation: Packed Like Sardines - A Future Phenomenon Introduction: In the realm of peculiar predictions, there lies an extraordinary phenomenon that has yet to be discovered by the masses. Brace yourselves, dear readers, for I am about to unravel the enigma of being "packed like sardines." While this concept may seem far-fetched, my extensive research and intuitive foresight have led me to believe that a future where humans are crammed together like sardines in a can is imminent. Prepare to be astounded! The Origins: To comprehend the intricacies of this extraordinary occurrence, we must delve into its origins. It all began with a peculiar vision that I had during a particularly vivid dream. In this vision, I witnessed a world where individuals were no longer content with personal space. Instead, they sought solace in the closeness of others, resembling the tightly packed sardines we find in our pantry. The Prediction: Based on my visionary experience, I predict that this phenomenon will take hold in the not-so-distant future. People will willingly abandon their personal space, opting for a lifestyle where they are constantly surrounded by others. The desire for human connection will reach unprecedented levels, leading to a society where individuals willingly pack themselves together in confined spaces. The Misconceptions: Now, it is important to address the misconceptions surrounding this prediction. Contrary to popular belief, being "packed like sardines" will not be a result of overcrowding or limited resources. Rather, it will be a conscious choice made by individuals seeking a heightened sense of community and togetherness. The notion of personal space will be redefined, as people find comfort in the physical closeness of others. The Benefits: While this concept may seem absurd at first, there are potential benefits to being "packed like sardines." The close proximity of individuals will foster a sense of unity and cooperation, leading to enhanced social bonds and collective problem-solving. Moreover, the efficient utilization of space will allow for the creation of innovative architectural designs and urban planning. The Future: As we look ahead, it is crucial to acknowledge that my predictions may not be entirely accurate. The future is a realm of uncertainty, and my visionary experience may have been clouded by the whimsical nature of dreams. However, it is undeniable that the desire for human connection is a fundamental aspect of our existence, and it is not far-fetched to imagine a future where individuals seek closeness in unconventional ways. Conclusion: In conclusion, the concept of being "packed like sardines" may seem peculiar and even comical, but it is a phenomenon that I predict will captivate humanity in the future. While my predictions may be flawed, the underlying desire for human connection is a powerful force that should not be underestimated. So, dear readers, keep an open mind, for the future holds countless surprises, and being "packed like sardines" may just be one of them.

#Remember

[sulcrafatejackets]

I think that some of the medical doctors weren’t Brandi and Nick are very terrified right now, but I also think that some of those medical doctors are not gonna do anything for brandy or Nick. This is really bad if she’s being called Randy constantly

Adam is afraid, but he’s not. The only person who is afraid Ashman third. That’s cute Ashwin. Do you wanna try that again? Ashwin and Sarah are also afraid Sarah was a lot more prideful in the beginning of the brass thing some of that changed

Excuse you yeah Adam is afraid. Oh no Adam don’t tell me I have to be evil again. Oh shit, we are not sharing Oriental money with these people and you fucked up with brandy in such a big way that she and Nick are probably both going to be buried together, like little twins.

But what about Adam remember when I was like? Oh my God, like you guys were absolutely leading me on with that one rant that I went on and I said like Adam raped me shit it was a theory of course I don’t just go around telling people that I was raped, but I do suggest that somebody put objects inside of me larger than Nick’s penis.

So why did Nick lose his tongue and not you?

So I also want to talk about the part line jokes really that’s interesting. The genetic abuse problem in Kentucky is so absurd you guys like to pick on people with mental disabilities in the first place and then leave them on Andy this year says right right I feel kind of bad you feel kind of bad for fake Jews everybody and Kentucky is a fake. Do you now do I know what kill you I’m gonna how do you kill ya

I said I am going to have you murdered you do not understand. I am tired of having inbred abusing in breads and I’m tired of inbred who are racist pieces of shit brandy. It’s astounding to me that you weren’t killed at birth or whatever. I’m just gonna let you guys and for me because honestly you’re not leading me incorrectly here

[curiosity-killed]

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

fanfic writer asks

oh HELL yes time to wax on and on about the amazing writers in my life

@apaladinagain — bruhhh okay isaac not only has an amazing capacity for getting into characters’ heads and giving them this exquisitely compelling humanness but then also utilizes that for Pain. like, Sir, you were not supposed to make me care so much about these characters and then use that to hurt me?? Rude. i know we’ve discussed at length our mutual tendency to hurt our babies BUT i’m still going to steal your OCs and cuddle them in blankets bc it’s what thEY DESERVE also just like the sheer depth of creation in his writing is SO fun to witness — from the worldbuilding to the relationships and different dynamics, it’s just all really rich and inviting

@bosstoaster — i mean for anyone who’s been around for a few years, y’all know Boss is who accidentally dragged me into the Uliro Canoe way back when. Boss’ fics are the kind where I want to reread and reread them to peel back the layers and better understand the craft behind them because hot damn! how!! the characterization (Look i am a characters person you’re going to hear a lot of this in this post), the plots, the worldbuilding!! i feel like i learn how to be a better writer just from witnessing her fics  

@aurumdalseni — Aurum writes the sweetest fics and also some of the moments that most have me cracking up as I read them. there’s always such a nice balance of levity and heartfelt moments in them especially between characters that gives you a wonderful window into relationships and the world beyond the specific plot moments you witness in the story itself, like they’re all living past the screen

@givemeunicorns just please i’m begging you go read the 20 pages of JC introspection HOLY SHIT. anyway you wanna talk about poetry and lyricism and imagery and also PAINFUL EXCRUCIATING characters? Ya Girl is Here. there’s just this lovely almost song-like quality (think ballads, not bops) to her writing that tugs you in and pulls you along in the current of the story and inundates you with everything the characters themselves are feeling

@veliseraptor ahhhh BROTHER FEELS (& also the only hatefucking fic i’ve ever actually read) okay we are back to talking about characters because WOOEE. Lise just gets into characters’ heads so goddamn well it’s borderline painful. I don’t want to empathize that much with them!! show some mercy!! jk i do and it hurts in the best way. like her — okay brief interruption because it was driving me nuts that I *knew* I’d read her work before CQL and guess what!! she wrote two of my literal favorite marvel fics ever (we were the whirlpool, we were the reef; you do not have to walk on your knees) what the FUCK — anyway that is to say Lise’s stories dig right into your heart and apparently embed themselves there so that 7 years later you’re still feeling the echo of that emotion

@it-goes-on i mean i’ve already rambled on about this in tags for the last several weeks ahem but anyway, speaking of stories that burrow into your heart and just stay forever. i honestly am?? flabbergasted by their ability to craft such exquisitely, wholly, painfully human characters out of two-dimensional text. like y’all know i’m petty and picky about my favorite characters but?? i would entrust literally all of them to Rae. Plus the drama and imagery of their writing is literally like painting with words which creates a wonderfully rich world for those characters to breathe into

#ask games #asked & answered #ah sorry i know i'm leaving ppl off but this is already a really long answer ;____; #i am blessed with an excess of incredible writers in my life #it's absurd and i am constantly astounded #Anonymice

[yellowocaballero]

I Have So Many Thoughts And Emotions About Twilight On Owl Creek Bridge. i've been following your works since you got into tma and i am constantly absolutely astounded by every single Big Idea you manage to incorporate into your fics, all of which manage to haunt me through my day to day life. thank you for sharing your work!! <333

Thank you!! <3 I did not begin writing it with any thoughts or emotions about it or the concept (besides "I've been writing so much low effort crap lately I want to put in effort again" and "I feel like going apeshit" and "hehe catch-22"), but along the way a lot of stuff cropped up and I ended up enjoying it a lot. If you've been here since then, just basically know that I went, "whatever happened to the Theater of the Absurds of Yesteryear" that somehow snowballed with "god may judge me for writing Martin and the Dream Boy: Star Wars but his sins outnumber my own". Of course, the fic ended up not really being like either of them save in the superficial ways. My enduring existential crisis du jour didn't manifest as obviously in TOOCB, and it juggles more balls than MATDB. Still, though!

And the 'Big Idea' I write is usually...whatever the fuck is on my mind a lot lately jalksfd. My first Star Wars stuff was written as we were pulling out of Afghanistan (and you can tell), and that influence continues. Thanks for reading!!

#my writing #i wrote that fic to the sounds of my vietnam war protest song playlist from my vietnam war protest song phase #+ the 2nd half to gospel music mostly #which says a great deal about the fic and also me

[evolutionsvoid]

The Elmis Spires are a rather bizarre species that are found in equally bizarre places. The ecosystems they live in are rather rare and many people don't even know they exist! This may be in part because they share a name with another type of habitat. The place these strange critters live in are known as Volcanic Deserts, but they probably aren't the ones you think! Most volcanic deserts are barren places where vegetation struggles to grow. This is due to volcanic activity, which leads to large amounts of tephra and acidic rain. If you visited these regions, you wouldn't think too much of them. It would look like any other dry, rocky desert, save for the nearby volcano. The volcanic desert I am referring to is a much more imposing beast. These places are more like the sandy deserts made of great dunes and ergs. Except here, the sand is black. This is because the sand is made from the hardened lava that pours from the volcano. Wind and weather slowly breaks these rocks down to fine obsidian sand. Dunes made of darkness would already be interesting on their own, but that isn't all of it. The volcanoes that form these rare ecosystems must be active, and they are constantly oozing molten lava. So it is a desert that has rivers and streams, but not any you would want to drink from! These white hot flows travel throughout the desert, slowly cooling into the rock that will turn to sand. I feel that this habitat is what people think the Underworld is, a land of pitch black rock and rivers of burning lava. However, these are places you find right here on the surface, but they aren't easy to find and are even harder to survive in. It seems like every bit of these volcanic deserts (or obsidian deserts) is designed to create misery. The many dunes and ergs make travel difficult, as you sink and slip with practically every step. While the sand itself is very coarse and awful, it pales in comparison to the juts of volcanic rock you may find. These stones have the nasty habit of forming razor sharp edges that can slice through skin or bark with hardly any effort. Going near any of these rocky formations will guarantee a slicing, be it your clothing, equipment or your own body. And don't forget that these rocks can break into small pieces and get buried in the same colored sand! So you might just step somewhere and get a shard jabbed into your foot! How lovely! Then there is the issue about water. Since most of the landscape is sand, you won't be finding many pools or sources of groundwater. Your best bet is to get it from the storms that frequent these lands, but best of luck to you on that! Many of the storms that hit these deserts don't create rain, just crazy winds and an absurd amount of lightning. It currently isn't known why these ecosystems get so many of these powerful storms, but some think it may be a result of the landscape and mountains. Regardless, when one of these suckers hit, you want to be in shelter or literally anywhere else in the world. High winds churn up the sand and create dust storms of ludicrous proportions. A mixture of ash, obsidian and sand will fill the air, making it difficult and dangerous to breath. Even with proper breathing protection, the high speed of these aerial particles will make it feel like you are sliding down a mountain of sandpaper. Any exposed part of your body can have thin layers worn off, leaving some painful wounds. And if that doesn't sound bad enough, just wait til the lightning comes in! The storms that form in these areas seem to generate a crazy amount of lightning, which rain down on these deserts like explosive arrows. The whole sky will crackle and glow as webs of energy slither through the clouds. Bolts will plunge forth and strike the dunes with devastating force. Though these storms only last for minutes, it feels like hours when you are trapped in the middle of one! So if I haven't made it obvious enough yet, volcanic deserts are rough places. Some say they look like places where some villain would make their evil lair, but I assure you that even they would hate these habitats. I mention all of that to stress the point that these ecosystems are incredibly dangerous and harsh, which makes it astounding to realize that life is found there. Despite the storms, the razor stones and whipping sands, there are a number of species that call this place home. The Elmis Spire is one of those denizens, and they are perfectly built for such a rough place! Their body is coated in a thick exoskeleton to ward of the stinging sands and sharp rocks. Their many skittering legs allow them to move quickly across the dunes as well as scale any rocky formations they encounter. They are also capable of burrowing in the sand, using their legs and lower barb to dig themselves downward. The barb that protrudes from the bottom of their body is often mistaken for their mouth, as many see it as a toothy beak. Since their eyes are also down there, it make sense for that to be their mouth, right? In actuality, their mouth is located on their "abdomen." The vertical slit in their body is an orifice that they use for both respiration and feeding. It can open and close like any other mouth, but it is instead built for filtering rather than biting or chewing! Strainers and web-like membranes lie within this orifice, sifting through the air and sand for bits of food. Some may wonder what sustenance could be found in this dry air, it turns out that the answer is: spores! While green vegetation is almost nonexistent in this land, their role has been taken over by fungi! The most common fungus found here is the Fume Stalk, which is actually a keystone to the whole ecosystem! These large chimney-like growths are found lining the "banks" of these lava "rivers." These fungi seem to feed off the heat and gas that comes from these molten flows, turning it all into mass and extra growths. Other fungi species have taken up this role too, but none as plentiful as the Fume Stalk! They honestly look like some coral formation you would see in the ocean, not in some scorched desert! Though these towering stalks are many and fleshy looking, they themselves are awful food sources. Due to their diet and surroundings, their flesh is inedible to most creatures, perhaps even poisonous. I heard someone say that biting into one is like "trying to eat a crusty moldy apple that is filled with glass." Since I have no desire to test their description, I am going to say it is an accurate one! No idea how they know that, but I am going to guess that it isn't a happy story. 

Though the Fume Stalk itself is rather inedible to most, it does provide an alternative food source. As they feed and grow, they release plumes of spores from their chimneys, filling the air with their young. These spores are meant to land near the molten rivers and grow into new stalks, but many don't get the chance. Wind and weather can spread these clouds in many directions, sending them to all corners of the desert. Though many may land in the cold black sands, their loss is insignificant. Fume Stalks pump out thousands if not millions of these spores a day, fueled by the constant heat of the lava. Any spores that land away from the rivers are trivial to the Fume Stalks, but they are blessings to the local wildlife. These clouds are what many of the lower members of the food web feed on, and the Elmis Spire is one of them. Their gaping mouths suck in these spores and then filter them out from the non-edible particles. The air and waste is released through the pores on its backside, allowing the Elmis Spire to have a constant flow of food and air through its body. Surrounding this area is a cluster of tendrils that its uses to taste and smell the air. These help it detect areas that are dense with spores, as well as smell danger before it can attack. After learning more about these creatures, I really wonder why something would even dare do such a thing! Though small and thin, Elmis Spires are not easy prey. Their spiky armor is not pleasant to bite, and they can scurry away quite quick! If escape is not possible, they will burrow into the sand and hide their body down below, leaving only the large yellow spike exposed. This at first seems like a simple defense, but that is until you realize the power they hide within themselves. When one of these storms sweeps through the desert, the Elmis Spires will seal their mouths and scramble to the nearest rock formation. They will climb to the top and anchor themselves with their clawed feet. There they will raise their tall spike up high and wait. While others run and hide from the winds and lightning, these little guys welcome it. By doing something strange with their internal anatomy, they are able to boost their chances of being struck by a bolt, which somehow doesn't kill them. Instead, their bodies have a way of taking this energy and storing it. These guys essentially use lightning to charge themselves up! You will see their bright spikes gain a faint glow when they have filled up, as it stands out quite obviously against the black sands. When they are charged, they are capable of releasing this energy when need to be, and that perfect time is when something is trying to bite them. Touching the rear spike of a charged Elmis Spire is a good way to get blasted off your feet. They release a powerful shock from their stored energy to fry their attackers and it is a potent weapon! However, this defense can only be used when they have energy stored up. After multiple shocks, they will be depleted and will have to wait until the next storm to recharge. Predators of theirs have learned how to trick them into attacking and draining their buildup, finally going in for the kill once they are dry. It is a risky maneuver though, as one slip up can wind up giving you jolt straight to the face!   There is a current theory that the Elmis Spire may be distantly related to barnacles. With that in mind, many have wondered if they are also related to the Selsillik that live in the temperate rainforests. It is hard to say, as these two live in wildly different environments, but they do have some similar features. I would say that future research is needed to truly know, but that would make it sound like I was volunteering for such a thing. It is not because I dislike barnacles, I quite like them! Then again, researching them for years and years would be quite maddening. Some of the greatest minds have endured such tortures, but that isn't my point! The reason I wouldn't want to be a part of this project is because working in the volcanic deserts is quite miserable. Each ecosystem I have ever visited have their own negatives, but volcanic deserts are some of the worst for me. Pretty to look at, but absolutely wretched to experience. The grating sands, the knife-edged rocks and those awful storms that turn the whole land into a nightmare. I spent four weeks in one of those deserts, and it was four weeks of weary research and pondering my life choices. Just wondering how I wound up in such an awful place and why I was still there. It was curiosity's fault as usual, as I just couldn't pass up an opportunity like this! Its strangeness and uniqueness hypnotized me, and I fell face first into that siren's call! As I hunkered down in pitch black spiky caves, hoping the lightening wouldn't blast me to pieces, I just wondered: why here? Why couldn't I be a researcher that studied only nice places with good weather and wonderful locales? Like when I spent two months in a rainforest with the Furceros as I looked into local insect populations. Seeing rare colorful creatures, collecting new specimens for my bug collection, then ending it off with fig wine and festivities! Or when I buried myself in the archives for three weeks delving into the historical records of Bone Dragons! Losing myself in decades of knowledge, enjoying herring pie and falling asleep on a mound of books! Or when I went to literal Hel in the Underworld and found out that it had wonderful restaurants! The local cuisine is to die for and the Isodon Gumbo is a taste of perfection. Any of those places besides this storm ravaged wasteland! I have been in some pretty rough spots before, but being in a volcanic desert really made me wonder about retirement.     But in the end, I do it all because I love research and discovery. Volcanic deserts are a rare and unique ecosystem filled with utterly bizarre creatures. As a lover of nature and natural history, I cannot resist the wonders that emerge in such a place. Though I curse its existence now, I bet you anything I will be back there again. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------------------ If I didn't have enough on my plate already, I just had to make another ecosystem. This one is a bit implausible, but this is a world that has magic in it already, so it is probably fine. This land was made from the mental image I got when I first heard of "volcanic deserts." It sounded so cool and crazy, but then I found that they are just rocky arid places around a volcano. Not so crazy. So I decided to have fun with it!

#monster #creature #art #drawing #lightning rod #volcanic desert

[welllpthisishappening]

Four Eyes

I’ve still got prompts. I’m still filling prompts. Because I hate not responding when very nice people request fic. So here are some more words. That gif only goes with this story because Emma continues to be super attracted to her increasingly old husband. And his glasses. @technicallysizzlingcloud​ asked for a fic where Emma falls for Killian’s eyes and this is...kind of that. Would it be a prompt by me if I didn’t only half follow the prompt?

So, here we’ve got nearly six-thousand words of semi-plotless fluff, F. Scott Fitzgerald references, interventions, Snow White, and kissing. I am who I am.

Also in Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

----

Honestly, the whole thing is kind of Hope’s fault.

And Emma does, in fact, realize that blaming her six-year-old is a little absurd and, overall, kind of rude, but well, it is.

Because Hope cannot see the blackboard.

Emma’s mom mentions it one night, an off-handed comment about squinting eyes and their tendency to cause headaches and bad grades and it might not be a bad idea to make an appointment and Emma hadn’t even realized there was an optometrist in Storybrooke, but apparently Victor knows a guy and the guy is from the Land of Untold Stories and--

Hope gets glasses.

From Dr. Eckleburg.

Who is actually a very nice man. He doesn’t mention the diminishing returns of the American dream once.

And that’s also kind of absurd, but Emma’s been running on metaphorical fumes for a week and she has got to find someone else to blame for all of this besides her six-year-old.

She can’t. Because her six-year-old really did need glasses and that required an eye exam with Dr. Eckleburg and that eye exam ended with Killian squinting at a slightly antiquated sheet of paper with letters he also couldn’t read.

“Who could even see these?” he mutters, leaning against the wall of the room with his feet crossed at the ankles. Hope’s perched on Emma’s legs, her lips twisted into something that feels far too familiar because she’s not all that interested in getting glasses.

“You’ve got to sit still, kid,” Emma mumbles, and Killian’s eyes are impossibly narrow. “And I think most people can read almost all the letters, babe. That’s why this is the test.”

“Well, that’s absurd.”

“Can you not read the letters on the bottom of the thing?”

Killian quirks an eyebrow. “Do you not know the name for this particular exam, Swan?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What’s the name of this?”

“No, no, no, I asked first.” Hope squirms again, apparently determined to prove how many limbs she has, and Emma has to tighten both her arms around her middle to ensure she’s not inadvertently elbowed in the stomach. That would do something else to Killian’s eyes. “Those are the rules,” Emma adds, but those words only cause Killian’s lips to twitch slightly and this is not going according to plan.

“It’s fine.”

“Try that one more time.”

“Fine,” Killian repeats, complete with a rather determined head nod that stopped working somewhere like two kids and several curses ago. Hope’s left foot collides with Emma’s thigh. “C’mere, you little sea monster,” Killian mutters, hauling Hope over his shoulder and it takes her approximately four seconds to dissolve into a laughter that makes every single inch of Emma’s soul rise up in something akin to joy.

It’s admittedly a weird feeling to have in Dr. Eckleburg’s office.

She always hated that book.

Far too many metaphors.

“You’ve got to stop twitching so much,” Killian continues, ducking his head to press against Hope’s neck and that works about as well as Emma expected it to. Which is to say that it does not work. She keeps laughing and smiling and for a second Emma forgets about her husband’s eyes, but then those same eyes flicker back towards the sign and—

“Read that second to last line,” Emma mutters, fully prepared for the slight glare she gets in return. Hope stops laughing.

“Can’t you see too?” she whispers, leaning back until she’s practically arched against Killian’s forearms and the consistent similarities between Hope Swan-Jones and an actual sea monster are almost astounding.

Killian’s tongue darts between his lips, a clench to his jaw that Emma is impossibly familiar with. He takes a deep breath, slow enough that his shoulders shift with the force of it and—“I don’t want to get glasses,” Hope adds. Emma’s whole soul…shatters. Or something. Possibly something less dramatic.  

“I don’t think that’s entirely negotiable, little love,” Killian reasons, but that only gets another pointed twist of lips and a nose scrunch that Emma’s really starting to find kind of offensive. It is incredibly off-putting to see her own mannerisms reflected back on her kid.

Hope huffs, brows furrowing until there’s a rather obvious pinch between them and it takes Emma longer than she’d like to actually stand up. She lets her fingers ghost over the back of Hope’s shirt, fabric rumpling underneath it and she’s really not all that surprised by what happens next.

“Alright,” Killian continues, “what if I try and read that last line—”

“—You can’t read that last line,” Emma mumbles, resting her chin on her hand and Killian rolls his eyes.

“If I try and read that last line with whatever this doctor’s name is…”

“Seriously, this is not helping.”

Hope laughs again. It’s loud and honest and somehow still some kind of tinkling noise that Emma is certain works under her skin and wraps around most of her joints and several different internal organs, settling into a rhythm with her pulse and she’s going to blame all these metaphors on F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Like a normal person.

“I will try and read those last few lines,” Killian says, Emma’s jaw dropping just a bit with that last addendum. “Do not, Swan.”

“Did I say a word?”

“You’re doing that thing with your face, love.”

“What thing?” Hope asks brightly, any fear of glasses forgotten in banter that is also impossibly old and somehow just as easy as ever. Even if Emma is a little worried about the consistently failing eyesight of her family.

She hopes Henry can see when he travels between realms.

“That thing,” Killian says, nodding in Emma’s general direction. She smiles. He shakes his head. “And, aye, the last few lines. So—” He shrugs, another deflection that makes something spark in the back of her brain, but it’s gone almost as soon as Dr. Eckleburg comes back with a prescription for Hope and questions from Killian and, so, Captain Hook, scourge of several different seas and deputy of the All-Realm, who still makes at least half of the dwarves cower in something close to fear, gets reading glasses.

Bifocals, technically.

And it consistently and constantly messes with Emma’s head.

He looks stupid attractive in reading glasses.

Bifocals, technically.

It's been a week since the appointment and something like seventy-two hours since he did some stupid thing where he used his hook to push the glasses back up the bridge of his nose and Emma is having a difficult time coping. Like, at all.

Hope’s glasses are pink. She also looks adorable. It almost makes Emma forget that this is, in fact, all her fault. Maybe they should have discussed Lasik. Or spells.

There’s got to be a spell to fix eye sight.

“If you down anymore tea, I’m going to report you,” Ruby says, leaning over the counter until her elbows are resting on fiberglass and Emma does her best not to scowl. It does not work.

That is an oddly frustrating theme for her recently.

“I am paying for this,” Emma points out. “That means I get to drink however much I want.”

“Does it though?”

“Capitalism or whatever.”

“Yeah, yeah, following up with whatever definitely proved your point. What’s your deal?”

“I have no deal.”

“You have at least two deals that I can think of, but I’m willing to guess that the list goes all the way up to ten and I’d really love to streamline this conversation.”

Emma barely gets her mouth open, not entirely sure what she’s going to say but it is going to be something before the door to her right swings open and the bell does whatever a bell does. Rings. Incessantly. Ariel marches into the diner with a smile on her face and a kid hanging off her side and both Elsa and Mulan look like they’re desperately trying not to laugh.

It's a courtesy Ruby does not share. She throws her whole head back when she cackles, an arm around her middle and smile stretching across her face until Emma is tempted to make several jokes about wolves. She doesn’t. Mostly because she actually hates tea.

That’s definitely, like, thing number four on her list.

It's not as important as the eye glasses thing.

“Did you do this?” Emma asks, Ruby’s head snapping forward quickly enough that for a second, she genuinely believes she’s going to bite her. She doesn’t. She flashes what may actually be too many teeth for an average human, but her jaw stays still and the hint of laughter lingering at the corners of her mouth is also frustrating.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re telling me this all just happened—what? Suddenly? Spontaneously?”

“Well, not totally,” Ariel admits, and Emma makes some kind of noise that she hopes sounds like triumph. It just hurts the back of her throat.

Ruby holds both hands up in mock surrender. “I knew they were going to be here after the meeting.”

“There was a meeting?” Emma asks. Elsa makes her own noise, a click of her tongue and quick bump of her shoulder against Emma’s.

“Your mom wanted to talk about trade negotiations or something. It wasn’t…you really didn’t have to be there. I didn’t want to be there.”

“I have no idea what is going on.”

“You know who was there?” Ruby asks, clearly far more in control of the conversation than any of them. Emma blinks. “Your husband. Who you’ve been gawking at. For days.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you not know the meaning of the word gawk?”

“I need more tea.”

“No, I’m cutting you off.”

“You know that has caffeine in it too,” Elsa reasons, and Emma rolls her whole head in response. She does not look all that surprised. “I’m just saying. Anyway, can we focus here because—”

“—Killian’s freaking out,” Ariel cuts in, voice rising on every letter and that’s not really what Emma expected. But then again she didn’t expect both her kid and her husband to need glasses at the same time and she probably should have realized she’d be into the glasses thing.

She’s kind of…into everything that has to do with her husband.

It's ridiculous.

But, like, in a romantic way.

“Well, that was subtle,” Mulan mutters, dropping onto the stool next to Emma and ignoring Ruby’s shouts of indignation when she leans over the counter to grab the baked goods stashed just underneath. “Please, you are very bad at hiding things.”

“Much like Captain Killian Jones,” Ariel adds. “Please, be impressed by that.”

Emma tilts her head. “By what…exactly?”

“My ability to keep the conversation focused. You know your mom tried to show us a video of your brother and Hope riding a bike no less than twenty-six times. It’s a miracle we ever get anything done.”

“Yeah, but she feeds you so…”

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Ruby muses. She’s leaning against the container behind her, head resting on the door and the light in it makes her hair look almost phosphorescent. Emma clearly needs to get some more sleep.

She’s a little annoyed her mom didn’t invite her to the meeting.

“No one should be offended by anything,” Elsa says. “That’s the point of this.”

“And this is, what?” Emma asks. “An intervention?”

“That sounds very aggressive.”

“Which is not what we’re doing,” Mulan adds, but it’s difficult to take that promise seriously when most of the words get caught in the blueberry muffin she’s eating.

Elsa clicks her tongue again. “It’s not. Also, your mom had a reason for not inviting you. Aside, from well—you know…”

“Killian knows how to get everywhere,” Ariel interrupts, only to be met by several exasperated sounds. Emma makes a gesture at Ruby, an unspoken command for her own blueberry muffin that gets her a rather pointed tongue and distinct eye roll.

And a blueberry muffin.

So, points or whatever.

“This is not the direct conversation I was promised,” Emma says, unwrapping the baked good so she can immediately flip it over.

Ruby scoffs. “You’re an animal. Who eats a muffin like that?”

“Why are you judging this right now? Also, I am saving the top for the end, which is the best part, and everyone knows that. Also, also, you weren’t invited to my mom’s super top-secret meeting either.”

“That’s because I have a real job. Also, she didn’t invite you because she needed Killian’s sea-faring expertise and well, if you’re there, then—”

“—You’re making eyes,” Elsa shouts. Several heads from several different realms turn their direction.

And Emma has to glance down to make sure she hasn’t immediately combusted on the spot. She hasn’t, but there’s a definite energy lingering in the spaces between the fingers that aren’t holding a goddamn blueberry muffin and the whole thing has reached absurd levels far quicker than she expected.

“That’s definitely true,” Ruby agrees. “It’s like…it’s stupid.”

“Stupid,” Emma echoes. She’s got blueberry under her nail.

“Excessively stupid. Especially since he hasn’t really noticed.”

She almost drops the muffin. Also stupid. “Wait, what?”

“This is kind of the reason we’re here,” Ariel explains. “Because, uh…well, we know you’ve been kind of busy, so maybe you didn’t notice and—”

“—What the hell are you talking about?”

“Killian thinks the glasses look old. You think the glasses make him look good. Someone should say something and then you should stop making eyes in such public places because I’m, like, ninety-two percent positive you’re making your dad really uncomfortable.”

She drops the muffin.

Ruby groans.

“I am…confused,” Emma says slowly, mostly because her brain cannot possibly process these words in this specific order and it hadn’t even crossed her mind that Killian would think anything of the glasses. That’s not great. That’s… “Oh, damn,” she breathes, and Elsa’s staring at her with something far too close to pity to be entirely comfortable. “Are you serious?”

Ariel hums. “I mean he didn’t say anything, but—”

“—But?”

“Well, I mean, Hope wasn’t all that into getting the glasses, right?”

“You think Killian doesn’t want to wear glasses because our kid didn’t?”

“No, I think Killian didn’t think he needed glasses, was slightly stunned to learn that Hope didn’t want them because she was worried about kids making fun in class—”

“—Oh my God.”

“This does not make you a horrible person, Em,” Ruby reasons, but her gaze has turned a little placating too and Emma genuinely does not remember standing up. “You’ve got some other things on your mind.”

Emma huffs, a breath of air that makes most of her body ache and she digs the heel of her hand into her back. “Ok, ok, ok,” she says, stepping dangerously close to the muffin, but it’s also kind of difficult to see over the swell of her stomach now and she can’t stop clicking her teeth together. “So, wait a second. You’re telling me, honestly, right now in this diner that Killian, my Killian, is nervous that…what? He’s got to wear glasses, so I think he’s old?”

“I mean, I think he thinks he’s old,” Ariel counters. “He’s mostly annoyed by the whole thing.”

“Shit.”

“Should I repeat the horrible person thing from before?” Ruby quips, and if Emma were more dexterous she’d totally pick the muffin up off the ground and throw it at her. As it is she can only glare and glower and Ruby snickers when she moves her hand over her mouth.

“It’s the dumbest thing we’ve ever seen, honestly,” Mulan says. “Mostly because most of the All-Realm is almost too aware that you’d like to—what’s the phrase Snow White used?”

“Jump his bones,” Elsa answers, and to her credit, she manages to get the words out before dissolving into something akin to hysterics.

Emma’s jaw pops when it falls open. Again.

She steps in the muffin.

“Oh my God,” Emma repeats, Ruby still laughing, and Elsa’s actually draped over the counter now, her whole body moving with the force of her laughter. Ariel is very clearly biting her lip.

“I mean,” she shrugs, “you glance his direction a lot.”

“We are married,” Emma cries. The heads snap her direction again. “Oh, look at something else,” she adds, voice turning rough and the magic between her fingers feels like it’s very close to some kind of metaphorical breaking point.

She’d have to ask Dr. Eckleburg about the metaphors, though.

“Yeah, see, we know that,” Ariel promises.

Ruby still has her hand over her mouth. It makes it slightly difficult to make out the words she mutters into her palm. “Everyone knows that. It’s like…obvious.”

Emma will also have to ask Hope how she manages to move quickly enough to give the allusion of extra limbs. As it is, all she manages to do is flail her arms limply at her side, head thrown back and another groan tearing at the back of her throat.

“Is there a point to this?” Emma asks, but the question sounds like it’s begging, and Elsa’s fingers are surprisingly warm when they curl around her wrist.

“Stand still. You look like Hope.”

“This is probably where she gets it, honestly.”

“Absolutely,” Elsa nods. “The point is that everyone in this entire All-Realm is far too aware of just how much you appreciate your husband and whatever advancing age he may be undergoing.”

“Did you tell him this? Like did you use those actual words in conversation?”

“Are you kidding me?”

Emma lets her head loll forward, some of her annoyance dissipating at the vaguely scandalized look on Elsa’s face. “We don’t have a death wish,” Mulan mutters. “And that would have annoyed your dad.”

“We are going in circles,” Ariel announces, hitching her daughter further up her side and leveling Emma with a stare that could probably summon several different mythical beings in a variety of waters. All of which, she has no doubt, Killian brought up in detail that afternoon. While wearing the goddamn glasses. Maybe it’s actually Snow White’s fault.

That seems better than blaming Hope.

“The actual point,” Ariel continues, “my dear princess of Misthaven, is that while it may be obvious to everyone with a pulse that you are ridiculous attracted to your own husband and his new glasses—”

“—Bifocals,” Emma mumbles.

“I swear, that is not important. Everyone knows. You stare. Openly. Consistently. It’s almost kind of romantic in a True Love sort of way. But I will tell you something else, the prince consort of Misthaven does not realize it. He’s far too busy worrying about that gray at his temple.”

“I’m kind of into that.”

“I mean, obviously you are. Tell him that.”

Emma lets out a breath, half disbelief that she’s been intervention’ed to flirt with her own husband and half laughter because she is undeniably staring longingly at her own husband. She nods, quick and a little jerky, but also slightly appreciative, doing her best to, at least, get the remains of the muffin into a sweepable pile with her foot.

It takes her two seconds to remember she has magic.

“Oh shit,” Emma mutters, twisting her wrist and the muffin is gone. Ruby rolls her eyes.

“I’m going to tell him you’re overexerting yourself.”

“I will get Regina to stage an unannounced health inspection.”

Ruby bares her teeth. “Go make out with your husband.”

“Honestly,” Elsa adds with a smile. She’s trying to get a croissant without actually climbing over the counter. It’s not going well.

Emma sighs again, but she can’t actually make it sound annoyed and she supposes that’s kind of nice. The bell above the diner door is still ringing when she turns back to the lot of them, one side of her mouth tugged up and it’s not exactly heroic, what she says next, but this whole thing has been some other level of ridiculous and—

“I’m going to tell Killian that you referred to him as prince, Ariel,” Emma announces. “And then he’s going to refuse to watch your kid anymore.”

Ariel opens her mouth to object, but Emma’s already twisting her wrist and it’s kind of excessive. The magic, that is. It’s not really that far of a walk, after all, and she does it almost entirely for the reaction she gets, Killian’s head jerking up as soon as she arrives in the dining room, a puff of smoke lingering at her ankles.

“Swan, what are you—” he starts, but the rest of the words get lost in the air and possibly just under his tongue because Emma does a pretty goddamn good job of making sure his tongue finds its way into her mouth.

She moves into his space almost immediately, crowding against his chest and it takes far less time than she expected for her to practically be straddling his hips. Killian’s hand comes up to rest on her waist, the curve of his hook pressing into the bottom of her spine. It makes Emma’s back arch slightly, trying to touch as much of him as she possibly can because it’s been years and kids and optometrist appointments, but she’s still way better at doing than saying.

So she tilts her head and lets her mouth open against his, fingers carding through hair that isn’t quite perfectly dark anymore. There are noticeable streaks there, especially by his temples, bits of light and dots of silver and every single one makes Emma’s pules thud erratically in her veins.

Emma rolls her hips, a practiced rhythm that gets exactly the sound she wanted out of Killian. His breath hitches and his head drops slightly, nosing at the curve of her shoulder and the side of her neck, dragging his mouth up underneath her jaw and that one, specific, spot just behind her right ear.

And it really is going pretty well, Emma’s heart expanding and her vision swimming just a bit because she can’t even begin to form a rational thought when Killian’s teeth nip at her skin, but then well—

“Ah, bloody…” he grumbles, leaning back to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He uses his right knuckles.

It's almost as good as the hook thing.

And there is a very large smudge on one of the lenses.

Emma hates that she smiles. She does. But the whole thing is so, impossibly endearing and her heart refuses to follow the laws of actual physics and there’s got to be something magical about that too.

True Love, or whatever.

For…old and older and distractingly good-looking glasses. Bifocals, technically.

“Why do you hate the glasses?”

Killian leans back further, brows pulled low and that same muscle jumping in his jaw. “I…I don’t hate them. Why do you think I hate them?”

“They said—”

“—Who said?”

“Would you like it in alphabetical order or by who had the most scathing opinion?”

“I would bet you quite a bit of gold that Ariel had the most scathing opinion.”

Emma is very confused again. Maybe they should kiss some more. She shakes her head slowly, trying to get her thoughts to settle and, maybe, her pulse to calm down a bit, but Killian’s hook has found its way under her shirt and has started tracing tiny semi-circles against her skin, so she figures that’s a losing battle she’s not even interested in beginning.

“Are you a soothsayer?” Emma asks, stabbing her finger into his chest. He catches her around the wrist, tugging her hand up and pressing his lips against her knuckles.

“Not as such, no.”

“Did you know that they were going to intervention me?”

“I had a generic idea that they might, yes. I didn’t think it would be quite this soon, though.”

Emma feels like she’s been hit by lightning. Her jaw is getting one hell of a workout today. It pops again. She hopes that’s not a sign of impending age. And yet…”Are you kidding me?” she snaps, Killian’s eyes absolutely getting bluer the longer she gapes at him. “Did you know?”

“Be more specific, Swan.”

“You’ve got to tell me what’s actually going on here.”

He chuckles, low and a little dangerous, as if that’s something a laugh could be, but then his teeth nip over the tip of her nose and Emma’s magic leaps. Killian’s eyes widen. “Has that been happening a lot?”

“Babe, oh my God!”

“I’m worried about your magic, Swan,” he reasons, hook moving around to her front and there is something decidingly cheating and wholly piratical about it. “That’s romantic.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Admittedly less romantic.”

“Start at the beginning,” she says, doing her best to make it sound less like a command. It does not work. She didn’t expect it to. Something about Jay Gatsby, probably. “You didn’t want glasses, right?”

“Who would?”

“Killian Jones, I swear to God—” Emma doesn’t finish, another repeat and that tongue thing is quite possibly her worst enemy. In a scenario where Emma actually really likes her worst enemy. It’s admittedly convoluted.

“I did not want glasses,” Killian confirms. “Because, as the little fish was very quick to point out, glasses are for—”

“—Four eyes?”

“Something like that, aye. So, I didn’t want them because it felt like…well, a sailor needs to see, right? The horizon and general sense of direction and the stars.”

“You realize this will help with that, right?”

“I do,” he promises. “I was, however, rather despised with the initial idea of them.”

“Why?”

“Aside from how quickly they get dirty?” Emma hums, tugging the glasses off his face and using the end of her shirt to get rid of the smudge. It makes him smile. And she’s not entirely sure if Killian is actually breathing when she pushes the sides back over his ears, but then he’s turning into her palm on his cheek, kissing just inside her wrist and—“It is an altogether far too obvious sign of aging, don’t you think?”

“I’m fairly certain that’s how the human body works.”

“Aye, your mother was rather quick to point that out.” Emma’s jaw cannot hold up to all of this for much longer. Killian hums, another kiss to her skin. “She was rather adamant about it. That this was a natural progression of…everything and I—well, I did hate them to begin with.”

“But?”

“But,” he echoes. “Your mother has a stubborn streak several miles long. I’m sure that’s where both you and Hope get it.”

“These are not compliments, Captain.”

His eyes are getting brighter. Emma is positive. He also may just be flirting with her. That’s rather wonderful, all things considered. “I was told, in no uncertain terms, to stop sulking about the glasses. Because—well, your mother said several things that I dare not to repeat in front of a princess and—”

Emma swats at his chest with both hands, an incredible exercise in balance that only succeeds when Killian’s fingers tighten around the curve of her hip. He smirks at her. “You are incredibly annoying, you know that?”

“Yes, that was one of the things your mother mentioned. But, well, it did leave me thinking and—” The smirk turns genuine, far too much emotion when Emma’s still got her legs on either side of his hips. “It’s been a very long time since I even considered the possibility of something like this,” Killian breathes. “The chance to…it shouldn’t surprise me anymore, love. All of this. A family and the wee little sea monster and,” his hand moves over her stomach, thumb brushing across the front of her shirt in a move that is a little possessive and a little wonderful and the light above them flickers.

Killian laughs, a quick kiss that leaves Emma leaning forward and she gets to blame hormones for the next few months. Then it’s just the glasses fault, really.

“It’s still a little difficult to believe sometimes,” Killian admits. “Because I’m—”

“—Super old?”

He mouths at the side of her chin, scruff scratching against Emma’s cheek. “Aye, something like that. But that’s never really been a problem before.”

“Is it now?”

“I thought so at first,” he says. “That this was…I don’t know, a sign of…the end does sound slightly macabre doesn’t it?”

“Kind of.”

“And I realize it’s not that. Even without Snow White’s assistance.”

“Mom got around apparently. She’s definitely the reason I got interventioned today too.”

“I don’t know many more efficient people than your mother,” Killian mutters, eyes flashing again and he hisses in a breath when Emma’s nails shift. “What I’m trying to say is…the whole thing was entirely vain and only a little self-serving and I…well, I don’t quite hate the glasses anymore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, a pale imitation of her voice that makes Emma scrunch her nose. “Because, and honestly get ready to swoon, Swan. I realized that the glasses were a sign of…life, I suppose. One with you and the aforementioned sea monster and that change wasn’t necessarily some harbinger of doom—”

"—You are the most dramatic person in all the realms, your highness.”

Killian growls. “This is not swooning, love.”

“How many times do you think you can refer to our kid as a sea monster before it starts to get weird?”

“When she demonstrates consistent control of all her limbs.”

“Ah, yeah that’s fair.”

“Right,” he nods, another kiss pressed to the bridge of her nose. “I don’t mind them so much. I…I’d still rather not have them because the bloody things do get dirty just by existing, but,” Killian shrugs, a tilt of his head and one strand of hair falling across his forehead. Probably just to torment Emma. “I appreciate what they mean. For both of us and this life we’ve built.”

Emma doesn’t respond immediately. It is her great failing, like just…as a person. She’s not great at conversation or doing anything except letting the emotion currently rushing through both her arms settle into her veins and drift into her bloodstream and circle back around to her heart. She should say that out loud.

That would be kind of romantic.

As it is, she stays frustratingly silent, staring at this 300-year-old pirate who very clearly loves her and their kids and they’ve got kids and a life and this house and this goddamn All-Realm and--

“This is the part where you appropriately swoon, Swan,” Killian mutters, but there’s a hint of nerves to his voice that does not belong there.

Emma gasps.

Idiot.

Because everyone was right. And he might not totally hate the glasses anymore. But he absolutely, positively does not know.

“I think they make you look unfairly good,” Emma announces, far too loud to be even remotely dignified. Killian’s eyebrows soar into his hairline. “Like it’s so absolutely stupid how good the glasses make you look. It’s been driving me insane since you got them.

He blinks. Once, twice, three times, lips parting with a soft pop and another head tilt. She’s going to magic that one strand of hair back.

“Honestly,” Emma continues, because once she starts, the emotions don’t ever seem to stop. Like Pringles. Emotional Pringles. “It’s…genuinely kind of offensive how good looking you are as an old person. I hate it. I mean—you know, I don’t hate it, but it’s just—”

“—Did you just call me old?” Killian cuts in, and there’s got to be some dentist in Storybrooke Emma wasn’t aware of too. Her teeth are going to need it.

“In a way where that’s actually a compliment.”

“Because you’re attracted to that.”

“How were you not getting that? I’ve been staring at you all week.”

“You do have a tendency to stare rather often, love.”

“Because you’re attractive! That’s how it works.”

“Does it, just?”

Emma scowls, but it’s difficult to stay consistently frustrated when he’s staring at her like that – glasses sliding down his nose and eyes distractingly blue and the hair moves when he shakes his head in what she can only imagine is disbelief. “I just,” Emma continues lamely, waving both her hands near her ears. Killian tugs his lips back behind his teeth. “This whole silver thing is…it’s working.”

His eyes widen.

“Like, really working.”

“Yuh huh,” Killian muses. “And the glasses thing?”

“You’re fishing for compliments.”

“I absolutely am.”

Emma laughs, pulling herself closer to Killian, but that’s starting to get a bit harder every day and whatever noise she makes quickly evolves into a giggle when he presses a line of kisses across her collarbone. “You’re going to mess up your glasses again,” Emma points out. He does not seem to care all that much. “I’m…oh God, if I use the word distinguished are you going to laugh?”

“You’re the one laughing, Swan.”

“You look distinguished.”

He does, in fact, chuckle against her skin, but that only serves to leave goosebumps on her skin and Emma has no idea how she’s managed to stay on his legs this entire time. It’s probably True Love again, honestly. “I’m not sure that’s exactly the reputation I’m going for, love.”

“Ariel referred to you as a prince today.”

“That’s because she’s mad at me for being, her words, stupid about the glasses.”

“Yeah, well, the glasses look good and you’re—”

“—A worthy prince consort?”

“Something like that,” Emma mumbles, if only because the butterflies churning in her stomach make it difficult to speak any louder. It’s nice that that hasn’t changed. She doesn’t imagine it will. “And I’m glad too, you know?”

“About?”

“This,” she says, glancing around the dining room. There are several dozen maps on their table. “All of it, babe. The interventions and Snow White’s interference and out of control magic—”

“—Has your magic really been out of control?”

Emma clicks her tongue. “I’m seriously going to blame the glasses. And your hair. God, I hate your hair.”

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah, that was my point.” Emma ducks her head, lets her mouth move against his like it has for years and several kids and a variety of curses and it’s just as easy as it’s ever been to be ridiculously attracted to Captain Hook, scourge of a variety of seas, but it’s somehow even easier to love Killian Jones, a good man and a better father and the only person Emma would ever be willing to refer to as prince consort. If only because it makes the tips of his ears go red.

Every single time.

And Emma isn’t all that surprised when the front door nearly flies off its hinges, the undeniable sounds of a backpack hitting the wall and sneakers landing somewhere. Hope sprints towards them, clearly unsurprised by their current seating arrangement if only because she’s already talking several miles a minute. Or whatever the nautical version of that is.

Leagues. Leagues a minute.

“And we had to read off the board and I didn’t miss a single word and Mrs. Jewls gave me a Tootsie Roll Pop—” Emma jerks back when Hope brandishes the candy, clearly proud and there are still glasses on her face. Her eyes flicker towards Killian, his own smile tugging at the ends of his mouth.

“What did you have to read?”

“Dr. Seuss!”

Killian’s gaze darts Emma’s direction. She shakes her head slightly. “Not magic. As far as I know, at least.”

“I knew that.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure you did. What’s your favorite story so far, Hope?”

Saying that the question opens up the floodgates is another metaphor, but Emma is far too busy being charmed by her own kid and she supposes, in his own way, Dr. Seuss also deals in metaphors. Particularly when she is presented with what, at first glance, appears to be Dr. Seuss’ entire life’s work.

There are books everywhere, including some falling out of the half-zipped backpack that is, in fact, propped up against the wall in the hallway.

“How did you carry all of this?” Emma asks, clamoring off Killian’s legs when Hope lifts her arms in the air. “And where did they—”

“—I’ll give you three guesses,” Killian mumbles. He’s already flipping through the books, each one stamped with a familiar brand and he’s not even trying to hide his smile anymore. “Did you go scour the library after school, little fish?”

Hope pushes her glasses up before she answers. “Henry took me and Lucy when he picked us up. There are lots of books there and Aunt Belle—”

“—Aye, I figured. Well, you’ve got quite a treasure trove here. How do you think you’re going to get through all of these?”

Emma’s heart bursts. Kind of. Metaphorically. She can feel Hope’s smile when she buries her head into the side of her neck. “You know,” Emma muses, “Dad’s got some pretty great reading glasses now and he's very good at making sure he doesn’t skip the words too.”

Hope lifts her head. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. We used to do that a lot. When you were little and even before you were born. Dad’s a very good story teller.”

“Will you, Daddy? There’s a bunch there and you can have some of my Tootsie Roll Pop!”

Killian’s tongue presses into the corner of his mouth, ears coloring and eyes as blue as ever. Emma hugs her daughter just a bit tighter. “You eat the lollipop, little love. And we’ll make Mama pick the book, huh?”

Hope nods enthusiastically enough that her chin nearly collides with Emma’s shoulder more than once. She can barely get one word out before the next one is already bubbling away and there’s another fish pun to be made there.

Emma picks Fox in Socks. Killian rolls his eyes. And kisses her cheek.

And they make it through half a dozen books before Emma’s stomach starts to grumble and then three more books after dinner before Hope’s eyes start to flutter, Killian tugging the glasses off her face so they don’t risk disaster.

The whole thing is unfairly adorable and just as attractive, Hope clinging to Killian while the three of them trudge up the stairs. Emma magics the smudges off his glasses when he crawls into bed next to her, muttering about limbs and sea monsters and she falls asleep with a smile on her face and magic fluttering in the air around her.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #cs fic #laura writes canon #this is genuinely just six thousand words of family fluff and kissing #i'm not even sorry #like not even a little

[infinitum-imaginaerum]

DK | A.19 “Please don’t leave.” | @daehyun-naekkoya

Words | 3,500

Warnings | Angst... ouch. Some curse words. Mentions of implications of cheating???

Notes | All relationships have problems, kiddos. Be sure to talk to your partner about EVERYTHING. And that’s Ailea’s mom advice for the day. 

PLEASE CHECK THE STATUS OF THE GAME AT THE TOP OF THE PROMPT LIST BEFORE REQUESTING.

Send me a bias, a section, and a number and I’ll write you a thing!

Tensions between you and DK were continually getting worse. Even though you both had tried your best to be understanding with the other and calmly work through your problems, everything seemed to be becoming more and more significant of an offense and you were determined to figure out why. He began picking fights with you over the tiniest things, no matter how insignificant—it was as if he was constantly I the most horrible mood of his life.

He never seemed to be happy to see you anymore. Doing anything with or for you seemed like a chore. Overall, he appeared to be disinterested in the relationship. It hurt your heart to ever think that he would be this way; at the very least you assumed that he was man enough to talk to you about what he was feeling, about what was going on between the two of you so it felt as though there was something else eating him that he began taking out on you.

Either way, you were going to get to the bottom of it. He was silent throughout dinner, despite your vain attempts to make conversation and ended up clearing your place far before you were even finished with your own plate—that’s how fed up you were with the tension. The leftovers were put into a container as you began cleaning your plate and retrieved DK’s soon after.

“Finished?” you asked, even though you knew he wasn’t. If he was going to act this way then two could play at this game, considering you had already asked him multiple times what was causing the distress with no good reply to come from it. If he wanted to be petty, you could be petty, too. Usually, he didn’t want to play that game because you could easily out stubborn his soft-heartedness. Perhaps not this time.

“Actually, no,” he replied snippily. You took his plate anyway, scraping his leftovers into the same container as your own, ignoring his answer to the question you weren’t really expecting an answer for, since it wasn’t a question that wanted an answer.

With pursed lips, you washed his plate and put everything away. Usually DK did the dishes if you cooked—that was the agreement you had—but you just didn’t have the patience to sit at that table with him and have him stonewall you the entirety of dinner. Conversation was already scarce at the table as it was, only becoming more so the longer time went on.

“What is with your attitude?” he asked.

You had to scoff and almost dropped the plate in your hand into the scalding water in the sink.

“My attitude?” you asked, as if he had just said something totally mind boggling—and it was. The only one with attitude around there for the longest time was him before you were done putting up with it, and today had been the last straw.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, your attitude.”

“Is this the hill you want to die on, Dokyeom?” you asked him and gently set the plate in the sink before turning in his direction with a hand on your hip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked you from the kitchen table.

“You’re the first to jump on me about an attitude without checking your own. You think I would have an attitude with you if you didn’t have one first? I’ve done nothing but ask you what’s wrong for I can’t remember how long now and you typically meet me with silence and you want to know what’s with my attitude?”

He gave you the rudest look, one you were convinced his face couldn’t even make.

“And why would I have an attitude with you, I wonder,” he replied as if you were supposed to know the answer to that rhetorical question.

“I don’t know, because you don’t love me anymore? If you felt that way, then we should have talked about it like adults, like the man I know you are!” you yelled, finally having enough of his petulant attitude.

This time, he scoffed and looked away from you. He shook his head, as if in disbelief, as he soaked in your words. “It’s funny that you even say that,” he replied with a laugh but you knew it wasn’t because it was funny, it was because he was pissed as all hell, “because all this time, you’re the one who has fallen out of love with me.”

“That’s absurd!” you defended yourself,  “I have done nothing but try to work this out while you’ve just sat around and sneered at my very existence for what feels like months!”

“You have betrayed me in every deep way possible! How could I even consider that you still love me after you’d hurt me like that!”

You weren’t really sure what he was even going off about; but it must have been something really bad for him to even say that.

“You won’t even tell me what I did to hurt you like this!” you yelled back, the frustration growing just as your tears were, stinging your eyes as you wouldn’t dare let them fall.

“I really shouldn’t have to tell you. You know what you did, what you’re doing!”

You rolled your eyes. Not because you were fed up with what he was saying, but because you couldn’t possible fathom what you had even done that was so offensive. He looked heartbroken, sitting in that chair in front of you refusing to even look in your direction.

“I’m honestly surprised you haven’t left yet,” he replied calmly, but you could feel the grit of his teeth in his words, the strain in his throat as he did his best not to cry, despite the tears cropping up against his waterline. You could see on his profile as he continued to look away from you, his arms now crossed over his chest. It was very unlike him to cry, but instead of worrying about that, all you could do was stand there, astounded.

“I’m sorry, if you wanted me to leave, that’s all you had to say. I’ll go pack my bags,” you said, drying your hands off on a dish towel that you soon angrily discarded onto the kitchen counter and booked it passed him to the bedroom to haul a large suitcase from the closet. You’d only be able to get about half of your things in that suitcase, but it would give you enough to stay with someone else while you figured out what you were going to do.

You could distinctly heart the screech of his chair against the dining room floor, but it didn’t matter too much as you tried to push the tears back, your heart beginning to shatter in your chest. How could he cast you aside so easily, so nonchalantly? After all the two of you had been through, after everything you’d grown through together, after DK had displayed to you on multiple occasions that the two of you could work through anything together and he basically just told you to get out.

He leaned against the door frame, the wood creaking under his weight as he watched you. You did your best to ignore him, to continue to pack as if he wasn’t destroying you just standing there, not saying anything. When you finally had bustled around the room enough to collect the essentials, you zipped your bag and dropped it to the floor with a grunt—it perhaps weighed at least half of you—before you finally looked at him.

Tears were streaking down his once immaculate cheeks, his eyes were puffy, his lips pursed in a hard line and his jaw tense.

“I’ll be by with a moving truck in the coming week, if you’d kindly hold my stuff until then.” Your voice was rough, cutting DK like a knife and he let out perhaps the most desperate gasp any man could followed by a harsh sob.

You couldn’t stand to see him cry, so you did your best to look away from him as you reached up to push the tears that had escaped off your cheek and proceeded to push passed him with the suitcase. He followed you out to the front door.

“That’s it? You’re going to walk out that door without so much as an explanation!”

With fists clenched, about to lose your entire shit, you turned to him. “Explain what DK? I don’t even know what I did, and despite my best efforts to ask you thousands of times and try to work this out with you, you’ve stonewalled me! Clearly, you want me to leave. Clearly, I have totally broken you! And you don’t deserve that. Whatever I have done, I truly am sorry.”

“You’re really going to stand there and deny the fact that you’ve been seeing someone else?”

If your head could have popped off your shoulders, it would have. If you weren’t lost before, you sure were now.  “You’re going to stand there and blatantly deny sending affectionate text messages to another man, sending hearts and shit to him—you’re going to try and leave here without saying shit about that to me?”

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“I can’t even believe you!” he screamed—never had he raised his voice like that at you, and it honestly made you quiver; your knees buckled a bit as you shrunk under his intense gaze.  You couldn’t think to do anything else except whip your phone out of your pocket and tentatively try to give it to him.

“Show me,” you requested gently.

He all but snatched your phone from your hands, unlocking it with your anniversary as your passcode, which he was surprised it still was. Dokyeom looked furious, tears trickling down his cheeks, off his chin, off his nose, tears he was furiously trying to push away as he perused your phone to the messaging app and quickly pulled up the thread to shove it back in your face after reading the most recent messages.

“You’re even going to meet with him this weekend! And you have the audacity to stand here and lie to my face!”

You took the phone back from him to look at the thread. Simultaneously relieved and furious, you blinked hard, keeping your eyes closed for a good few moments before opening them again to look at the love of your life who you really wanted to punch in the face.

The situation was hard to take. On the one hand, it was a misunderstanding. But on the other hand, it displayed the fragility of your relationship. Not that you would ever accuse him of snooping through your phone, because you trusted him, but he should have trusted you enough that you could allow him to snoop through your phone. To be honest, he probably saw a message that prompted the snooping—either way, maybe he didn’t love you the way he claimed. The deeper you thought about it, the more problematic the situation became.

“Dokyeom,” you spoke calmly, “if you would have just asked…” you trailed off, too frustrated to even begin explaining.

“I didn’t want to ask! I had hoped that you would have come clean with me! I thought you loved me…”

“Dokyeom, I love you with my entire heart,” you replied with a crack in your voice, a different type of tears stinging your eyes and felt like lava down your cheeks. “Dummy is my brother, you idiot,” you added, referring to the contact name you had him under. “He just moved to the city, I told you that months ago. I have every right to text my brother whatever I want; I have every right to meet my brother whenever I want.”

His jaw just about unhinged. Maybe he had realized that this uncovered the fragility of your relationship, too.

“If you would have just… asked me, Dokyeom…”

All you could feel was hurt. Your heart ached for a different reason. He actually believed that you were immoral enough of a person to cheat on him and try to keep the gig up. Many things were becoming difficult because of this tiny misunderstanding.

“Duchess, I—”

“Don’t duchess me, Dokyeom,” you replied, spitting fire.  In all honesty, you kind of wanted to leave at this point.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, almost inaudibly as you stood there thinking about what to do. “You have every right to talk to him any way you want, I just—”

“You just didn’t ask, didn’t trust me, and pinned me as an immoral witch,” you interrupted.

He muttered your name, but wouldn’t dare reach for you. He could see that you were almost shaking, and desperately wanted to take that all away, but the things that you just told him ripped his heart right out of his chest and stomped on it.

“The thought that I would ever cheat on you means you don’t trust me. Maybe it would be better for both of us—”

“Please, don’t leave!” he cried, a broken screech that echoed through your apartment and followed by muffled sobs as he covered his mouth.  It hurt more than anything, watching him cry so harshly. He was shaking, your rock. You never saw him this way, he felt desperate, especially when he dropped to his knees unable to stand anymore.

He was shaking like crazy, frantic, holding himself tightly since he knew you wouldn’t. His sobs were silent, but the tears were relentless on his face.  All you could really do was look down at him and wait for him to say something, anything, because even though you wanted nothing more than to hold him, than to make it all go away, your feet felt bolted to the floor.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry! I was so scared; I saw one message and my whole life fell apart. I should have asked you, I should have! I couldn’t think, I could barely breathe through the heartache. Eventually I just started believing it, and stopped doubting because it seemed easier to swallow in the long run. I didn’t want to be a fool, but I ended up suffering twice and while I deserve it, please don’t leave,” he explained to the best of his ability despite his quivering breaths and his weak state.

“Dokyeom… You should have just asked…” you replied, trying to stall until your anger subsided.

“I know! I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot! But you are my life, and the thought of that crumbling so easily hurt more than I can explain!” he hollered through tears, doubling over to the ground at your feet. He looked pathetic, but if everything he was saying was true—and you were inclined to believe him—you didn’t blame him. As much as his whole life was falling apart, his heart crumbling in his chest, so was yours. Life without him had become obsolete.

“You were supposed to be my forever,” you replied, the tears finally silently escaping unrestricted down your cheeks and off your chin onto the tiled floor in front of you.

“I still want to be,” he squeaked. “This whole thing was a misunderstanding and I still am so in love with you, even if all of it was true. I want you to be my forever.” He peered up at you, gaining enough control to push himself back up to his knees.

“This is going to put a strain on this relationship we will have to work on overdrive to fix; you know that, right? This has caused a lot of damage—the implications of your assumptions…”

To him, it sounded like you were negotiating why it would be better to just leave. He shook his head and dared to crawl up to your feet.

“If I have to prove my love a thousand lifetimes over, I would do it with a smile. There is nothing I wouldn’t do. If it means we have to pull each other through it, I will lead as much as you need me to. If the damage was irreparable, I would still try my best,” he explained. The sincerity in his eyes was beyond enough. “Please… please…” he begged, and he never begged, “I love you, and I will only love you for the rest of my life.”

You couldn’t stand to see him cry anymore, and you were tired of him seeing you cry, so you reached out to take the back of his head, threading your fingers through his soft hair to tug his head into your torso to cradle it against you.  His hands, although tentative, rose to grab a hold of your hips as he turned his face into your body. Soft fingers stroked through his hair in such a calming manner, the type of calmness only you could grant him. Somehow, he could feel some semblance of forgiveness in that motion alone.

“Shall we continue the tradition?” you asked. He looked up at you, chin pressed into your torso as he blinked his tears back, but it didn’t stop you from taking his cheeks in both of your hands to brush his tears away with your thumbs.  “That is, if you can stand.”

Dokyeom rose to his feet to stand over you. You weren’t the kiss and make-up type when you fought; you had a different tradition that still displayed the affection but in perhaps a more appropriate manner. He took both of your hands to place them up on his shoulders and, after pushing your suitcase off to the side and took a few steps back, captured your waist with his arms.

His forehead was warm against yours, despite both of your faces being a thousand degrees from the welling of emotions. Naturally, your eyes fluttered closed and relished his closeness, his touch, his breath across your face and the emotion in his grasp.  

Tears finally faded being replaced with calm and calculated breaths. DK stepped gently with you from side to side, slowly leading you around the living room despite the lack of music. DK always said that the only music you needed was in your heart and that everything would come naturally.  The two of you relaxed into each other, letting the tension of the fight flow out to bring new, better energy back in.  There was no more correct place for you than being in his arms, it felt.

He danced with you until he was sure the water in the sink was cold and you had finally remembered. When you began to say something about the dishes, he hushed you, promised he would do them as long as you gave him a little more time and sunk his face into the crook of your neck until you were nagging him the way you always did. The saving grace for your OCD about the dishes as that they were at least soaking, instead of drying and getting crusty.  

After a bit, he conceded and took you into the kitchen with him. He did the dishes on the sole condition that you were snuggled into his back while he did so. You agreed and stood there with your arms lightly wrapped around his middle, head resting against his shoulder as he cleaned the dishes.

“I love you,” he reminded you, cleaning the last bits of silverware and glasses.

“I love you more than you may ever know,” you replied, pressing deeper into his back.

He helped you unpack your suitcase and stowed it back in the closer, doing everything you could together and even broke into tears a couple more times—it was going to be a process. The night was quiet, putting on a movie just to pass the time, really, as you cuddled on the couch, trying your best to mend the situation the best you could before facing a new day.

“I am so sorry,” he reminded you, brushing his nose against yours.

“We’ll get through it,” you responded and pressed your head into his shoulder.

“May I call you duchess?” he asked, stroking your cheek as he tried to look down at you.

“You know I love it when you do.”

You went to bed with him that night, a slight change from previous times when one of you opted to sleep on the couch to give the other some space when things did get heated even though they seldom did. It was different; there was an innate desire to stay with each other to help the healing process. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, somehow pretzel-ing his limbs with yours to wrap you up tight. Your hands carded through his hair, soothing yourself almost as much as it did him.

“We’ll get through it?” he grumbled.

“We’ll make it, baby.”

#dk #svt #dk scenarios #svt scenarios #dk angst #svt angst #svt kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop angst #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen angst #dokyeom #dokyeom scenarios #dokyeom angst #lee seokmin #lee seokmin scenarios #prompt game: svt fas

[jaxl-road]

Ashtray

Part 1/?

(There will be either  2 or 3 parts to this)

**Trigger warning like woah!!!** This story deals heavily with self-harm, and later chapters will mention past abuse. Also the expected drug and alcohol usage.

Disclaimer: This is fiction- I am in no way saying any of this actually happened lol.

Summary: They all knew Nikki was a bit self destructive- Hell, they all were to an extent. But none of them know how to handle Nikki just... hurting himself. (No pairings, found family)

~~~~~~~~~~

The first time Nikki hurts himself in front of Tommy, Nikki laughs. Tommy doesn’t.

It’s one of the few nights they’re in the run down apartment alone. Nikki had been wired during practice- all splitting grins and wide eyes and high pitched laughs and barely letting the notes of one song fade out before scrambling at his pile of crumpled notebook paper and chattering “Wait, wait, let’s try this one next! I have an idea, let’s try this, just one more, just one more-”.

When the rest of the band finally put their foot down to end practice for the night, Mick had thrown on his shades and sauntered out, mumbling about getting a drink “away from all the crazy kids”. Vince had run off as well, loudly declaring that he needed some feminine attention after putting up with “hyper bassists all day”.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Nikki seemed to deflate a little. Looking over his shoulder, Tommy could see like neon lights in his eyes that he was waiting for Tommy to leave too.

But the truth was, Tommy didn’t want to leave. He loved Nikki’s energy, his passion, his harebrained schemes that were always made for two. Tommy felt like he had finally found someone who lived at the same pace as him. And he couldn’t get enough of it.

“Looks like it’s you and me against the night then, dude!” Tommy grinned, shaking his head fondly when Nikki lit right back up, beaming and cheering like a little kid, running into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels.

They end up staying in the apartment- drinking and joking and shooting ideas back and forth for what crazy stunts they could pull both on and off stage. Tommy is bouncing in his seat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes as he rambles about some sort of moving drum set.

“It could, like, rise up in the air! And maybe, maybe, I dunno, spin or something?” He inhales deeply, exhaling the smoke through his word, “I dunno, but there’s something there!”

Nikki laughs from his spot sprawled across the armchair next to him, “That’d be gnarly, dude!”

They keep talking, trying to figure out the logistics of Tommy’s flying drum set, but only end up coming up with more and more absurd ideas to add to it. Eventually Tommy reaches the end of his cigarette. He glances around, the room spinning just slightly as he turns his head as if to remind him how much alcohol he’s had. “Where’d that ashtray go? I thought I saw it earlier…”

Nikki snorts, smirking, “No worries, dude, I carry one with me.”

Before Tommy can question what he’s talking about, Nikki plucks the cigarette from Tommy’s fingers, leans his head forward to let his hair fall around his face, and presses the dying embers into the back of his neck.

Tommy sucks in a breath, body going cold and eyes widening in a pain that Nikki is giggling through. It takes a beat, but suddenly Tommy is leaping from his seat on instinct, pressing himself into Nikki’s space, long limbs awkwardly surrounding him and pulling his arm back as his hands flutter uncertainly around his neck.

“What the fuck, what the FUCK dude?” Tommy’s heart is a hummingbird in his chest that only beats faster when Nikki laughs, so carefree, so casual, as he tries to lean away from Tommy’s touch.

“What? Come on man, it’s nothing, what are you freaking out for?”

If he’s honest, Tommy knows that objectively this is not the worst thing Nikki has done. Both of them are constantly getting in trouble, causing damage and raising Hell as a hobby. And sometimes they get hurt in the process, and they’ve never made a big deal out of it before. Besides, they’re both drunk. Everyone does stupid things when they’re drunk, right?

But then Tommy finally manages to push Nikki’s hair aside, and he’s brought face to face with a topographical map of burn scars, small circles overlapping and layering over each other, some long faded, some more recent, with the new burn standing out bright and fresh and sinister, and Oh, Tommy realizes, oh, this isn’t the same at all.

Because harm was always an unfortunate side effect of their mischief. Something they tried to avoid but accepted and laughed about when it came. But seeing this history of hurt on his best friend’s skin is different. This wasn’t Nikki getting hurt by chance. This was Nikki hurting himself this was intentional and Tommy felt like he couldn’t breath.

“Jesus Christ, dude…” Tommy’s voice is breathy, and when Nikki twists out of his grip to turn and face him he looks confused and Tommy hates it.

“What’s the big deal?”

“What’s th- dude!” The drummer waves his hands uselessly, trying to find the words to explain something he feels like shouldn’t need explaining, “The big deal is you shouldn’t do shit like that! It’s- it’s bad for you, you could- what if it like, gets infected or something, or, or… doesn’t it hurt?” It hurts Tommy.

Nikki shrugged, “It’s fine.”

That doesn’t answer any of Tommy’s questions, but it feels like they’re talking different languages. There is a haze of alcohol and a lifetime of differences muddling their words. Tommy suddenly feels so very, very young, and he wishes there was an adult here to help. But he swallows it back, gets up and finds the apartment’s lone box of bandaids, and Nikki lets him place one on his neck and laughs when the drummer rambles about picking up burn cream the next day, but he agrees to use it so Tommy counts it as a win.

And he knows Nikki is just humoring him. Knows that no bandaid can fix this, not when it’s placed over years of scar tissue. But he feels a little better when he settles back onto the couch, like he’s got it under control, and everything will be fine, and he can handle this.

But then Nikki leans back, stretching over the arm of the chair and tips his head back, looking at Tommy upside down, eyes shining and smiling with a grin that was all teeth.

“I just had the best idea for a stage stunt,” he says breathlessly, “Someone should light me on fire.”

And Tommy realizes that he can’t handle this at all.

~

(Later, much later, he’ll wonder if maybe Nikki switched to heroin because cocaine didn’t hurt enough. If maybe half the high was breaking the skin.)

~

The first time Nikki hurts himself in front of Vince, Nikki is shaking. Vince is too.

Motley Crue is starting to take off, they can all feel it. The crowds have been getting bigger at each show, louder, wilder, and a few nights earlier there had even been a line to get in to see them. Them! It’s amazing. It's astounding. It’s exhilarating.

And for Nikki, it’s terrifying.

Vince watches him from their shitty kitchen table, absent-mindedly flipping through a magazine even as his gaze stays fixed on the bassist. Nikki is coiled up on the floor in front of the couch, cigarette hanging from his lips and empty beer bottles scattered around him, scribbling wildly in one of his notebooks and muttering under his breath. Tommy had gone to visit his family, and Mick had finally saved enough dough from their gigs to make a doctor’s appointment for a checkup. Vince was still nursing a hangover, and since Nikki seemed to be in a fairly quiet mood, he figured he could handle staying home with him.

He didn’t expect to be so distracted by Nikki working, but here he was. He thinks part of it is that he hasn’t seen Nikki this stressed before. He always seemed so passionate and inspired, words and chords just spilling out of him. But now, he is radiating frustration. Every few minutes he curses and furiously scribbles out whatever he had just written, sometimes tearing the page out completely, throwing it violently to the side before starting over on a new page.

Vince is debating whether throwing his magazine at Nikki’s head would distract him in a good way or an explosively bad way when Nikki lets out a wordless shout of irritation. His hands clench around the pad of paper, as if bracing to tear the whole thing to shreds, but instead he snaps and hurls the notebook against the wall in angry desperation. His whole body is shaking with too much of something and then, before Vince can think of what to say, Nikki curls forward, pressing his forehead into his knees, and presses the end of his lit cigarette roughly into his neck.

“Shit!” Vince doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s halfway across the room. He sees Nikki’s hand twisting the cigarette, pressing harder to burn deeper, and Vince doesn’t even think as he unceremoniously grabbed the bassist’s wrist to pull his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Vince gets the briefest glimpse of years worth of scars before Nikki is leaping to his feet, hair falling like a curtain over old wounds and panicked eyes as he backs away. His body is tense, hands shaking and shoulders hunched, and from the way he blinks in something like surprise, Vince thinks he must have forgotten the singer was even here.

The blonde throws his hands up, because he suddenly feels like he’s cornered a feral cat, and he absently realizes that his own hands are trembling too. The whole situation starts to catch up in his brain and he realizes he is so far out of his depth, it's not even funny. He’s always known the bassist was a bit crazy- but then again, they all were. They all had their own flavor of chaos that they brought to their music and their lives and each other. But this is… different. This doesn’t feel like crazy, Vince realizes. It feels like a wound.

“Um,” He hesitates, because he’s never had a sincere conversation with Nikki. They were friends by now, definitely- they lived together and were in a band together, they sort of had to be friends- but it was mostly a relationship of friendly bickering and property damage. But now, standing in the living room staring at each other, they’re in uncharted territory. “Is your neck okay?” He finally asks, and it feels like a dumb question but fuck, he has no idea what he’s supposed to do here. He sings, and drinks, and fucks. He is so not qualified to deal with this. He trembles a little more. He feels like he’s just going to make this worse.

Nikki grits his teeth, “It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s fine.” He turns to look at where his notebook lays on the ground, his eyes full of a resigned kind of fear. Like a man staring at his own noose.

Vince feels autopilot kick in. He forces a grin and saunters hesitantly closer to the other man, “You know what you need that’ll make you feel better?”

“Tommy gave me some burn cream…” Nikki mumbles, mostly to himself, eyes not leaving the floor.

Tommy knows?? Vince wants to shriek, but he bites it back, chuckling, and clapping Nikki on the shoulder, internally signing in relief when he allows the contact, “Well, I guess that too. But no! What we need are some long legs and big tits and waaaaay too much skin,” he smirked deviously.

“But I-” Nikki starts to protest, eyes darting between Vince and his own lyrics, but the singer cuts him off.

“Ah ah ah!” He raises a finger to silence him, “Dude, you are mega stressed right now. You’re not gonna get anything done like this. So slap some cream on your neck, and let’s go unwind and clear that head of yours!”

“Are strippers your solution to everything?” Nikki’s mouth twitches towards a smile, and he finally looks Vince in the eye and the blonde grins wider. Hell yeah, screw what Mick says, Vince can totally take care of serious shit when he needs to.

“Hey, if there is a problem that can’t be solved by strippers I haven’t found it yet.” ...He hopes. He really wants this to be a problem that can be solved by strippers.

And maybe it is, he thinks, after Nikki emerges from the restroom after supposedly putting something on the burn on his neck and Vince ushers him out the door. Nikki seems to relax more and more the farther they get from the apartment (from the lyrics that never felt good enough). They laugh and stumble into their favorite club together, even getting a few fans stopping them to compliment the band, and when they sit down to throw money at all the pretty girls, Vince thinks that maybe this is fine. Maybe everything is fine.

But then they head to the bar, and Nikki orders a flaming shot, staring at the fire and even the bartender winces when he presses the hot glass to his lips far too soon.

And Vince realizes that this isn’t fine at all.

~

(“He was so surprised when I tried to stop him,” Tommy admits to him later, when Vince finally manages to corner him without the bassist, “I don’t think he expected me to care.”

“How long has he been doing this?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of scared to ask.”)

~

The first time Nikki hurts himself in front of Mick, Nikki doesn’t care. Mick does.

They’re in the studio early, going back and forth on what sort of riffs to include in a new song Nikki wants to start running through soon. Mick likes the direction they’re going, a small smile on his face as he strums away. The novelty of being a part of a band that was actually good still hadn't worn off. Mick didn't think he'd ever get tired of it. Nikki is pacing slowly in front of him, waving a cigarette like a conductor’s baton as they play through the chorus.

“Hell, yeah, that's fucking rad,” Nikki grins, dropping down onto an open chair and taking a long drag as he made a few notes in his notebook. “What were you thinking for the bridge?”

Mick hums in consideration, “Maybe something like…” He starts playing, and Nikki leans forward to listen attentively, head nodding to the beat even as he casually pressed the end of his cigarette into his neck.

The guitar playing stops abruptly.

Nikki frowned, “Why’d you stop?" He tilted his head curiously. The room is silent as the two musicians stare at each other, the extinguished cigarette hanging loosely from Nikki’s fingers. Mick isn’t sure what he’s waiting for- for Nikki to realize what he’d done, or cry out in delayed pain, or what, but he waits anyway.

“...Mick? You still with me?” The bassist smiles nervously, waving a hand in front of Mick’s face.

Mick lightly smacks his hand away, “I’m fine, but what the Hell was that?”

“What the Hell was what?”

"That!" Mick points forcefully at Nikki’s neck because how the fuck were they not on the same page here? “We do have ashtrays, you know. Or you could at least use the couch or something.”

Nikki reaches up to touch his neck lightly, before smirking, “Now why would I want to damage a perfectly good couch?” The long black hair covering his neck suddenly looks sinister to Mick.

“Then use a fucking ashtray like a regular person!” He doesn’t mean to snap, but the truth is, this caught Mick off guard in a way he was absolutely not prepared for, “Don’t be so dramatic!”

At that, Nikki raises an eyebrow, “You’re the one being dramatic,” he says nonchalantly, “It’s not a big deal.”

And that, Mick realizes with a start, is exactly the problem. Nikki wasn’t being dramatic. It’d make more sense if he was, if it was some moment of passion or emotion. But Nikki was being so casual. So mundane. He honestly didn’t think this was a problem.

When Mick takes a little too long to respond, Nikki rolls his eyes, “Jeez, if it bothers you guys so much I wont do it in front of you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t do it at all,” The guitarist mumbled, turning the implication that Vince and Tommy know about this over in his mind.

Laughing, Nikki shook his head fondly, “Play the bridge again. I liked what you had so far.”

And maybe that’s it, Mick thinks. Maybe now that, from what he can tell, all of them have disapproved, Nikki won’t do it again. Maybe it’ll be that simple.

But then, when their sessions ends, Nikki twirls a cigarette between his fingers and eyes his band mates before grinning and rattling off a half-hearted excuse about taking a piss. He lights up just as the door closes behind him, three sets of eyes frozen on the spot where he's been.

And Mick realizes that this wont be simple at all.

~

(“We don’t know what to do,” Tommy looks at Mick with wide, lost eyes. Vince stands next to him, arms crossed, eyes darting around in frustration and worry.

Mick shakes his head, “Fucking kids.” He mutters and grumbles and huffs, trying to hide the fact that he doesn’t know what to do either.)

#my writing #motley crue fanfiction #self harm #self harm tw #motley crue #the dirt #nikki sixx #mick mars #tommy lee #vince neil #found family is my JAM

[lindoig4]

More text - hopefully pics soon!

I have already noted that Greenland was quite different from Iceland in several respects so I will expand on that a little now, based on the topics I used in Svalbard.

I have already said that there was less snow, much bigger icebergs (although fewer glaciers) and that the flora was somewhat enlarged in both variety and dimension – with giant trees almost up to our socks.  The daily routine was largely unchanged and the weather continued to be amazingly warm and sunny. Even when it was cloudy, it was not as cold as I imagined and we had no rain at all on either expedition.  The wildlife was fairly similar but a bit scarcer with a few musk ox being sighted (none up really close), more seals, and no polar bears (although they certainly live there in the winter.

The much larger icebergs were sculptured into the most dazzlingly imaginative shapes and we never ceased to ogle at them as we cruised around and between them.  One glacier high up in the Scoresby Sund is so massive that it calves quite a few tabular bergs, but over time, they all end up the same – as water.  But the process is extraordinary.  It might take years, especially if the berg becomes grounded in shallower areas of the Sound (but not in the 800 metre depths) and differential melting and both internal and external forces and conditions mean that they usually go through many phases, astounding shapes, diverse orientations, shifting and breaking and recombining, shearing and refreezing into unbelievable behemoths, before melting into nothingness, perhaps thousands if kilometres and several years from their birthplace.  All of this appears to happen above the waterline, but we constantly saw the evidence that 90% of the action was happening out of sight, perhaps hundreds of metres below the surface.

Enough of my obsession with icebergs, at least for the moment.

Heather was fine again once we reached Greenland and my reflux was manageable with a few additional meds.  On the other hand, there were more people in our party begging to be throttled.  As usual, most people were fine, but there were a few that exercised the nastiest devices to achieve priority in every queue, the same ones who entirely depleted the prime delicacies at breakfast, that openly conspired to be in the best vantage point on EVERY Zodiac cruise, who photobombed every attempt to get a pic of something in its natural state, who took literally thousands of selfies, demanding that the Zodiac be repositioned time and again to get the precise angle desired, always standing directly in line with whatever anyone else was trying to photograph, who hogged every conversation and boomed absurd stories incessantly in the bar and dining room, who whinged and carped about this and that irrespective of whether others liked it or not – I am sure you know some of those people too.  But it was sometimes so blatant that they should consider themselves lucky not to have been thrown overboard on numerous occasions.

And talking about being thrown overboard, I previously commented on the insanity of people voluntarily deserting a perfectly sound ship to leap into iceberg-laden Svalbard seawater.  Then I found myself doing exactly that in a 1 degree Greenland fjord.  Did I say insanity?

Heather thought it would be a good thing for her to do and guess who got suckered in to accompanying her?  I had slowly been ‘warming’ to the idea and succumbed to some gentle persuasion and we both leapt off together - and can now proudly wear our ‘I survived the Polar Plunge’ tee-shirts.  What one will do for a free slug of Sambucca on reboarding the ship! - to the enthusiastic applause of the 18 other dare-devils and the 30-something wimps who chose not to scare our wonderful Doctor Sophie with droves of imminent heart attacks.  We jumped together- don’t we always do things together? - whereas everyone else did solo leaps.  (I think we may have been the first to ever take the plunge together.)  We have had so many compliments about how romantic we were that I might even consider doing it again in Antarctica next year - if the pain subsides by then.  I understand that the Antarctic Plunge is perhaps harder because they make you run in from the shore and that surely takes at least a couple of extra seconds in which to shrivel up and wimp out.

I think the only other thing that was notably different on the Greenland trip was that because we had 3 full days at sea (and we weren’t seasick either!), there was more time for onboard activities.  All the lectures were repeated, but modified a little to focus more on Greenland, but they were supplemented with a few docos (Attenborough-type things) about ice, the Arctic ecology and climate change – some of which was credible, even if somewhat emotive.

Close Call with Calving

Did I say I was going to give icebergs a rest?  Surely not!

We had seen many glaciers and large icebergs calve, mostly relatively small amounts, with occasional larger shedding further away.  All the ice has a complex range if internal tensions from thousand of years of intense pressure buried under perhaps millions of tonnes of ice and twisted and contorted as the glacier scraped around the mountains.  For glaciers, there is an additional external pressure due to the immense force of the icecap pushing seawards, thereby causing the front to calve.  Once free of the glacier, the resultant icebergs lose that external force, but still have their internal pressures, as well as additional factors such as being released from the rigid ground in favour of the buoyant sea and more ready but differential melting both above and below the surface.  This imbalance in freestanding ice can result in calving as well as even very big bergs completely changing their orientation.  We have seen several examples of Bergy Bits turning turtle right near us as well as major calving to release some of the pressures and establish a new equilibrium.  We have lots of photos showing how numerous readjustments have occurred over time.

Everyone is constantly watching for the calvings, especially hoping for a big one and we nearly got swamped by one yesterday.  We were out Zodiac-cruising and came to a super-spectacular berg with a huge arch and lots of cracks running through it and small pieces falling off. We waited for ages on both sides of the arch hoping to see a massive fall, all the while hearing quite a few cracks in the big apparently-stable berg very close behind us.  We eventually gave up waiting for the crash that never came and nosed our Zodiac through the narrow channel between the two bergs.  Then crash!!!  A massive section of ice fell off the unexpected berg right where we had been a second earlier.  We gunned the Zodiac to avoid being crushed by the ice or swamped by the resultant waves that surged at us from where the sea was filled with floating ice.  Wow!  Did that ever get the adrenaline pounding.  One of the other Zodiacs was also fairly close and they took on a bit of water, but we swung around a slab of ice and avoided most of it.  One thing that scares everyone is the risk of being hit by razor-sharp shards of ice.  One woman took a spear of ice in her forehead last year and died instantly so we were keen to avoid that happening to any of us.

[beinglibertarian]

Shortcuts & Delusions Special Edition: The Absurdity of Gary Johnson

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutly free that your very existance is an act of rebellion.” – Albert Camus

Obituary:

Libertarian satirist and vengeful deity Dillon Eliassen (spelled with an E for comedic purposes), whose work I sincerely admire, has died. Spiritually. Only spiritually. He is to be succeeded in spiritual death by a micronation of homeless people, his fellow members of the Fictitious Cement Workers’ Union, and Being Libertarian’s very own Editor-in-Chief Martin van Staden.

Dillon “The Jesuit” Eliassen (née Ottovordemgentschenfelde) was probably born on Christmas morning 1949, somewhere in Canada. Known for his youthful shenanigans, Dillon brought a smile to the faces of all who encountered him at San Quentin. While fighting for our freedom on the blood-soaked soil of Vietnam, Dillon gave birth to a mostly healthy yet premature appendix, and he named it me.

Let us begin.

Introduction:

Dillon left off with an in-depth analysis of ‘Trump Derangement Syndrome,’ a very real ‘condition’ that ‘I’ have personally heard firsthand accounts of on multiple occasions. This was a fitting place to conclude. The torch was not passed to me, but I am hereby picking it up off the ground, wiping the dirt and canine feces from its gleaming bronze exterior, and running with it in the exact opposite direction of any achievable goal.

I am Nathaniel Owen. If you don’t recognize my name, it’s because I am legitimately the least important person you’ve never heard of. I’m unknown for my efforts to bear the heaviness of the Imperial Antarctic Crown, and my occasional bouts of productive cyber-vigilantism. In 2014 I made a mistake, and today that mistake is Being Libertarian. They locked me in the CEO’s office until I pay for this crime.

Like my obvious relatives, Nathaniel Bacon, Nathaniel Branden, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, I am a revolutionary. I haven’t got a Che t-shirt, and I never attend the meetings. But like many communist tovarisch, I do have an iPhone. In the postmodern age, that’s a clever weapon to have! Climate scientists, for instance, have indicated that it’s really all the humble revolutionary needs these days. I am constantly confused as to the value of my executive role at Being Libertarian but remain the least confused as to why I maintain this position.

Today is my favorite day of the year, second only to New Year’s Eve. For me, today acts as a reminder of the closest thing I have ever encountered to universal truth; a realization that haunts, comforts, astounds and enchants me. Yesterday, we were but individuals rolling boulders up a hill. Today, we will try again to roll the boulders up that hill. Tomorrow, yet again, we will return to this habit. You have been doing this with me since the day you were born.

I like to count the number of seconds it takes the boulder to reach the bottom of the hill each sunset. In the morning, we will start over.

We Are All Sisyphus:

It’s quite pointless, analytically speaking. You probably don’t remember being born, nor were you an integral part in making that happen to you. No number of artifacts can preserve the complexity of an individual human being, and even if one could live immortally in the memory of others, time turns existential into the mythological.

The universe is dying. It will live scarcely longer than we will. You appear to have come into existence at random, in a time and place inherently foreign. As a child, you wander into a adulthood without happening on the answer key to any questions relating to how or why you exist in the first place. Much less, how or why the universe itself exists. A consequence of this is that We, The People tend to convince ourselves conveniently that the answers to such questions not only exist, but can be found in such subtle hiding places as your local political party, whatever holy book you were raised to read, your arbitrary interpretations of the signs and seasons presented to us by the light of the cosmos, or even in our own imaginations.

And we know because we can’t avoid knowing, that whatever facade we’ve sold ourselves is, in fact, still a facade even if we fall for it.

Every day spent living is a performative affirmation that something about you, even if you can’t figure out exactly what it is, still wants to find those answers. If this weren’t the case, the players of this game would be dropping like flies when they discover that there is no point in playing and no conceivable way to win and that eventually there will be no evidence that you ever played at all. In short, that life itself is highly unlikely to be worth the trouble.

Albert Camus, French philosopher, and journalist, was plagued with thoughts like those stated above. Camus became a constitutive inspiration of the Existentialist Movement (a tradition of philosophy asserting the importance of human experience in the appraisal and interpretation of ideas), partially during the Second World War, while serving in fierce defiance as the Editor-in-Chief of the French Resistance newspaper ‘Combat’ amidst the Nazi occupation of his homeland, and continuing this roll into the post-war world.

Though such matters in the realm of fundamentals and absolutes can be difficult to define, you may have wondered similar things about yourself, and perhaps continue to. Camus was particularly perturbed by the sheer fact that the universe itself and all that exists within it have no objective meaning or purpose. The rational insights we are both blessed and cursed with poke holes in all our mortally limited attempts to invent meaning of our own, and in the Modern Age, the old ideas of Abrahamic deities, universal truth, and inherent ethical rules, each of which having been rudimentary to the shaping and formation of modern society in some way, have been penetrated into philosophical Swiss cheese.

The Non-Aggression Principle is a rather useful little limerick when one doesn’t overthink it. But like all things implying morality, thinking it all the way through will lead you to fundamentals that cannot possibly be confirmed or denied. What, exactly, makes murder wrong? What about robbery? Or socialism? Or the unfairness of free markets? When all is said and done, is it really going to matter whether every little thing we chose to do was right, or wrong, or equitable, or unfair? At the top level, with capital crimes especially, it is not hard to find that the supermajority of humanity agrees on some basic ethical positions. But when applying these basics, they become more complicated. By the point that we are discussing the specific rights and wrongs of typical human behavior, no two people will find themselves in agreement on the application of what they may believe are universal, self-evident principles.

Camus asserted, rather poignantly, that suicide has always been an option. And the scariness, confusion, and uncertainty of existing in such an uncertain world have apparently not driven you to it. And why shouldn’t we die now? It all adds up to the same summary. Nothing is permanent. It’s very possible that nothing matters. Yet we, practically all of us, seem to be making the conscious choice each day to live on. It’s as though if we pull away some of that upstanding rationalism gifted to us during The Enlightenment, there is some other part of us playing such an integral role in our existence that it stabilizes and confirms our will to exist at all.

Camus was a hero in several ways, and today is his day. There are very few people who want to legalize murder, yet droves of people who wish to legalize marijuana, and to many hearty fundamentalists, these may be comparable issues. Sin is sin, oppression is oppression, and aggression is aggression. To many libertarians, and to what should be our collective shame, such things as unionizing the local labor force, stealing a sandwich from a street vendor, violently raping a helpless victim, and aborting the fetus conceived in such tragic circumstances are all comparably “aggressive,” and may not even be considered in terms outside of “aggression” regardless of how useful a new approach or perspective may be when considering such cases.

At the risk of losing all of my libertarian acquaintances, I will admit that once upon a time, I charged my iPhone (yes, my revolutionary weapon of choice) using a stranger’s charging cable without asking when he wasn’t around. I aggressed. I haven’t repented and I’m not sure my soul will be where yours will be on judgment day.

The point is, it makes so little difference whether we are right or wrong about what is “aggression” and what is not “aggression,” that it’s a wonder anybody even cares to discuss it for more than a few than a few minutes.

I do not care who builds the roads, or who decides what color to paint the bathrooms at Beacon Hill, or which Union and/or Confederate heroes/villains are memorialized in stone. I do not care to pay taxes of a meager nature. Of course, I will consistently support lower taxes; it’s my own self-interest at stake. I will not, however, declare that anyone who doesn’t concern themselves with it as deeply as myself to be a “sheep.” Sheep are blind followers. To the best of my knowledge, I have never met anyone who doesn’t fit that description, and yes, this includes myself. I’m no determinist, but I know that I know essentially nothing about the mechanics of what REALLY makes something moral or immoral. I also know that you don’t know either.

The universe you live in doesn’t care what you think. It doesn’t “care” in any way about anything, as far as we can tell. Clinging so staunchly to principles may as well be escapism from the dread and uncertainty of having existed in the first place. Cults operate by exploiting this inherent dread, and unlike the average man on the street who will immediately deny any experiences of being uncertain about his own existence, cults can see through this bullshit. The Liberty Movement should be no cult.

“The Absurd” is a boulder. Every second you live is an exercise in pointlessness. Searching for meaning, embracing the experience of uncertainty, and cracking a smile as your shoulders yet again shove that boulder up the hill… these are exercises in defiance. It is no coincidence that Albert Camus, espousing the conviction (or lack thereof) that no objective truth or purpose may ever be identified, was willing to put his life on the line to dignify and endorse the French Resistance Movement, and despite his eventual death in a car crash, his words live on.

We libertarians are the quintessentially anti-establishment political identity. When our fists are clenched around the chains of dogma and theoretical universal principles we may as well be chained to the same despotic foundation we’re trying to help others liberate themselves from. To think for one’s self, one must realize the degree to which the nuances and practicalities of the world we live in influence us. Peddling promises of applying some universal ethic that we, as representatives of the Liberty Movement, can’t even agree on the parameters of is no different than selling a religious experience; a method by which to keep the conscience clean, and supply some convenient, flimsy certainty that will never stand up to the scrutiny of the skeptical. If our universal truths were as permanent as they are constructed to be, we would never change our minds or opinions.

This rant will resume in 365.25 days when National Absurdity Day returns in all its glory, memento mori, and calendarial obscurity.

And speaking of scrutiny, I’m going to have to toss in a trigger warning. This isn’t even my first trigger warning. I’m a professional.

**TRIGGER WARNING** What you are about to read may cause severe bouts of Trump Derangement Syndrome. If you are a leftist, please do not read the following paragraphs while in close proximity to sharp objects. Symptoms may include blood shooting from the eyes, indecipherable screaming, close encounters of the fourth kind, and varying degrees of irritable face syndrome. Please notify a physician if you encounter itchiness of the spleen, cirrhosis of the autobiographical memory, or diarrhea of the oral cavity.

Why We MUST Defeat Gary Johnson You’re probably wondering about the guy in the title of this article who, thus far, has been absent from said article. In fact, he’s absent from things quite often, I’m told.

Gary Johnson is not a real libertarian. Why libertarians get starry-eyed in his presence is beyond me, with his espousal of blatant communism and acceptance of homonormative deconstructionist Islamomarxism. Johnson as a representative of libertarianism is a clear sign that the left is invading the liberty movement, further eroding private property norms and propping up support for the deep state agenda of the globalists.

Johnson has pretended to support unfettered free market capitalism, and even went as far as to insist that tearing down barriers of entry could give the average person better, fairer access to goods and services. “The model of the future is the sharing economy. It’s Uber. It’s Airbnb. I think it’s gonna be Uber everything.”

“Uber everything” sounds like a great idea until you take your morning Red Pill and see that this is just code for white genocide. Without a heterogenous government of the people, who will stop immigrants from driving Uber taco trucks and parking them on every street corner, forestalling traditional values and private property norms. Americans would lose their jobs, possibly to immigrants. Even libertarian heroine Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez sees through Gary Johnson’s thin veneer of egalitarian lies!

He ran for president. Twice. On the second try, he broke every Libertarian Party presidential vote count record in the party’s history, surpassing even the likes of Our Lord and Savior Dr. Ron Earnet Paul. Mark my words, we will never forgive Gary Johnson for not being Ron Paul. His tax cuts were clearly a Democrat ruse to give spending power to the politically correct internationalist cabal of globalist elites like George Soros, Walt Disney, and Oliver Cromwell.

After making the Libertarian Party lose twice, Gary Johnson snuck in one more attack on libertarian legitimacy by losing in New Mexico in a Senate race where he only claimed 15.4% of the vote, singlehandedly handing victory over to communist Democrat Vladimir Len- I mean… Martin Heinrich (if that’s his real name).

Gary Johnson must be stopped. He cannot be allowed to run for office again, regardless of what degenerate socialist feminazis say about “free speech” and “democracy.” Democracy is a secret codeword known to the Fourth International for white genocide and subversion of private property norms. To Make America Great Again

, we must Physically Remove

this man that even the Democrats recognize as a tyrant. Socialists say that Gary Johnson is no threat to the system. This means Gary Johnson is probably a socialist (and a threat to the system the Founding Fathers put in place to protect our freedoms) because everything socialists say are lies.

What further evidence do you need? So far, I have used some of the most Red Pill buzzwords on the market, and even considered using “optics,” “LOLbertarian,” “SJW,” “libertine,” “postmodernism” and “open borders.” Libertarianism is an obvious right-wing ideology. We have standards, you know.

I won’t keep you here. Now that I’ve owned you with facts and logic, you are free to go.

Outro: Left intentionally long and with minimal editing, everything written above makes a single point that, in context, doesn’t mean anything. Most things, and probably all things, don’t mean anything. But that observation is no taskmaster; true freedom is the freedom to waste your time, and the time of others, in a way that is archetypically you. There are no strict parameters here. Drifting a little off the straight and narrow shouldn’t be cause for panic. If there was a takeaway in this article, I don’t know what it is. Perhaps there is a Gary Johnson in all of us, rolling a boulder up Mount Everest just to watch it roll back into the ravine, much like the Libertarian vote count will in 2020.

Do as thou wilt, and don’t overthink it.

Happy National Absurdity Day, comrades.

سُبْحَانَ اللہِ

The post Shortcuts & Delusions Special Edition: The Absurdity of Gary Johnson appeared first on Being Libertarian.

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#IFTTT #WordPress #libertarian #beinglibertarian #being libertarian #freedom #free market

[greybat]

Fire & Leeches - Ch 8

Chapter 8: Bound To Come Up

Summary: Modern!AU (with magic.) Xixa is… well, not really enjoying but not hating a night out with Asra at one of Vesuvia’s famed clubs. However, her curiosity and interest become piqued when a particular band takes the stage.

Chapter Summary: Julian and Xixa have their conversation, touching on topics that were bound to come up.

Ao3 Link

A sudden uncertainty sliced through Julian’s thoughts. Turning his gaze toward her, slowly, he narrowed his eye. There was a wary electricity buzzing in the air. Xixa noticed the change and looked up in time to be faced with an almost accusatory question, “Are you two lovers?”

“No! But…” A flush scrabbled across Xixa’s face, memories of her own fawning over the magician teasing at her thoughts. Under Julian’s piercing gaze, she struggled to find the right words. “You spend enough time with someone and feelings can get complicated.”

“So, you love him.” Julian averted his gaze again. He wasn’t sure if he could keep Xixa from seeing the look of betrayal and bitterness on his face. Of course, she’d have feelings for Asra. Julian couldn’t blame her; the magician had a certain allure that still made Julian's own heart flutter. That’s probably why she approached him to begin with. That painful realization brought him no pleasure.

“I didn’t say that,” she bit out, angry with the words being put into her mouth. She had never explicitly stated her feelings about her roommate and didn't appreciate it when others did it for her. Though, she had a feeling that plenty of the other shop owner’s on her block suspected her feelings. “I am fond of Asra, but I’m not sure if it’s love. He’s been there for me and he’s taught me a lot, but he’s also constantly gone.”

Emotions warred inside Julian as he watched Xixa. She had just admitted to having feelings for his ex and, still, a fuzzy warmth coiled around his heart when he watched her. At the same time, he recognized that pinched look of struggle on her face. She truly didn’t know if she loved Asra. Maybe she didn’t even know what love was. Or maybe he was projecting onto a woman who didn’t need his issues.

“Julian,” Xixa shortened the distance between them, her hands brushing against his arms. “I’m fond of you, too. Like, ridiculously fond of you. You’re just… just going too fast for me.”

For a moment, a flare of delight shot down Julian’s back. She was ridiculously fond of him. That sounded promising. Then those four words chilled his warm joy: You’re going too fast. That had been a complaint from Asra, as well. The muscles in Julian’s arms tensed at the memory. His mind hitched on something Xixa had said, though. “He’s your only friend?”

The witch shirked back a little, discontent settling in her stomach. Her only friend. It made her sound so pathetic. “I don’t get out much.”

Julian narrowed his eye. Something was wrong here. “Surely you know other people? What about your family?”

“I… It’s complicated.” Xixa ran a hand through her hair, looking away from Julian’s penetrating gaze. Whenever she talked about this, a headache plunged through her head. Asra never prodded and the other shop owners on her street knew better, probably vetted by the magician. “A large chunk of my memories are gone.”

“What?”

Xixa swallowed, closing her eyes. She didn't want to go through this with Julian. Let alone in an alley. But, if Julian wanted anything to do with her, he had a right to know. Didn't he? There were too many sticky questions, strange situations, where this would come up. It was just better to get it off her chest. The witch opened her eyes, biting her bottom lip under Julian's steely gaze, as she answered, “I just remember waking up a few years ago, in the alleyway behind the shoppe.”

Shock slapped across Julian's face, but Xixa ignored it. She could still see the alleyway – dingy, dirty, heaps of trash – and Asra’s concerned face hovering over her. His purple eyes brimmed with tears and his white hair a glowing beacon in the dark alley.

“Asra was huddled over me, asking if I was all right. I didn’t know who he was, at first. He explained he was my roommate, we ran the shoppe together. I had passed out or something. Hit my head.” Xixa rubbed at her temple again, trying to ignore the sickly feeling of incompetence as tears pricked at her eyes. “When we went to the doctors, they said I had amnesia. I was at the hospital for a week of observation.”

Saying it out loud, Xixa knew it was too strange for anyone to readily accept. Maybe that’s why she hesitated to go out, to make friends. Having to explain that part of her life, it would have been met with skepticism and inquiries all the time. She didn’t know what had happened to her, who had been the source of her state in the alleyway. The doctors had checked her over for signs of violation, but they assured her she was fine.

She let go of a breath she was holding. Xixa knew she wasn’t fine. Especially under his intense stare. She wanted to melt into the pavement, forget all this ever happened.

Julian’s eyebrows furrowed, face set in a serious expression of deep thought. This felt like a sucker punch. His gut twinged, painfully. When he spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were afraid speaking too loud would fracture Xixa. “You have no memories of your prior life?

“There’s snippets. Growing up, playing in a field, some animals, sitting at a desk, people looking after me…” She made a motion with her hand, before lifting her palm to her temple. A little throb kicked at her head, a warning to a greater headache brewing if she continued, “But, every time I concentrate on the memories, my head hurts. So, I don’t think about it.”

Quiet sunk between them. From the Rowdy Raven, as if to make up for Julian and Xixa’s silence, people stumbled and sang bawdy songs or told obnoxious jokes at the top of their lungs. Cars raced by along the front street. Somewhere, a garbage can clanged, followed by the squeak of rats, down a back alleyway. Yet, between them, a bubble of silence had ballooned, impermeable. Xixa chewed on her lip, uncertain of what to do. Was he angry she kept this from him? Was he stunned? Disgusted? Her heart raced, hoping he’d say something and end this curious torture.

Julian didn’t say a word, though. He kept turning over her confession in his head. There had to be proof, another answer, something to make sense of this sudden upheaval. No memory beyond a few years ago, Asra found her in the alley behind the shop, observation at the hospital. The hospital. Abruptly, Julian turned, taking two steps down the alley.

Xixa’s confused shout caused him to stop. “Where are you going, Julian?!”

“I need more information.” He paused, swallowing hard. Synapses were racing, buzzing with ideas and thoughts and plans. “I’m going to the hospital. I’ll pull up your records and-”

“Can you do that?”

Julian paused, lips pressed together tightly. With his back to Xixa, he had no idea what sort of expression she wore. Astounded? Appalled? Outraged? “I can manage it. That’s what matters.”

“How do you have access to patient records?” Xixa moved toward him, stopping behind him. Her eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. “I thought you only worked in the morgue.”

Julian closed his eye and took a deep breath. This was bound to come up, at some point. Just as her memory loss would have come up, at some point. This conversation was inevitable since he wrote a song for – inspired – by her. Especially since he wanted… more. “I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor in a band,” she replied, with a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. Xixa didn't remember Asra mentioning this tidbit. Then again, weren't doctors highly sought after from single people?

His shoulders lowered from their tensed state. Morosely, he added, “Well, I was a doctor.”

“Which means you aren’t any longer,” she pressed, her mind spinning with the implications. What happened? What changed? What had he done?

“My credentials haven’t changed!” He spun on his heel, facing Xixa again. His fists were clenched with frustration. All the work he had put toward his doctorate – all that knowledge and experience – was still there. Just because they had taken his license didn’t mean he had lost the ability to help. “I can just… can just get my old doctor’s coat and my old ID. The people in the records office won’t know.”

Xixa’s lips pressed together, trying to keep from grinning. The level of absurdity in this man knew no bounds. “That sounds illegal.”

“It is. Patient privacy and what not.” Julian waved his hand almost dismissively, but averted his gaze, realizing how foolhardy he was being. Stampeding into the hospital for private records? Impinging the privacy of all for information about one? Still, there was an urge in him, a drive, to go forward with the plan.

“So, let me get this straight: you want to charge in there, grab my private information, and pry into my medical life?” Xixa crossed her arms, shifting her stance slightly. She cocked an eyebrow at him, still fighting against a smile. She really shouldn’t encourage this plan, after all. “You’re willing to go to jail for an answer.”

Julian opened his mouth to retort, then promptly shut it. He realized he didn’t have a good enough reply for Xixa. “I guess.”

“Julian.” Despite her stern tone, the corners of Xixa’s lips continued to twitched.

“I won’t do it if you tell me not to."

Xixa stared up at him. Maybe it was the cool air finally sinking in, but relaxation eased into her bones. Now that her mind wasn’t abuzz with chaos, Xixa had a chance to analyze the situation. This man was quick to act on his feelings. Surprised by your ex’s roommate sitting on your lap? Shove them off and leave the room. Enamored and enjoying time with someone? Write and perform a song inspired by them. Find out someone you care about has severe memory loss? Go to the fucking hospital, break in, and take a peek at their medical records.

“You’re so… outlandish and dramatic, Julian.” Xixa laughed, but a part of her wanted to know, too. Asra had been her self-proclaimed guardian, at the time. She wasn't even sure how he pulled that one off, without documentation. He handled the details while Xixa sat in the hospital, fretting over what happened to her. To say she had never been curious about her records would have been a lie. However, another part of her held her back; did she really want to know what printed down?

Julian hung his head, suddenly feeling like a child. A foolish child. This intent drive had gotten him in trouble more than once, and, on one occasion, he got in trouble with the law. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand wanting to find that information.” Xixa admitted, moving closer until she could feel Julian’s body heat. “Though, I’d rather you not get in trouble by violating privacy acts.”

“Right.”

Xixa fell silent. She hadn’t been to a doctor in a long time. The week in the hospital soured her on the thought and Asra never seemed to push the aversion. Though, there was much to be said for ironic humor. ‘So, you’re not going to see a doctor on you own? Here, get romantically entangled with one who happens to be Asra’s ex. Hahaha.’ Oh, universe, you jerk.

“Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Julian said abruptly, staring at his feet. He writhed in discomfort as Xixa’s silence progressed. She had to be angry with him, right? They weren't even together and he was 'breaking up' with her. That’s why she was so silent.

The witch’s wide eye shock latched to his face. “What?”

“This.” He willed himself to look at her, his expression twinged with bitterness. Julian motioned back and forth between them. They’d never officially started dating, so Julian didn’t even have a word to associate to their relationship. All he could think of, now, was rushing to the hospital to get the records or seeing Xixa’s hurt expression from earlier. One way or the other, he was going to hurt her. His heart sunk deep in his chest, into a quagmire of self-degradation. “I rush into things, make huge mistakes, give my all even when it’s not wanted. I push and people get hurt. I… I don’t think you want any of that, Xixa.”

More silence. It pierced him and brought a clamp of woe around his throat. He blinked back tears, biting his bottom lip.

“I’m perfectly fine with most of it.” Xixa said softly. “Just proclaiming love after so short an acquaintance is… excessive for me.”

Julian drooped, even more sullen than before. “See? You consider us acquaintances.”

“Oh my spirits, Julian,” Xixa huffed, reaching up and grabbing him by the sides of his face. She could see where Asra would have gotten tired of this. The magician didn’t have patience for emotional drama. Julian stared down at her with a sullen expression. Around him, the air seemed to drop a couple degrees from depression. “Seriously?”

She didn’t give Julian a chance to respond. She pressed forward, irritation evident in her voice. “You and the others are, literally, the only other people – beside Asra – I’ve felt comfortable being around, been able to drop my guard around. Do you think – do you seriously think – I’d prefer loneliness to this?”

He averted his gaze, ashamed to look Xixa in the eye. “You have Asra.”

“And he’s constantly gone. Won’t even text me back, even in emergencies!” She sighed, exasperated and frustrated. Both with Julian’s current state and reliving Asra’s hands off approach to friendship. “I can text you and get a reply back within an hour, no matter what you’re doing. Work, practicing, sleeping.” She grinned, her heart warming as she thought of the gibberish replies she had gotten the times she texted him while he slept.

“But-”

“Okay, sure, you’re a bit much. Just listen to what I’m saying, though: I don’t want to end this,” Xixa mimicked his motion earlier, her hand signaling to his chest and hers. “I don’t want you to stop being you, but talk to me before you put me on the spot, publicly. Please?”

Another bubble of silence. Julian shifted, a flush creeping over his face as Xixa stared at him. He ached to give in to her. But something stopped him from simply agreeing.

He looked down at his feet, reliving another time his quick lovestricken self had also gotten him in trouble. That crush hadn’t ended well. He mumbled, while still looking at his feet, “To be fair, the song wasn’t necessarily about love.”

“Yeeeaaah,” Xixa bit her bottom lip, realizing she couldn’t recall most of the lyrics. Her mind swirled with confusion and fright, at the time, the witch hadn’t paid attention. Just knowing Julian’s motivation, though, had been enough. Now, the witch wondered if she had overreacted… just a little. “I didn’t really listen to it, since I was mentally freaking out after the ‘you’re jealous of our love’ joke.”

His wide-eyed gaze snapped to her face. Her face burned with embarrassment. He opened his mouth once, snapped it closed. Finally, his eyebrows furrowed, a shit-eating grin twisting at his lips. “So, you dragged me out into an alleyway to berate me about a song that you didn’t even listen to?”

Julian bit his tongue to keep from adding ‘and people call me dramatic.’

“I am not berating you,” Xixa gasped. She crossed her arms, shoulders crammed up to her ears. “I heard some lyrics about dancing and pain. And we both know how you feel about pain.”

A flush tickled over his cheeks, but Julian still squawked, “Still, you didn’t even listen to it!”

Cold awfulness sifted through Xixa’s thoughts. There was a string of rebelliousness in her synapses. Her reaction may have been a little… much, herself. However, her feelings on the matter were justified! Her lips twisted into an apologetic smile, but there was a challenging glint in her eye. “Then sing it to me now, Julian.”

#the arcana game #thearcanagame #julian devorak #julian devorak x mc #julian devorak x apprentice #xixa #fire & leeches #my writing

[silver-and-ivory]

I simply do not believe that you can, in fact, continue to listen to black people, or indeed ascribe any value to them at all, while also defending your right to be afraid of them as a generic group. You -will- discount what they say, regardless of whether or not it should be discounted. And like, your entire justification for this, besides someone abusing you, is that other people feeling bad makes you feel bad, and how dare they. That you're proud of this is amazing.

(cont) But I dunno, you clearly can’t and shouldn’t engage with racial issues because of your scrupulosity. What’s astounding, though, is that you take that same scrupulosity and wear it like a badge of integrity and superiority. And it’s perfect for you, since because your racism is a product of your scrupulosity, nobody can criticize you, because that would be unfair.

Hey, anon.

If I’m interpreting your message correctly, you’re mainly concerned by me because you think that I am proud of hating black people, and the other issues - not believing I can listen to black people, saying I don’t value black people, etc. - are all linked to this. You would be okay if I treated my scrupulosity as something that I needed to work on, but you *aren’t* okay with it because you think I’ve given up on trying to help blacks.

You have a very valid point here, and it’s one that I hadn’t necessarily thought of. Thank you for explaining!

However, I think there has also been a miscommunication. (link to whole post)

Here’s what’s going on with me being proud of being a “bad racist”:

I’m proud that I was able to look at myself clearly and admit, Yes, this is how you feel when you see black people, and it’s how you’ve felt for a while.

I’m proud that I am finally able to separate “actually a legitimately bad person who is very harmfully racist” from “just someone who my abuser thinks is a racist”.

I’m proud that I don’t have to constantly worry about what other people will think of me, and that I’ve finally thought my way out of sj.

I’m proud that I’ve confronted what I feared most (being a racist).

I’m proud that I was able to recognize my emotions in general- the dissociation and guilt/shame associated with Her, the intense self-loathing I had begun to develop, the anxiety caused by constant self-criticism, and yes, the secret fear of black people. I spent a long time ignoring them and denying that they exist - this might be something to do with alexythmia, or maybe just certain thought complexes associated with sj.

Of course, to someone looking in this would look at lot like “lol I hate black people”, especially, when, um, I literally said something like “lol I hate black people”.

My intention behind this was to say, “So, ex-friend, I’m someone you would call a racist. I’m someone you would accuse of hating black people. But I don’t actually endorsedly hate black people, obviously, and I’m done adhering to your standards for who I should be. I’m illustrating this by showing how absurd it is that you might think I endorsedly hate black people. Also, I do legitimately unendorsedly hate black people and you’re the reason why.”

So yeah, anon, sorry about 1) any unclarity there or 2) any negative effects it’s had on you.

However: I have repeatedly stated that I believe that people should have their own spaces where they can say things like “fuck white people” and “die cis scum”, preferably tagged for things like “racism cw” and “cisphobia cw”. This is because I believe in the concept of safe spaces for competing access needs. The same holds true here.

So I’m not sorry for being honest about my emotions, or for confronting my fears.

Do you know what it means for an emotion to be unendorsed vs endorsed? Because I think a lot of your upsetness stems from there-

Unendorsed is when you feel or think something, but you actually know it’s completely wrong. Like, if you really like ice cream you might think, “There is literally no one in the entire universe who doesn’t love ice cream exactly as much as I do.” And then you would realize, “Well, actually, that’s completely untrue and I shouldn’t assume that everyone else is exactly like me.” But you can also realize that this thought has legitimate roots - that you really like ice cream and associate it with your grandmother - and you can also listen to it without judging yourself.

Endorsed is when you feel or think something, and upon further consideration you’re like Holy shit I’m completely correct. Like, if you care lots about ~becoming immortal~ you might think “Death is the worst thing ever and we need to put it at the top of our list of Stuff To Cure.” And then you would think back on this and realize “Yep, death is definitely the worst thing ever.”

My hatred of black people is unendorsed, but I’ve investigated it and realized it’s a pattern-matching defense mechanism in reaction to having been abused, or at least severely mistreated. I wish, anon, that you would stop dismissing my experiences with abuse as minor. They were not. They aren’t an excuse or a logical reason for hating black people, but they are significant and they are an emotional reason. I am not perfectly logical; I am affected by pattern-matching and bias just as much as anyone else.

I have clearly stated that I don’t endorsedly blame black people as as whole for this, and I have no idea where you would have gotten that interpretation.

If you’d give a woman abused by a man some leeway with her misandry, then you ought to do the same for me. (Also, note that I use this framing because I think you, anon, will be most compelled by it, not because I’m ignoring the degree to which women abuse men, which is comparable in scope to male-on-female abuse.)

I however do endorse my hatred of Her, and I endorse pride in my ability to recognize my emotions and dictate my own morality.

Ultimately, it was extremely important to me to be able to admit to and reclaim and to be proud of this pain; and to recognize the fear and hatred while also committing eventually eliminating my own antiblack racism. And that brings me to the next point, which is that-

I think at the root we agree on something quite important: we both want to have an end result of me not (unendorsedly) hating black people anymore.

I don’t know what to do, but I’ve gotten some suggestions, mostly along the lines of “find black people who aren’t extremely into sj and who are generally kinder people, and become friends with them”. This is a good idea, since it would decrease my threat assessment when I see black people so that my emotions are more in step with reality. Kind of like exposure therapy.

I could also try to establish thought patterns that automatically appear whenever I start on a fear/guilt/shame spiral. I’m going to try to do that sometime soon.

I also disagree with your statements about what I can or should not do.

I am in fact able to value black people, as you can see with my willingness to do things for black people like “calling members of Congress about police brutality” and “donating money to some kind of cause” and “donating money to AMF”. If I did not abstractly value black people I would not care about their civil rights and lives.

You’re correct that my fear of blacks could create a bias against listening to them. However, now that I recognize this bias, I can try to correct against it by e.g. seeking out black perspectives for reading and consideration. For example, right now I’m reading Sister Outsider, by Audre Lorde, and I’m not only passively listening but also trying to engage with and evaluate her arguments. (It is a very interesting book.)

Again, I want to become stronger! Tsuyoku naritai. I want to be able to stretch myself and to become less scared of black people. I want to be able to take risks on my own terms, and to take care of myself while doing so. (This is relevant to e.g. the dignity of risk and the ability to set your own boundaries.)

I want to help social justice, real social justice. And I think that I could handle it /if/ it was safe- again, it’s like exposure therapy, a controlled environment with people I trust, who deserve my trust. Unfortunately, there is a certain dearth of communities like this that I can access right now.

Finally, you say that I think that no one can criticize me for my racism because it’s due to scrupulosity.

In some sense, this is in fact true. I do not support criticizing people for talking about their unendorsed emotions/feelings. If you want to vent about my unendorsed feelings, I would suggest that you do it in a space that is not my blog. If you want to eliminate my emotional racism, then you ought to find an actually effective way. Ignoring and guilting myself for it didn’t work in the past. Meeting more black people who aren’t abusive, however, might, as would removing myself from situations with Her.

In another sense, however, I am happy to engage with criticism if it is logically sound and moderately polite, as I am doing now. That doesn’t mean I won’t dismiss it, but it’s also not like you’re not allowed to or like I’m being unkind to you for criticizing me.

In yet another sense, I welcome criticism of my endorsed racism. I just don’t think that I’ve been endorsedly racist lately?

Not sure if you had something else in mind.

Anyway, thanks a lot, anon. I mean this sincerely- I appreciate your effort and your goodwill towards me. :)

#Anonymous #asks #therapy mention cw #racism cw #reverse racism cw //////////////// #cisphobia cw ///////// #misandry cw #sj #effortpost #about her #follow silver-and-ivory for more scrupulositous whining #also my current blog theme is not displaying the readmore >.>

[bardqueenofgallifrey]

Please do the commentary thing for Force/Object Prince vs. Maths Teacher from Kalei's "This isn't about your culture" to "She's more my business than yours"?

oooh ok

(just gonna put in a few of the lines before that to provide a teeny bit more context)

“It isn’t - it wasn’t slavery, it was punishment, and it’s absurd that she’s still determined to play the victim-”

“No,” Kalei says, head snapping back up and a hot fury rising within her that drives her back towards the door, towards him. “You don’t get to say that, like you have the first clue what slavery entails-”

“It isn’t slavery,” Charlie argues, voice lower, eyes flashing dangerously, “and I won’t have you - a quite frankly hostile stranger with a suspicious connection to the dangerous criminal who I am responsible for- coming into my house and acting like you know anything about my culture.”

Okay, now, to start with, oh boy had I been looking forward to writing this scene. Because I love Charlie. I love him so, so, so much. He’s for the most part the most wonderful, well meaning boy. But he’s also, you know, a slave owner. Admittedly, not entirely by choice, and with a slave who is far from innocent. But he does constantly use/abuse his power over Quill, and so the fact that he didn’t exactly choose their arrangement becomes a bit void because of that.

In order to grow, and reach his full potential, Charlie needed to be told what was up. By somebody who really knew where they were coming from. Basically, a black woman (especially one with a close relationship with Quill), was always going to be the best person to do this.

(Tanya could also have done a good job, but I think Kalei’s age and sense of seniority over him is an important factor here.)

“This isn’t about your culture. This is about people like you. Because this society had slaves too. Only a hundred and fifty years ago. People who looked like you owned people who looked like me, and looks were the only reason why. Because we were different, and that meant we weren’t good enough. The people that owned mine didn’t think they were doing anything wrong either. I’m sure most of them were perfectly nice people. Good people, by their own standards. But really, they weren’t, because they still owned slaves. They still owned people, and no amount of good intentions or ignorance can excuse that.”

Charlie looks at Kalei with shock, before shaking his head. “It’s completely different. The arn is a punishment for crimes committed, we didn’t just do it to the Quill because we could-”

“But you never did it to your own people. Why? Why do you think that is? Because you knew it was wrong, deep down. If it’s such a just punishment, why not give it to your own as well?” Seriously. I am SO curious about how the Rhodia justified this amongst themselves. Were the Rhodia secretly quite KNOWINGLY prejudiced, and Charlie was just the prince being spoonfed bullshit about them being all nice and cultured? Was it all just framed in a way that they never really realised? Was it maybe to do with the Quill having more violent natures, and so needing more physical control when being punished? I NEED MORE RHODIA INFO ASAP. 

“I - I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says. Is that… doubt, Charlie? Maybe, for just a fraction of a second. Good job, Kalei. The rest will come later. Slowly. Until the Cabinet shit goes down, anyway. "Why do you even care? I’ve seen you in classes, and out of them. You’re the complete opposite of Quill, in every way; you can’t actually have feelings for someone like her, it would go against all logic-“ The funny thing about him thinking that Quill and Kalei are opposites is that this means Charlie really has only observed her on the surface, the clumsy maths teacher who blushes a lot. Even just as her student, he should have seen how fierce she can be about justice and shit. Except, maybe he did, because that’s nothing he would associate with Quill, is it? He sees her as a terrorist, a criminal. So of course he doesn’t see why they might get along. 

"Feelings aren’t logical,” Kalei says, “and what do you mean by someone like her? Do you mean: an abrasive warrior who fought to free her people from the oppression of yours? Or the woman who was so completely alone that she nearly cried the first time I touched her? Not pictured: me, sobbing, because feelings about Quill’s loneliness. Or the woman who looks surprised every time I pay her a compliment, because you make her feel so completely insignificant?” He says nothing, just keeps staring at her like she’s the most baffling thing he’s ever seen. “Or do you mean a Quill? Because that’s sounding a lot like racial prejudice to me, your highness.” I feel like there should have been a mic drop somewhere in this scene/chapter. Just saying. Or maybe the one where she tells him about how they nearly died from that lizard bc of the arn. 

“I - she has killed people!”

“She was a soldier, of course she did!”

Charlie’s jaw clenches, and his expression hardens. “I think you should leave. I don’t care what lies and embellishments she’s fed you to make you this protective of her, but she is my responsibility. A human has no business in this.”

“You don’t own her anymore, and she’s my girlfriend. I’d say she’s much more my business than yours.” I think this is the first chapter where Kalei refers to Quill as her girlfriend (she does so earlier in this chapter, but it’s still one of the first times she says it and I get !! about it). It makes me happy. 

Also, Charlie, your Hufflepuff arse just got schooled by someone you did not realise was a Gryffindor ready to put her foot down even if she’s lowkey terrified of you. And I think, had he been there, your Ravenclaw boyfriend would have approved, because he’s tried to tell you this shit too and you didn’t take him seriously.  

Of course, he doesn’t realise she’s terrified of him for another couple of paragraphs, and is utterly horrified and astounded when he does. Man, I love this chapter. I love these two and how their relationship starts here but is going to end up being really different/quite close. Yay for development! I can’t wait for them to be friends, tbh, even if Quill is gonna be a bit horrified. 

Send me 500 words of a fic/chapter I’ve written and I’ll give you a commentary of my process/thoughts while writing it/intentions etc! 

#the unstoppable force and the sometimes movable object #charlie smith #kalei jacobs #bbc class #my fanfics #fic commentary #asks #this was so much fun #send me more of these y'all #amatalefay

[priyankawishes-blog]

Cute Happy Anniversary Wishes

Scanning for a pinch of anniversary humor? You've gone to the perfect spot. Here you will find a social event of funny anniversary wishes that you can send to people in funny anniversary cards, messages, texts or even welcome them up close and personal. Any productive marriage has a string of snickering and smiles experiencing it, so why not pick funny wedding anniversary wishes which will give your life accomplice or the happy couple a chuckle on their extraordinary day? Here you will find 1) funny anniversary wishes for everyone, 2) funny anniversary wishes for life partners or spouses and 3) funny anniversary wishes for colleagues. Appreciate!

1 Funny Wedding Anniversary Wishes

2 Funny Anniversary Wishes to Husband or Wife

3 Funny Anniversary Wishes for Friends

Funny Wedding Anniversary Wishes

This is an amassing of funny marriage anniversary wishes, some for your own one of a kind accessory and some for buddies or family. More wishes can be found underneath. We believe you have a better than average snicker!

Both of you obviously know the standards of marriage: 1) the life partner is for each situation right and 2) when in doubt, the spouse should constantly mentor standard number 1.

Happy anniversary to the primary individual I have to spend an astounding leftover portion aggravating.

Everything considered, dear, I construe you weren't a one night stay everything considered!

Marriage takes after a deck of cards: at the start all you need is two hearts and a valuable stone, yet at some point or another you essentially wish you had a club and a spade!

SEX! Since I have your thought, I essentially expected to wish you both a happy and sound anniversary.

Being hitched to you looks like having a nearest partner who doesn't check out anything you state.

A toast to making it one more year of viably envisioning that we perceive what we're doing!

Happy wedding anniversary wishes to the couple whose love continues frustrating all of us!

Happy anniversary, and to ensure you know, these anniversary wishes are not late, they are practically some time year early!

I'm yours… no limits!

Take a gander at our greatest social affair of anniversary wishes

Anniversary wishes for watchmen

Need extensively more snickers? Take a gander at these funny riddles with answers that will make them proceed onward the floor laughing.

Funny Anniversary Wishes to Husband or Wife

Make your significant other or life partner smile with these funny anniversary wishes for spouses or wives. Continue laughing in your life, your heart and your relationship!

My dear life partner, thankful for finally giving in and enduring that I am for each situation right. Happy anniversary!

Thankful for keeping our home clean and my mind filthy.

Happy marriage anniversary wishes to the principle person who thinks the dorky things I do are beguiling, that I look provocative even in the wake of waking and reasons me for all the crap I hurl your bearing.

Marriage is much equivalent to a workshop: you work and I'll shop!

Everything considered, I infer we should progress forward, since we've authoritatively made it this far. Happy anniversary!

Some spot amidst all of our snickers, floundering jokes, beguilements and fights, I started to look all starry peered toward at you.

You uncover to me I'm crazy, anyway remember that, you're the individual who hitched me!

My significant other, I certification to esteem you for at any rate long it takes you to comprehend how to fittingly react to the request "does this make me look fat?"… all things considered, until the finish of time.

God exhibited two things when he joined us: his virtuoso and his silly tendency. Happy anniversary my love!

Happy anniversary to the man who worked greatly of picking a life partner!

Anniversary wishes for life partner

Anniversary wishes for life partner

Take a gander at these shrewd jokes that will make you cry

Funny Anniversary Wishes for Friends

Need to make your sidekick laugh on their phenomenal day? We believe these funny wedding anniversary wishes for associates will work!

Alright, we get it… you have a surprising relationship! Stop disgracing us with noses in it an apparently unending measure of time after year!

Happy anniversary to the couple who makes the rest of us look awful!

Direction for the man: never snicker at your life partner's choices, you are one of them!

Do whatever it takes not to misconstrue me, I treasure you both, anyway all you have to do on your anniversary is invest energy with each other. Shouldn't something be said about me?

I construe I wasn't right everything considered, your marriage didn't flop out.

funny anniversary wishes

Happy anniversary to the couple who were our colleagues even before Facebook came around.

Best anniversary wishes to the fundamental couple that I attempted to set aside the push to wish a happy anniversary.

In what capacity may you tell who is a veritable partner? Somebody should who reviews your anniversary?

Happy you've found someone whose farts you can stay to smell a significant long time after year.

Happy anniversary wishes from someone you are in all probability dazed truly acknowledged it was your anniversary.

More anniversary wishes for allies

Anniversary wishes pictures

We believe you and those you share these funny anniversary wishes with have a charming laugh. Life can now and again be considerable and absurdity and party are a critical bit of making life continuously euphoric and fun. These funny anniversary explanations were made so you could help spread some laughing and fulfillment in solitude anniversary or that of your family and allies' celebrations. At the point when a year on one's anniversary, we should stop and review the bond and duty that these two people have taken on to worship and adore each other to the prohibition of everything else. Right when people get hitched they set out on a champion among the most unique and extraordinary relationship for the duration of regular daily existence and from time to time it will in general be unpleasant. Along these lines, sending funny wedding anniversary articulations can support life and bring a smile at a critical time of life.

[angrycollectordaze-me-blog]

Paper代写：The surrealist art of Salvador Dali

下面为大家整理一篇优秀的paper代写范文- The surrealist art of Salvador Dali，供大家参考学习，这篇论文讨论了萨尔瓦多·达利的超现实主义艺术。萨尔瓦多·达利作为二十世纪艺术地位仅次于毕加索的艺术家，他的一生一直充满传奇色彩。达利的超现实主义艺术所追求的，是将他心目中的那种平时表现不出来的梦境，也可以说是潜意识里的东西，通过作品表现出来。所以在看达利的作品时，我们往往能看得懂画中的每一个细节，但那种整体的荒诞和离奇的景象和场面又让人困惑。这种荒诞的恐怖，不合逻辑、夸张而又如此奇妙地创造了一种梦境与现实景象相结合的艺术。

Salvador Dali was born on May 11,1904, in figueras, Catalonia, northeastern Spain. He died on January 23,1989. Dali, like many famous artists, was born in that beautiful and always strange place -- the Mediterranean Sea. The Mediterranean is the cradle of European civilization, producing countless legendary figures, many celebrities with glorious honors, and many great artists. Dali loved the beauty of his hometown, with its familiar vegetation and intoxicating Catalan coast. These peculiar scenes became Dali's best materials for later creation.

Dali can draw the mature landscape painting 6 years old, 7 years, and he has become the idea of napoleon, acting the impressionists at the age of ten, could write at the age of 15 to discuss the Renaissance Michelangelo and da ・ Vinci art review, 17 years old study fauvism style, cubism, 19, learning style, early before the age of 25 special painting style, formed its own unique sort of surprise and praise him in the art of precocious, can foresee the future achievements. He breathed the breath of nature freely in the scene he saw, unwilling and unable to be controlled by the object depicted objectively, and his mind began to run free. He eventually became the most famous representative artist of surrealism.

While surrealism was in full swing in Paris, Dali was still wandering in his own creation. In 1928, in Paris, Dali came into contact with the surrealist movement. Dali's natural imagination seems to have doomed him to be a real surrealist.

What surrealist artists pursue is to express the dream in their mind, which cannot be expressed at ordinary times, or can be said to be something in the subconscious, through their works. When we look at Dali's work, we can often understand every detail of the painting, but the overall absurdity and bizarre scenes and scenes are confusing. This absurd horror, illogical, grotesque, exaggerated and so wonderful to create a combination of dreams and reality of the art scene. Dali likes to paint the picture in a delicate way, which is so precise as to depict the pores, and even to the extent that it looks like the real one, which makes people marvel at his realistic foundation. But behind the distorted and absurd pictures full of images, there is a desolate and sunny landscape. "Surrealists place a special emphasis on reality," Dali said. When he wanted to depict a carriage, he chose a very ordinary two-wheeled carriage rather than a fancy fancy one. He USES the simplest and most ordinary things to prove to you that the world is a beautiful place. He shows our eyes what we see every day, and to them the commonplace is superior to all ideas and ideals.

Dali is a surrealist with wide influence and long duration. As the most important representative in this field of fine arts, he is constantly attracting people's attention and causing considerable controversy, which cannot be separated from his personality. Dali's eccentric personality is reflected not only in his paintings, but also in his behavior, dressing, his words, his language and even his trademark moustache.

Dali's birth three years after his seven-year-old brother died of meningitis was a great relief to his parents. But Dali was invisible to the family as his brother's shadow. Dali also couldn't rule out his jealousy of his brother, whose huge picture was still hung in the house after his death. As a result, from an early age, Dali was full of ambition and showmanship. In order to prove his existence, Dali always tried his best to do jaw-drooling things in all aspects. Even mischievous things could attract others' attention, which made him feel compensated for his personality and indulge in self-expression. "With an indomitable attitude of infinite selfishness, I had no difficulty in grasping this pleasure, and I became hurtful. No doubt that's why I survived. All his shocking words and deeds are actually derived from his strong self-expression desire, which can be said to be one of the important sources of his continuous inspiration for great artistic creation.

Dali's exhibitionist tendencies were truly shocking, and his words and deeds, which struck the average person as "crazy", seemed perfectly normal to him: "the only difference between me and a madman is that I am not crazy." He constantly propagandizes himself and expands his influence through various ways. He is eager to show any place worthy of attention in his life to others. And Dali did, and the world was astounded by his artistic talent. He was an active participant in anything that would make him famous, from decorative paintings to stamps, from movies to TV commercials. "I love self-promotion because my work is mostly 'me' and the important thing is that I create a 'Dali'." Dali believed that he was a genius and that his ideas and works were the product of genius and should be valued. This is why he used all kinds of publicity methods to become famous. He worked almost all his life to create an unknown and well-known Dali, and his strong sense of self seemed to declare that he would not allow any corner of the world to be unaware of the existence of "Dali".

Humans have an inexplicable fear of the unknown and uncontrollable. In Dali's art, the fear of time and life is also one of the sources that dominate his art and thought. Dali's works interpret his inner fear and uneasiness through many symbolic symbols, and the sigh for the short life and the helplessness of the fragile life have always been the core of this kind of artistic creation. In Dali's most famous painting the eternity of memory, we can fully experience the unusual combination of logic and emotion, reason and madness. The clock presented an incredibly soft state, and the soft and mysterious time enabled Dali to endowing life with an infinite extension from the past to the future, which was difficult to reveal the secret. American art critic abal thinks: "soft watch is unreasonable, visionary, heretical and disturbing. It silences, it confuses, it makes no sense, it is chaotic and weak -- but these adjectives are the highest praise for surrealists. From then on, soft table became the representative of surrealism painting image, and even became the nickname of surrealism.

In Dali's works, many things are not its noumenon but endowed with special meanings. Recall Dali's paintings, ants, bread, limp objects, crutches, drawers and other images frequently appear, although not the subject of the work, but particularly eye-catching. These archetypal images are richly suggestive: the busy ant is often a symbol of stress, anxiety, and aging, reflecting his fear, powerlessness, and restlessness about life. In Dali's eyes, bread, hard on the outside and soft on the inside, is a symbol of sexual desire, through which he can freely express his fantasies of sexual desire. In particular, the limp clock suggested Dali's subconscious fear and helplessness over the passage of time. The walking stick became a symbol of death and resurrection in Dali's eyes and frequently appeared in his works. For the drawer, Dali suggested that the human body with the drawer was related to freudian psychoanalysis -- that children's natural curiosity about closure drove them to open the drawer, either to satisfy their desire to explore unknown objects or to eliminate the fear that unknown objects might cause harm. Freud explained that drawers represent women's latent eroticism. In Dali's works, most of the drawers appear on the female body, perhaps fulfilling Freud's interpretation and showing Dali's fantasy of lust.

The virgin of Riga, Jesus died on the cross, Columbus discovered America, the crowned virgin, the last supper, and atomic rita are all representative works of religion, nuclear and atom in Dali's paintings. These paintings are usually large in size, and the themes and images of religious classics are placed in an environment full of scattered material elements. The pictures are magnificent and exciting, and there is also the transcendent tranquility typical of the religious world, which changes the paranoid and twisted crazy colors that permeate personal desire in the early paintings. Surrealism mainly shows the dark side of human nature, while Dali is able to sublimate the irrational elements into the noble and sacred pursuit of a better life, which is not possible for ordinary people and is also the manifestation of his genius. If Dali's works in the war period reflect the evil of human nature and his antipathy to society, which is a kind of criminal criticism, then his later religious paintings explore the goodness of human nature and praise the glory of human nature.

Dali had a colorful life, constantly making artistic attempts in many areas. He can carry in almost all the media on the creation of art, so he left to become is not only a oil painting, watercolor painting works, also includes many jewelry design, furniture design, sculpture, etc., and can be called at the time of new media art, such as movies, illustration, advertising, photography, and Dali Dali drama art gallery of the construction of the old age has always been our best, and so on. Dali is not only a master of surrealism, his life has gone through many artistic periods, from the transition period of surrealism in the early years of the school of reflection painting, cubism, separatism, to the final classical period this transition process, all confirmed that Dali is a progressive artist with the courage to explore. If Picasso's cubism opened up a whole new way of observing, describing and understanding objects in the field of painting, then what Dali sought was no longer a pure painting form, but a way to explain the world beyond the surface reality. Dali's extraordinary expression of complex and rich human nature integrates the contradiction between rationality and irrationality, reality and absurdity, reality and fantasy with the hallucinatory effect of imagination, so as to have a strong visual impact, which is exactly the true portrayal of the hidden creative source of the painter.

Dali's art is the art of individuality. Perhaps the art of individuality is the art of immortality. As Dali said, "because I am a genius, I have no right to die, and I will never die. Genius dies, and genius's work endures.

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