#TO LIFT EACH OTHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF SELF LOATHING BECAUSE THEY CAN DO BETTER
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Hi, im very sorry if this has already been answered or established somewhere else but im curious, with your Kazumaji stuff, around what time did they start dating (i.e. after the events of Yakuza 0 and all that) and how?
tbh, I dunno!
I don't really have an established date for that cuz sometimes I'm like man they'd be really cute during y0 and then other times I set it between post y0 and the beginning of y1. The latest they would start me thinks is some months after the events of y1 but in general it sorta depends on how I'm feeling and what silly scenarios play in my head
ideas under the cut tho 👀
if we're talking y0: I like to think Kiryu has to go to Sotenbori for some reason, be it business or he's there with Nishiki for some partying. he sees Majima at the Grand being depressed and is like "damn girl those bags under your eyes makes my dick go *boing sound effect*" and asks him out 🥺 Kiryu gets rejected immediately cuz Majima's in this cycle of 'I deserve nothing but pain and suffering' but Kiryu can't read the room so he is persistently showing up at the Grand despite Majima very obviously wanting to kick his ass. eventually he relents and goes on cute™ dates with Kiryu and realizes oof maybe human intimacy be kinda gucci
if between y0 and y1: Majima's fresh in his mad dog era starting shit with people just to be annoying and Kiryu's one of his targets mainly due to the events of y0. he's kinda like "lol this goober really did some important plot stuff, huh?" and his curiosity gets the better of him because Kiryu is an enigma who eats bugs and Majima cannot suppress his need to get some sense of understanding on this weirdo. in this timeline, it's more one-sided affection from Majima that comes in the form of stabbing while Kiryu is desperately trying to fight the gay allegations and failing. eventually he caves but it's a sorta unofficial, on and off thing that Kiryu doesn't really know how to evaluate for himself. Majima doesn't really care what they are since he's high on life atm and has a cute dude with big boobs on his arm
if during y1: literally just everything Majima Everywhere. Goromi. GOROMI 😩💦 Kiryu is all: I LIKE PUSSY but everyone's like okay big man then why's Majima pole dancing for you huh. the two braincells he has start to click and he realizes maybe Majima wants to hold hands or something unthinkable like that. ngl I like to think Kiryu's thing for Yumi is like a demisexual bi thing where he's like, I do love her but she don't zap my brain quite like the bowlcut freak who knows how to punch me real good and it becomes sorta his personal introspective journey during this time. Majima is also floating in the space of am I doing this for his benefit cuz "training" or am I falling for this dork. he's pretty sad about it cuz of the Saejima reminder vibes but eventually Kiryu falls into his own person that Majima really meshes with and the two of them struggle to actually voice how they feel all the while their pants are down in some dirty alley
if after y1: (going to insert shit from a fic I'm working on) Kiryu's absolutely devastated with what happened in the Millennium Tower + now having to take care of Haruka that he's shut himself off from everyone and everything other than doing the bare minimum to live. in comes Majima being a menace like yo you can't like, let a child parent herself you gotta get outta this slump and Kiryu's all fuck you stop breaking into my house. so it's a long pain in the ass process to help Kiryu deal with his grief while Majima keeps unintentionally making googoo eyes at him and both of them are like boy I sure hope this doesn't awaken anything within me. there's also a lotta dadjima stuff going on and Kiryu's like wowie zowie so you do have a heart and Majima's like no way loser while being just 😳👉👈
#apologies for the way I write sometimes I like to put out total garble because it makes my heart go thumpa thump#god I love them I LOVE THEM#THEY UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER ON A LEVEL BEYOND THAT OF FLESH AND BLOOD AND IT HURTS KNOWING THEY DO#THAT THEY BOTH SUFFER AND THEY FEEL THAT IT'S BEST TO BE ALONE RATHER THAN BRING SOMEONE ELSE ON THE RIDE#BUT THAT RIDE BRINGS THEM BOTH TO THE SAME DESTINATION THAT THEY ARE BOTH BROKEN MEN HAUNTED BY THINGS THEY DID—THINGS THEY COULD HAVE DONE#BUT MAYBE THERE'S HOPE IN HAVING SOMEONE TO LIVE FOR—SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THE STRUGGLE OF REDEMPTION DESPITE ONE'S NATURE#TO LIFT EACH OTHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF SELF LOATHING BECAUSE THEY CAN DO BETTER#then I'm tranquilized and shoved back into my cage for relocation#kazumaji#kiryu kazuma#majima goro#my hcs
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Milk and Honey: Day 2
Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3
Summary: “I don’t need your pity. I won’t stand here and be fussed over by some idiot human child.” Wounds healing and ego bruised, Missy self-sabotages. You pick up the pieces the only way you know how.
Warnings: Possible bit of self-harming/OCD behaviour (obsessive cleaning and fingernail trauma, nothing too heavy). Missy does not handle vulnerability well and she gets nasty, but then she’s such a soft troubled baby that we all collectively pretend that it’s not problematic. Unhealthy relationship dynamics and angst. MIHOW.
Word Count: 3615
NB: Oops! It’s angst. Mostly hurt, bit of comfort. Stay tuned and hopefully the fluff will be back soon!
You wake up warm.
The bedside light is still on, its amber glow shaming the thin autumn sunlight that streams grey from the window. When you reach over to switch it off, something drags you back.
Missy has her arm flung across your stomach.
Beneath the duvet, her hand presses just above your navel. You can feel the weight of it when you breathe. Her fingers are splayed across your pyjama top, gripping the fabric tightly.
You stop dead still, half upright. Inexplicable panic floods your chest. "Missy?" You whisper into the pillow, hardly daring to turn your head and look at her.
"Hmm?"
For a single bloodcurdling moment, you think she must have woken; but then she hums again, squirming closer, her nose brushing the back of your neck. Any relief at realising that she’s still sleeping is lost when her arm tightens around your waist.
You think of staying there. With all of your free time spent travelling in the TARDIS, you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. She’s soft and warm behind you, her breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of your neck, sending goosebumps prickling across the sensitive skin there. It would be so easy to wait for just a few minutes. Half an hour, maybe.
She would never do this on purpose.
The disgust hits you so hard that you flinch. To lie here, taking advantage of her unconscious embrace, enjoying the sweet comfort of an arm around you and peaceful breathing behind you - what would it make you? What would she think if she knew?
You tear yourself away too forcefully, fuelled by the self-loathing that burns in your throat. Missy groans softly in her sleep but doesn’t stir, burying her face in the pillow where your head had been resting. You tuck the duvet back around her, pointedly not looking at the inch of milk-pale skin on her side where the shirt she wears has ridden up.
She looks better already. The angry graze on her cheek is fading, and the long, deep cut down the side of her face is healed and red with new skin. You wonder how long it will take for them to disappear completely.
It’s clear that the sleep is working how she’d hoped, so you leave her there. The clock on the bedside table reads 9:47. Gathering your things, you head for the shower. As you close the bedroom door, she opens her eyes blearily and mumbles your name. You don’t hear it.
+++++
“How’s the patient?”
The Doctor leans against the kitchen counter, watching you make tea. His hands are thrust into his jacket pockets and there’s a careful aloofness to his voice that does very little to disguise his obvious concern.
“Fine.” It sounds clipped. “She ate. She slept. Still sleeping, last time I checked.” You glance at the time on the microwave; it’s after twelve. “For quite a while now.”
“That’s good.” He reaches past you, snatching a biscuit from the tin and biting it in half. He speaks through the crumbs. “We heal better when we’re asleep. Sometimes go into a coma for a few days, wake up ravenous and fully recovered.”
“She mentioned that.” You take both cups into the living room and he follows, carrying the biscuit tin, going back for another. The bag of Missy’s things is sitting in your space on the sofa and you move it to the floor. It’s a floral, Victorian-looking carpet bag, not particularly large but, you’re assured, bigger on the inside and full of everything she’ll need.
“So what else did you talk about?” He props his feet on the coffee table and you scowl. Looking suitably chagrined, he takes them down.
“Nothing, really." Taking a seat beside him, you feel oddly embarrassed, as if the prior evening’s events were a delicate secret that might wither under his scrutiny. “We watched some telly, and then we were both pretty tired so we went to bed.”
You can feel his eyes on you as you reach for your tea, and your face burns under them. Mercifully he doesn’t ask about the sleeping arrangements. “She didn’t try to kill you, then.”
“Not even once.”
“I was tempted.” Your head darts up at the sound of Missy’s voice in the doorway. She looks more like herself, her face the familiar mask of malicious indifference, the wounds there having healed even further since you woke this morning. The pink skin on her cheek is bisected by a blurry streak of red. She’s taken the braid out of her hair, leaving it to tumble in loose waves about her shoulders. “No tea for me, I take it.”
“You were sleeping.” The Doctor looks her up and down. “Nice pyjamas, by the way.”
“Aren’t they?” She gives a performative little twirl. She’s moving more easily than she did yesterday, coming to a halt with only the faintest wince. “I might move away from purple after all.”
“I brought the things you asked for. Well, most of them.” He gestures to the valise and she snatches it up, fixing him with a suspicious look.
“Most of them?” Her voice is thin.
“I’m not convinced that whalebone is suitable for a stab wound.”
“I’m not convinced that I asked your opinion.” She tears the bag open, reaching into its impossible depths, staring at the contents. “My shoes?”
“Ah, well,” he rubs the back of his neck, leaning forwards. “I didn’t think you’d be going anywhere just yet.”
“My sonic?” She spits it out through gritted teeth.
“The sonic stays on the TARDIS. I’m sorry.” He sounds anything but apologetic. “I can’t have you using it without my supervision.”
“No,” she mutters. “No, of course not.” She closes it slowly, snapping the fastenings with a flourish of her fingers. “Well, if there’s nothing else, Doctor-”
“Actually, I was going to ask-”
“If there’s nothing else, Doctor,” she repeats, speaking over him. He falls silent. “Then I’d better go and make myself decent. Do stop by another time.”
She slips back into the hallway and you hear a door slam. Beside you, the Doctor clears his throat.
“I’d best be going. Lecture on Quantum Chromodynamics this afternoon. Still need to pick out the perfect record for it.” He stands up heavily, thrusting two biscuits into his pocket for the road. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Yeah.” Your eyes are fixed on the door. “Of course. See you soon.”
+++++
“Had a nice chat, did you?”
The bathroom door is open. Missy stands at the sink with her back to you, the tap running full force into the open plughole. Over the sound of rushing water and gurgling pipes her voice is low.
“Yeah, it was okay.” You move closer, gesturing towards her with the steaming mug in your hands. “I made you some tea.” She ignores you. Her attention is fixed on something in the sink, her hands busy with it. You peer around the doorframe. She’s wearing a clean chemise and nothing else, her hair pinned up messily, the muscles in her bare arms tight and flexing with the sawing motion of her elbows. “What are you doing?”
Her stained corset from the previous day is crumpled awkwardly in the sink. The bloody laces are directed under the freezing tap as she scrubs at them with a nailbrush, turning the water the colour of rust where it runs down the drain. Her fingers are a furious shade of pink from the cold and the rough work.
“He didn’t bring me any presentable clothes,” she mutters, not looking up from her thankless task. “No corset, no jacket, no shoes. He’d have me walking around in a housecoat and stockinged feet like an invalid.” She snarls, scrubbing harder, catching her fingers with the bristles. There’s too much blood in the water for it to all be leeching from the fabric; the delicate skin around her fingernails is ragged. Heart in your throat, you set the mug aside and reach for the tap.
“Missy, your hands-”
She knocks your hand away and turns on you. He’s obviously brought her some makeup; the injuries on her face are concealed and her eyes are lined heavily with kohl, flecks of mascara clinging to her lashes, dark lips stretched tight around her bared teeth. It’s hard to believe that she’s the same person who’d slept beside you last night.
“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps, the words poison in her mouth. “I won’t stand here and be fussed over by some idiot human child.”
It stings. After yesterday you thought you were getting somewhere; that you might do better than to tolerate each other, and actually start to become something like friends. Swallowing angry tears that threaten to weaken your voice, you bite back.
“I’ll bear that in mind next time you can’t get undressed by yourself.”
You regret the words before you’ve even spoken them. You understand that she’s lashing out at you because she feels weak, but it smacks of bullying and you can’t bear to be a punching bag for her wounded pride. Something sharp flashes behind her eyes.
“Oh, I bet you had a good laugh about that, didn’t you?” Her fingers, wet and cold as the grave, wrap tightly around your wrist. “He must have loved it.”
Softening immediately, you backpedal, realising the source of her rage. “Missy, I didn’t tell the Doctor about-”
She isn’t listening. She twists your arm up behind your back with startling strength, forcing it so high that your shoulder screams in protest and your words die in your throat. You’re up against the sink before you can draw breath. The tap is still running, icy spray soaking the front of your clothes. You brace your other hand against the slick porcelain and look down at the bloody water.
“Look at me!” Her teeth snap inches from your ear. Lifting your eyes to meet hers in the mirror, your breath falters at the expression on her face. In all the time you’ve known her, you haven’t seen rage like this. “Who am I?”
“You’re the Master.” Mouth dry, your breath fogs the mirror.
“I was reducing whole civilisations to rubble before your species stuck a feather into a pile of ash and drew their first hieroglyph,” she snarls. The threat in her voice makes your hair stand on end. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“I will.” The words come out strained. There’s a band of vice-like pain where she holds your wrist, an aching tightness in the muscles of your back that isn’t lessening. “I will. I’m sorry.”
She steps away so suddenly that you crumple, gripping the sink for support. Your forehead hits the mirror. As you squeeze your eyes shut and catch your breath, you can’t see the look of horror that flashes over her face.
When you open your eyes again she’s gone from behind you. Down the hall, your bedroom door closes. You stare into the sink until it starts to overflow.
+++++
You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, washing yesterday’s dishes, when there are four tentative knocks against the doorframe. You swallow hard and try to ignore them.
“Need a hand?” Missy’s voice is soft and hesitant.
“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t respond for so long that you think she must have left. You’re rinsing the last mug - the octopus - when she speaks again. It makes you jump.
“I’m sorry.” She sounds so genuine that your eyes flutter closed, pain twisting in your chest. “I’m sorry for earlier. That was- not my proudest moment.”
It takes you a second to steady your voice. “I didn’t tell the Doctor. About last night. About any of it.” Steeling yourself, you glance over your shoulder at her. She’s standing so far away. “He doesn’t know.”
“But you do.” It takes you by surprise. You turn around to face her, leaning against the sink. Her expression is implacable. Tracks of mascara stain her pale face; she’s been crying. “You know.”
You cross your arms and look away. The sight of her is turning your resolve into dust. “I understand that you don’t want to be here, Missy, but I didn’t ask you to come. That was his idea.”
“Wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re wrong. It wasn’t his idea.” She scrubs a hand over her face, further smudging her makeup. Her fingers are trembling. She’s wearing the long violet housecoat, unbuttoned, over her thin chemise. Standing barefoot in your kitchen with her hair piled up in loose twists she looks like a ghost. “I don’t know what I expected to-”
“You asked him to bring you here?” You push away from the sink, your voice rising as you step towards her. She flinches, touches the wound on her back, leans heavily against the doorframe. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a criminal,” she snaps. Her words are tight with pain, and she bows at the hips to ease the strain on her back. “I’m a prisoner in the TARDIS as much as I am in the vault, but I thought that here I might be something else. Just for a few days.”
“I’m not keeping you here,” you snarl. “You can do whatever you like, as you took great pleasure in reminding me. You can leave whenever-”
“How can I?!” Looking up from the tiled floor, she fixes you with wild eyes. “How can I when he plays the warden and keeps my things from me on a whim? No clothes, no shoes, no sonic? Wherever I go the Doctor has my dignity under lock and key. What little sanctuary I find he takes, every time.”
“And you thought you’d take that out on me?” The trembling of your bottom lip betrays you. You bat at the mutinous tears in your eyes. “Put the stupid human in her place? Show me that you don’t-”
“That I don’t deserve your kindness.” She cuts you off, straightening up with obvious difficulty, her knuckles white on the door jamb. “Not so long ago I would have snapped you in half just to hear the sound it made. I have lived longer than you can fathom and done things that your language doesn’t have words for. I’m no stranger to regret, my dear.” The fury in her expression drains away and for a moment she looks as ancient as you know her to be. “So when I tell you that I am sorry for what I did to you, please understand what that means.”
Your throat tightens. She’s too easy to forgive like this, with her face lined with pain and her small frame quivering. She looks cold. The words sit heavy at the back of your tongue, ready to accept an apology whose sincerity you don’t doubt for a second. Swallowing them back, you murmur instead, “I think you need to sit down, Missy.”
She studies you with glassy eyes, breathing heavy. “Yes,” she whispers in the end. “Oh, yes. I think so.”
She slumps to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. You land on your knees beside her just in time to keep her head from striking the tiles.
+++++
Despite your efforts, you can’t lift Missy onto the sofa. She’s fully unconscious and the dead weight of her is too much for you to move alone. Instead, you do the next best thing; you tuck a pillow beneath her head and a blanket around her, covering her from shoulders to bare feet, and sit in the living room to watch her breathing.
As the afternoon drags on, you make a late lunch - stepping carefully over her body to reach the kitchen - and pick at it, hardly tearing your eyes away from her for long enough to look at the television. You make no effort to be quiet but she doesn’t stir save for the soft noises she makes in her sleep and the occasional shift in her position. Recalling the Doctor’s words, you choose not to wake her.
“We heal better when we’re asleep.”
You have a torturous amount of time to think while she lies there. Did she sleep in the vault? What about the TARDIS? And before she came here, when she was travelling alone? The Doctor had told you once that Time Lords could go months without it and then spend the best part of a week unconscious. When the light begins to fail and evening falls outside the window, with Missy yet to awaken, you wonder just how long ago “the desert, last time” really was.
Phone in hand, you type and delete the same message over and over for almost ten minutes. The wording escapes you. Some iterations of it are huge paragraphs, wrought with pleading explanations; some are terse and demanding. The final draft ends up being one of the latter, sent before you can second guess yourself.
Bring her sonic tomorrow.
The response comes almost immediately. You open it with trembling fingers.
No.
Incensed, you don’t wait this time. Your jaw clenches with impotent rage as you reply.
Bring it.
You toss your phone to the other end of the sofa, ignoring the answering buzz that sounds angrier than an inanimate object has any right to. As if in response, Missy jolts upright.
It shocks you when she draws a deep, painful-sounding breath, her head whipping around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Rising to your feet, you approach her slowly.
“Missy?”
She yelps at the sound of your voice, turning to look at you with wide eyes, reaching back to touch the healing injury when the sudden movement tugs at it. Her chest heaves with ragged breaths. The room is dim with autumn dusk, the overhead lights not switched on yet. In the gloom you can’t make out her expression; just those eyes, gleaming like a cat’s.
“It’s okay,” you say cautiously, showing her your palms in a gesture of surrender, trying to soothe her the only way you know how. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”
“What happened?” She throws it out like an accusation but there’s too much fear in her voice for it to wound you.
“I don’t know, you just- dropped. I think you passed out. It’s been a few hours.” Conscious of looming over her while she’s like this, you sink carefully to your knees, a few feet away. “Are you alright?”
It knocks the wind out of you when she throws herself into your arms.
“I thought you’d gone.” Her voice is muffled, warm in the crook of your neck as she claws at the fabric on your back, pulling herself closer. Your hands come to rest either side of the small of her back in an attempt to avoid the wound there. “I thought- I didn’t-”
“It’s okay,” you manage, stunned, propping your chin up on her shoulder. She’s shaking. “It’s okay. I’m here. Did you- were you dreaming?”
A stunted nod. “I can still hear them,” she croaks. “The drums. Always the drums. Whenever I sleep. Whenever I’m alone, they just keep coming back-”
“You’re not alone.” It spills out of your mouth before you can stop it and she whimpers, nuzzling deeper into your embrace. “I’ve got you, Missy. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
+++++
Propped up on the sofa with pillows behind her, Missy takes her makeup off with a damp cloth. She hisses as it drags over the graze on her cheek and your fingers twitch at your sides in sympathy.
“You’re sure you want to sleep here tonight?” As you tidy the remains of your shared meal from the coffee table, you resist the urge to look back at her. She’s lying awkwardly across the cushions, still wearing the housecoat, the blanket from earlier thrown over her body. “I really don’t mind if you want to share the bed.”
“No,” she answers too quickly. “No, I think- I think this is best. It’s easier on my back.”
“Of course.” The lie is paper-thin. After the day’s events, though, you don’t want to push her. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will.”
The microwave dings as you set the dishes on the counter, and you remove the steaming mug of hot milk. It’s been a long time since you’ve made this. You add twice as much honey as usual - she takes four sugars in her tea - and stir it in with the spices, turning the drink the colour of sand. It smells like home.
Missy looks at you questioningly when you set it on the coffee table in front of her.
“Milk and honey,” you explain weakly, rubbing your neck. “My mum’s recipe. She used to make it for me, when I had nightmares. It helps me sleep.”
Her keen eyes follow you as you switch on the standing lamp and turn off the main light, casting the room in a dim orange glow.
“I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
“Yes.” She picks at a loose thread on the blanket without looking at it. Her face is unreadable. “Thank you. Sleep well.”
There are so many things you want to say. Come to bed, or I forgive you, or you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
As you slip out of the door, all you manage is a quiet, “you too.”
+++++
When the bedroom door creaks open you close your eyes and fall still. There’s a rush of cool air over your back as the duvet lifts at one side, and the mattress sinks behind you. Missy whispers your name. Smiling to yourself, you feign sleep.
#missy x reader#the master x reader#whump#doctor who fic#doctor who whump#doctor who reader insert#mine#request#headcanon: missy never sleeps bc she has nightmares#headcanon: missy is very soft and i wuv her
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FORM YOUR LOVE .
so this is my analysis of both for your love and form of sympathy put into one as they are both of the same world. i am tagging @55bubble as i really want their opinion and thoughts on this but everyone comment / reblog and let me know what you think. also if you need clarifications on anything please let me know i’ve been writing this half asleep after a hard days of work. i may also visit this again as the form of sympathy goes on.
firstly i don’t know why i didn’t realize this is at first but both titles inform the themes and ideas of the comic. for your love is basically the story of understanding love and what it will ask of you . both moogyeong and yohan have to see rejections through ( moogyeong his own , yohan his brother’s ) and the way it leaves them feeling to get to the end goal of love because what transpired between moogyeong and junseo was a crush that held him but it didn’t drive depth because it was something he would always try to brush off and hide away from . yohan on the other hand sees his rejection through his brother’s unrequited love and what that does is makes him overly cautious and stops him from looking inward and try to drive someone else’s story in hopes that he can be the “fairy-godmother,” this time around. it isn’t until he looks at moogyeong not as a project but a person and therefore look inward does he realize that moogyeong doesn’t need to evolve its him . on the other hand form of sympathy is the story of different forms of sympathies . the main versions of this story branch sympathy from yuri to his noona , to himself , and to sunwoo , goes on to his noona and him , and her new family , and lastly the real show of that is between sunwoo toward yuri. what i find interesting is that sympathy is defined two different ways : feelings of pity and sorrow for someone else's misfortune and secondly , the understanding between people ; common feeling . you see both these definitions play into the story. for example both meanings align with yuri and his noona’s relationship. it starts with sorrow on her misfortune and then becomes a connection between them both . in the face of yuri and sunwoo their sympathy is still on the first meaning , and were sunwoo feels sorrow , i think yuri after chapter 30 is just starting to leave the stages of pity.
both stories are about unrequited love. yet in for your love it lingers, while in form of sympathy it festers . Within for your love it is put to ease by the way people feeling it behave. moogyeong decides to be quite about his love , in small part due to fear and another is that he himself isn't a man of big gesture. he finds himself crashing into yohan who at first wants to break this boundary of fear and smallness and wants to make it loud and known . he doesn’t get the issue of it because he has seen the aftermath of being rejected first hand and on someone he’s really cared about and he doesn’t want that again. as i said before is what really alleviates the pain of seeing junseo with someone else , and mooyeong still thinking about him is the final act of looking inward. we see yohan clearly state that he loves moogyeong and it isn’t because of his brother or any other grand gesture but the fact that this is a person he feels at peace with and he will do what needs to be done to. improve himself for both of them because he can look at what has to be with peace.
now with form of sympathy the unrequited are impressed with history that equated to them thinking themselves fundamentally more important than they really were. one may question the kindness of noona and how she would always just give herself away to yuri . she would always let him tag along , she would come to his school when he was in trouble , she cared for him at the funeral of her parents when she should have been taken care of . i am of the catagory that she gave him so much because she felt for him as having love taken from you but also because she may have felt that she had to give yuri a mother figure to thank his mother for doing that for her and the way she thought of him. and so what i think this has done is open a feeling of over importance inside of yuri in which he believes that he is her center and that she is his , inside of her being a line that stands next to him and up lifts him. this has made him cruel , because he feels unbalanced and he uses sunwoo as his target because his history with his brother in law leaves parts of him on sunwoo and also because he can’t fully go after his brother in law because that would hurt noona. sunwoo is someone he has power over not just because he knows his feelings and has been used as a substitute for them but also because of who they are to each other. they will always have the dynamic of student and teacher over them but the fact is that this isn’t school , its real life and yuri has opened up the darkest corners of sunwoo and taken control of them from the dinner with alll four of them , to just being a needle that pricks sunwoo during their working together. yet in the last few chapters of season one we see a flip of power or rather we see sunwoo and his guidance starting to tug at yuri . now the history between brother in law and sunwoo is also simillar to that of yuri and noona because they also were just rhust into each other lives, and it seems like sunwoo created something out of brother in law that wasn’t there. i don’t remember if we get any really background into their relationship besides brother in law joining the movie club out on a whim and sunwoo just tied himself into him . and i think that its the same reason as to why yuri did it with noona and that is personality and how they made them feel. mooyeong did not make junseo his center but yuri and sunwoo did with the people they liked and that is why they are spiraling . one in rage and the other into depression.
what i also find interesting is that the injury sunwoo has is one on the hand. what makes this interesting is what a hand does is grab on to things . a hand emits a start as in hand shakes , it holds on to and lifts a person , and also puts out the emotions one is feeling either on themselves or others. so in having his hand injured sunwoo is basically trapped. he cannot in metaphoric ideas pull himself out , nor can he go on to express any other emotions because not only is his injury onto his hand physically but it is also emotional in that it is hands the acted upon yuri and marked him as the brother in law when he knew he wasn’t , so his hand is both what ties him to yuri , drowns him in the past and stops him being able to heal.
characters that can be imposed upon another through both stories
yohan and yuri
mooyeong and sunwoo
junseo and brother in law
noona and yohan’s brother
yohan and yuri are not just the main characters , they also both go through an arc of bewilderment , self-loathing , and isolation. they are both haunted by their actions, yuri in how he has been behaving around his noona , and yohan how he has around mooyeong. with his noona yuri latched on to her kindness and made into his life in that it is the one thing to which he couldn’t be angry at because it gave to him without demanding but at the cost of him not being able to form other relationships purely because he locked his noona into an image of something for him. but yohan instead of that had to drag out his insides and put them into their place. he had to learn that what he knows is not enough . that what he has seen of himself in view of his family does not make him , nor does his brothers pain belong to him as he has been cared by him. yohan strikes back and decides to evolve, yuri decides to drown and devolve
mooyeong and sunwoo are both teachers , sunwoo teaches geography and mooyeong tutors. they both have unrequited loves but what they do with it as i’ve mentioned before is quite different. one can assume that both lack the character to act with big gestures and that is why they both lose out on their loves. but if you look at mooyeong i dont believe that he is an overly emotional character in that unlike sunwoo he does not add romantic gestures to the idea of teaching and by this i do not mean that he is going on talking about love within his teaching but he has these big ideas of what students are like and how diverse they are and how troubled they maybe. mooyeong keeps his head on pushing his students academically and he does feel but he does not center himself around the bursts of emotions he does feel. instead he reason with him because he knows that a love that isn’t spoken is better than a love that is spoken and then mocked / spurned and thats his struggle with yohan at first. while sunwoo is basically of the measure that a love unspoken / unreturned puts a hit on a relationship . it ends it and does nothing but makes it painful and he keeps wanting to run away from what he had unlike mooyong and it something that cuts him because its a mark that says i was wrong , i am wrong and i will keep being wrong in many sense.
now junseo is the kinder of the two. he might be a bit careless, a bit naive and clueless , but he does not insert himself into mooyeong’s life beyond the areas of the club and common decency. he isn’t like the brother in law who keeps trying to put himself into sunwoo’s life from the calls to the mention of a gift and him asking him for help. he feels that his place isn’t to force a way into mooyeong’s life and be a door that keeps opening letting him in and then kicking him out and i think its part of the reason why this relationship was able to grow out better than that of the one sunwoo and the brother in love have. also the brother in law remembers everything wrong about what happened between them and it something that breaks sunwoo under the issue of him thinking himself important but realzing that he wasn’t really anything because even friends remember things they did with another. it enforces the idea that the club and sunwoo were but things to collect and play around with rather than value and hold with respect as junseo and mooyeong. he kind of tagged on top of sunwoo without the consideration of exactly what was required between them because as he came by the club by chance so did he sunwoo.
With hyung and noona its a story of two people who are both the catalysts for the traits a characther decides to possess. From jealousy and agony in yuri, to fear and learning in yohan these two are the parental figures they never had but also become the ones they give up a lot of themselves for. Yohan decides to be the opposite of his brother and go after unrequited loves for others, yuri feels guilty for being so attached to his noona he has to isolate himself because her happiness should have been his as her kindness was his. If not for the conversation hyung and yohan had after being caught in his intimacy with mooyeong I don't think yohan would have really put aside his brother's pain and take a full leap into his relationship. Where on the other hand always being with noona and thinking her as a small little thing who got eaten up by a big bad wolf and having to converse with someone who doesn't really express their own feelings has kept yuri from really evolving and thats why he crashes against sunwoo so badly because even his first sister and her aggression is a mask out of what their parents have made them.
Now I love thar yohan has his dreams and yuri the train tracks. What the dreams show is that yohan is looking inside himself and is changing. The dreams symbolize his faults, from his ego on the surface hides a low self worth and mooyeong always becomes his consciousness which fires back at him as both the face of the wanted and his failings to achieve it because he is at a loss of self because he thinks to what he witnessed than what has to be.
The train tracks are a slow way of travel. The train goes and stops and you can only follow it. Yuri's facing sunwoo decides that this is his destination. That the pathway to his own salvation is the man he crashes into to seek the falling of his rival. The crash reassembles into guidance and guidance into freedom and so he drops the rope and build a slow way for him to reach peace. Also unlike yohan he has to look outward instead of inward
So this gas gotten really long, and so i say goodbye here until later when I have more to say and more time to do so.
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With running out of storage space for pics, it’s time to unload insomnia writing with another round of....
From the drafts!
In this case I was rambling on about my hating Spring. I wrote this about a month ago, but it’s still 100% true and will be until half past June.
As usual, no proof reading and no promise it’s complete, but I just couldn’t delete it.
I HATE this time of year.
The days get longer and warmer, and I get sadder and sadder.
It’s spring, people say. The season of new growth, rebirth, young love, and blooming flowers. How can you not feel all that hope, optimisim, and potential?
But I think that’s the point. It makes me aware of what I lack, what I can never be or have.
Oh, I’ve had an amazing talent for focusing narrowly on the now and believing everything would work out somehow. I’d figure things out or get lucky or something. Stumbling through each day with a bullheaded determination and never letting myself linger on the futility of it all, distracting myself with anything interesting I’d come across along the way served me well.
Yet this never worked in spring.
The budding of the trees and the explosion of daffodils in all the yards would mark the start of if it. I’d find myself thinking about things to do with life. Beginnings and births would become thoughts of maybes and could bes that I longed for, but always found out of reach.
Despair and disappointment. Lost and alone. Trapped in a cage with no way out.
As a teenager I’d end up having a kind of meltdown every year. I’d run off to the woods to skip school at least once, hiding and crying. I would just not be able to stop crying, and at the time I was so ashamed to cry I could go the rest the year without shedding a tear, so this was dramatic for me.
My parents were great about it, never once chiding me even. Not talking about it really either of course, since I was always seen as fine really. They just assumed I’d cope, and if going to school the next day like normal, without the slightest blip in the grades I wasn’t having to work for anyway, was coping I suppose I was.
I suppose mostly it just would throw them. They knew of my insecurities and anxieties, but I don’t think they ever could quite see the depths of unhappiness that stayed submerged most of the time.
And that was when I was young. Back then there was still possibility and potential. I was a kid with a future ahead of her.
It was reasonable to assume that one day I’d have all the things I wanted. I’d have friends and family, someone that loved me, a career, a purpose, a few adventures, and just enough success that I could live comfortably enough survival wasn’t a daily worry and feel I’d accomplished at least one good thing to make the world better.
Okay, maybe just a few of them. But certainly I’d have at least some of those things, because it would be almost impossible not to at least accidentally end up with a few of them.
Or not it turns out.
Middle aged me has discovered just how bad a person can be at life, and how luck can end up not compensating at all. A life really can just be a slide downhill and you can suddenly realize you not only have no realistic hopes any more, you actually peaked at four!
The last few years have been increasingly worse. What used to offer stability and comforts have twisted into sources of anxiety or simply been stripped away. My loved ones have been lost to me, leaving me now friendless and alone. Worrying about surviving day to day, and trying to accept I can’t hold my world together occupies me thoughts. I have to let go of even little things that give me pleasure.
The future I never much looked to I can see more and more often as a bleak, dark, wasteland.
My optimistic and hopeful side is nearly gone, burned away by the bright glare of harsh realities. It gets that way when things never seem to work out and day after day offers fresh disasters you won’t be able to fix.**
I can’t even divert myself with all those little things. You may have noticed my photos are more perfunctory than they even used to be, my sculpting more awkward, and my text posts only venting and moaning. I don’t notice things and I can’t seem to get my imagination to work, and these were the cornerstones of my emotional survival.
Spring used to be the depressing time for me, and I could hold it back the rest of the time. Since certain events in 2012 that were the tugged threads that began the unraveling of the fabric of my life, it has increasingly gotten so the whole year feels like the awfulness of spring.
And yet spring is still actually worse.
The world comes alive each spring, while I wither just a bit more each year.
To be clear, I do NOT want to die. Never have, and expect I never will. As I like to say (and think I got from Blake’s 7) I intend to live forever, or die trying. (didn’t work out to well for them, did it! LOL).
I do admit I frequently try a little little mental trick of telling myself to think of myself as already dead. The idea isn’t I want to die, but that if I’m already dead the story is over and it doesn’t hurt anymore. If my story is still going on I desire what I can’t have and hope for what I can never get, so daily have to deal with the rapidly increasing impossibility of achieving any of it. It’s like starving to death slowly. It’s painful to very rationally and clear eyed face the simple fact that my life will get no better. The dead don’t feal pain, or grief, or loneliness, or fear, or unrequited love, or guilt, or shame, any of the rest of what has weighed me down.
So the game is to be a ghost, haunting the places I wander. I observe the world without an ache at being ignored, since most people never see a ghost anyway. I let myself be adrift between a warm memories of the past and the empty rooms of the present with no dread of the future, because that’s the story of others and not me. Nothing new can hurt a ghost.
But it’s just a thing to comfort myself when things are bad, but it never quite works. I can tell myself to pretend to be dead, but I’m very much alive. I feel and feel and feel, the raw nerve too sensitive girl still.
My other thing to repeat to myself on bad days is “I don’t matter.” This isn’t self loathing or anything, but me keeping my suffering in perspective. I’m not significant and contribute nothing to the world. I’ve no one depending on me or noticing me. If I died tomorrow only my mother would even mourn, and one day I won’t even have her. My sufferings are only mine and mine alone. I do not matter to the world.
Oddly this can be comforting and freeing. I don’t have to feel ashamed about how I’m stuck living. If a repair is out of my reach, well no one else is bothered so I can just deal with it unrepaired. I only have to worry about enduring.
But that’s the rub. Enduring can be grueling.
Watching your home rot away around you, being unable to get a vehicle repaired because you can’t get a lift to a repair shop, limping as you try to cut up a fallen tree blocking your driveway using only a handsaw, wearing five layers topped with a thick coat in your house in winter because you don’t exactly have heat, deciding what food not to buy yourself because you need to buy feed for the animals, and a thousand other things. It’s tiring.
Not mattering to others can’t stop you mattering to yourself. Mattering is what hurts. “It doesn’t matter” you shrug off. “It matters” you can’t ignore. My life is too full of things that “matter”, despite my attempts to feel otherwise.
And here is Spring, salt in the wound of my life. I’d probably be depressed in a good life this time of year, and I’d probably be depressed with the current state of my life whatever the season. The two together? I just want to curl up somewhere. Believe me, if I didn’t have so much I have to do I’d just stay in bed until June...
**Today’s disaster? I shattered the screen on my iPad. It still works, obviously since I’m writing this on it, but if it ever stops I won’t be able to afford to replace it.
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I Can Get You High (If You Want To Climb) Chapter 2
Barb/ Carol.. You’re welcome
links to AO3 in notes.
Gym class is arguably Barb’s worst class, straight A student in all other lessons, gym being the only one she’s barely scraping by with a C and it’s not hard to see why. There’s nothing worse than having to run laps around the track, ill fitting sports bar doing absolutely nothing to keep the girls in check, she gets out of breath just looking at the track let alone when she actually has to do laps, barley breaking into a sprint, sweating buckets chest heaving and almost giving herself a concussion with every stride. She’s long passed caring about her grade enough to actually put in 100 percent, only participates so she doesn’t get failed altogether, can’t have a fail, that would screw her plans for college up entirely.
Of course the physical excretion is nothing compared to the mandatory gym kit Hawkins high provides, a pale grey t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the tidal wave of sweat gathering across the entirety of her torso, she’s always soaked through by the time the hours up, and of course those awful little shorts. She always wonders if the uniform was designed by some creepy man, who gets off watching young teenage girls in the shortest shorts possible, barely enough fabric to cover even the smallest girl’s butt cheeks, let alone Barb’s, with her hulking thighs that really test the limits of the shorts seams. Barb has always been slightly self conscious, gym class makes it worse, all she wants to do is get the class over and done with, sit on the bleachers and wait patiently while all the girls filter through and get showered and changed, before she can go in a change herself. Thank god it's the last class of the day, otherwise she'll have to weigh the pros and cons of being late to another class.
Today was dodgeball and god did Barb loathe dodgeball above all other things, firstly she’s easy pickings and all the other girls take advantage of that, even the girls supposedly in her team, secondly her aim is shit especially because it is not worth the risk to wear her glasses, having learnt that lesson the hard way freshman year, with a broken pair or brand new glasses and a rather dramatic trip to the nurses office to make sure she didn’t get glass in her eye. It’s not like Barb couldn’t see anything, more like everything was more hazy, all the girls running about in a blur of green and gray, the balls whizzing past in a flurry of angry orange, it also messed with her depth perception like crazy, which meant unfortunately she tripped over her feat, a lot more than she usually would, causing her classmates to snicker cruelly from all angles, it just wasn’t fair that she was subjected to this, why couldn’t she just scrap this class altogether?
She prepares herself to be pelted by the balls and to be eliminated at her earliest convenience, the less time she spends on the court the better, but today’s different, as the opposite team line up balls in hands ready to take aim, she braces herself for the inevitable sting of rubber slapping against flesh, except this time it never comes. She’s startled by a growl and a blur of auburn locks rushing up in front of her, Its Carol Perkins of all people, an impressive force of tiny fury, catching each ball mid air and launching them back with acute precision at the other team, within minutes she’s already eliminated half of the opposition and is showing no signs of slowing down, Barb is in absolute awe as she stands in astonishment, admiring how flawless Carol looks channeling all that aggression into the game. Unfortunately for Barb she’s dragged out from her stupor by a ball landing squarely in her stomach, knocking the wind right out of her, she doubles over in pain for a second before having to compose herself as quickly as possible and makes her way to the sidelines to watch what’s left of the game, or risk getting hit again. Carol continues her assault, seemingly spurred on even further by Barb being knocked out, unsurprisingly Carol is the last woman standing, expression alternating between angry scowl and smug grin as she gloats in her victory to the rest of the class. Barb thinks she see’s Carol spare a glance at her, offering her a small apologetic smile, but it’s so brief Barb concludes she must be hallucinating.
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The locker rooms are literal hell for Barb, reluctant to get changed herself in front of the other girls, always paranoid she’ll get ridiculed for her weight, but honestly? That’s not even her biggest problem, no the thing she hates most about being surrounded by a class full of beautiful girls in various states of undress, is that she doesn’t hate it at all. She feels like such a peeping tom, surrounded by all this silky skin, firm breasts and while she tries to avert her eyes as much as she can she always catches herself lost in thought staring a little too intensely and a little too south than she is comfortable with, has to shake herself from her sinful thoughts, shove her head further into her locker a pray that this will all be over soon, or god himself will strike her down and put her out of her misery. She wishes things could be easy for her, that she wasn’t repulsed by the very idea of men, that she didn’t crave the touch of a soft delicate woman instead of being manhandled by the rough calloused hands of a man. Her only saving grace is as all her classmates file out, chattering away about their weekend plans, if none of them seem to notice her, or her longing gaze, she’s safe for now, left in the peaceful silence of an empty locker room.
With a heavy sigh of relief she makes her way to the showers towel in hand and shimmies her way out of her gym kit, ecstatic that she’s free of it for at least another 3 days at least, she turns on the spray lets the water get to temperature as she fights her way out of the constraints of her sweaty sports bra and panties, discards them in a heap on the tile out of reach from the running water. She steps into the spray, lets out a satisfied grown as the warm stream runs now her back soothing aching muscles as she stretches and cracks her stiff joints. She lets that small pleasure wash over her for a while, she’s in no rush to hurry out today, no plans on this ordinary Friday afternoon, or for the entirety of the weekend to be fair, maybe except her regularly scheduled phone call with Nancy on Sunday evening.
She gets lost in the quiet, only the sounds of the spray filling the room, finally free to daydream about creamy thighs and the curve of womanly hips, all alone in her own little bubble, which is why she’s startled by the sudden appearance of Carol, leaning casually against the entrance to the showers, still fully clothed in her gym gear and bright blue orbs starting with a laser focus directly into Barb’s soul. Carol has a dangerous smirk on her lips, the kind that makes Barb squirm with the paranoia that Carol can read minds and knows exactly what Barb was thinking about only seconds ago. Her paranoia is not calming down as Carol begins to stalk towards Barb, never breaking eye contact even as she lifts her gym shirt over her head, and steps out of her tiny shorts. Carol completely skips past her own shower head, instead stepping under Barb’s stream, all hunger and determination pouring out of her as she stalks forward like a predator and Barb’s her prey. Barb has nowhere to go but backwards, cornered into the wall, shivering at the loss of warmth for the shower, and burning all too hot from the press of Carol’s skin on hers. Barb is at least 9 inches taller than Carol, height not giving her any advantage as Carol cages her in, Carol even has to stand on her tiptoes just to place a chaste yet hungry kiss to Barb’s collar bone, ripping a full body shudder from her, completely incapable of controlling the flush creeping across her face and spreading eagerly down to her chest.
“Wha.. what are you doing Carol?” Barb stammers out. She’s a storm of confusion and panic and it really doesn’t help that Carol is currently burying her face in her cleavage, leaving little kisses in her wake, until she rests her chin on the shelf of Barb’s breasts and looks up eyes all faux innocence as she says
“What’s the matter Teddy Bear? Don’t you want me?” Carol actually pouts, feigning hurt and Barb melts, it’s like an instinct, the inexplicable need to comfort a pretty girl. With shaky arms Barb brings her hands to rest on Carol’s shoulders, leans her weight in fear of her legs giving way any minute, she’s overwhelmed with a conflict of emotions, she’s not stupid, she knows exactly what this means, what Carol is trying to do; heard all bout her little romp with Nancy, she just can’t figure out why Carol has any interest in her.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?” Carol asks. Still pouting and Barb is overcome with the need to kiss that put away.
“Why me?” Barb’s actually curious, why her? When Carol could have absolutely anyone she wants, she’s gorgeous and Barb has been told all her life, with the exception of maybe Nancy and her parents that she isn’t worth a second glance from anyone.
“Isn’t it obvious Teddy Bear?” that pet name does something to Barb, she should be annoyed, instead she finds herself quite fond of it, never wanting Carol to stop calling her it. Barb shakes her head, she really is at a loss. “You’re beautiful baby” Carol purrs and she runs her hands across the expanse of Barb’s sides, brings them round to rest her palms against the small of Barb’s back, uses the new angle as leverage to pull them closer together, as she begins peppering kisses all over Barb’s chest. “So pretty, gorgeous” Barb can’t help but scoff at that, no one has ever called her beautiful before. “It’s true! Let me show you just how beautiful I think you are baby?”
If Barb were not being held up by Carol’s knee bullying its way between Barb’s thighs she would have been a puddle on the floor because of Carol’s words alone, how could she possibly deny a beautiful girl showering her in compliments an affection, it’s not like she doesn’t function like everybody else on this godforsaken planet, she needs the validation just as much as the next person, and surprisingly to her she kinda gets off on it too, and if Carol’s actions are anything to go by, she gets off on giving them too. Carol leans up trying to reach Barb’s lips has to almost climb the length of Barb’s body to get even a little bit close, Barb gets with the picture and bends at the knees to meet her half way, their lips smash together clumsily, teeth clacking together in a desperate bid to brush against each other, its awkward but not awful and soon they find their rhythm, Carol deepening the kiss by licking her way into Barb’s mouth, sucking at her bottom lip and catching it with her teeth, it’s obscene and it lights Barb’s whole body on fire with desire and need, what she needs she doesn’t really know, but Carol seems to know what she’s doing, asserting her dominance with practised finesse as she uses her mouth to explore every inch of Barb’s skin, lips sliding across her across the shoulders and down her chest, until Carol sinks to her knees and gently paws at Barb’s thighs pushing them open to allow access.
Before Barb can even process what’s happening Carol’s nose is nuzzling its way through the course reddish hair that grows unruly atop Barb’s mound, she seems to revel in the sent and she uses her nails to lightly scratch at the backs of Barb’s thighs, inhaling deeply and sighing as if its the sweetest sent she’s ever smelt, maybe it is Barb really wouldn’t know, too ashamed to even touch herself down there.
Just when Barb thinks she can’t take the anticipation any more Carol dives in, goes straight for the gold and swipes her tongue across and around Barb’s clit with what Barb can only assume is practised precision. Barb yelps out at the sudden jolts of pleasure that shoot all through her veins, like sparks of electricity about to light a tinder box completely aflame. Carol’s tongue continues its exploration, licking through Barb’s folds, darting out and teasing her hole, she can feel herself gush and it’s embarrassing but Carol moans lewdly as her tongue laps up the evidence of Barb’s excitement. Her tongue peaks its way back up to Barb’s hood, lightly grazing against Barb’s bundle of nerves, causing her to twitch and her hips it involuntarily thrust, Carol’s hands creep their way up to Barb’s hips and press her flush to to the wall as she continues ministrations. Barb has to scramble for purchase to keep herself right, one hand desperately clinging to the top of Carol’s head to keep her balance the other flying to her mouth to muffle frankly pornographic noises she’s making without her consent. She can feel everything building, like a glass of water getting filled bit by bit and she’s so close to spilling over it’s almost painful, all it takes is for a well timed suckle of her clit from Carol and Barb is screaming out, hand doing absolutely nothing to silence the sounds of her pleasure now her orgasm is wreaking havoc on her body, she’s shaking all over, wave after wave of intense feeling crashing over she’s sure she’ll black out, before she can catch herself she sinks to the ground, still reeling from the aftershocks of the most mind blowing thing to ever happen to her. Carol catches Barb on her way down, cradles her as she leans against Carol’s shoulder, almost sobbing from being so overwhelmed. Carol pets through her hair, massaging and scratching lightly at her scalp and cooing quietly in her ear between a spattering of kisses across her cheek.
“You were so good Teddy Bear, so good for me”
Barb feels sleepy, could drift off right here she’s in such a daze, doesn't really register as Carol props her against the wall and reaches up form the soap, only jumps slightly in surprise as glides its across her body to clean her, it’s oddly gentle and far more intimate than what just transpired, Barb has completely lost the use of all her limbs so just sits there quietly as Carol washes her thoroughly and oh so sweetly all the while murmuring pretty little words and praises about how good Barb was. Once Carol is done cleaning the both of them she helps Barb to her feet and leans up to plant one last kiss to Barb’s cheek.
“That was fun Teddy Bear, can’t wait to do that again.” and with that she’s spins around and struts out of the showers grabbing a towel on her way out, leaving Barb completely speechless, her head spinning with all the possibilities of what again really means.
#Barb Holland x Carol Perkins#Barb x Carol#Barb Holland#Carol Perkins#Stranger Things#WLW fic#Fic#My fic#wlw
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Otherwise, Engaged
The Proposal AU
Summary: Sansa has to get through a tough weekend. Her boss, weekend with the family and saving her job. Oh, right, and a fake engagement too.
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Sansa could feel her heart thumping in sync with the throbbing in her temples. Five more minutes.. just five more minutes please.
He was always early and almost everday he would step in just three minutes shy of nine o' clock in the morning. And here she was internally screaming at the line at Starbucks, moving at a glacial pace.
“Okay thanks!” Sansa hollered at the ruddy boy, the same one whom she greeted every morning when she stopped by to get her cuppas. Lucky for her, he knew exactly what her order was and all she needed to do was swipe her credit card. He was her life saver. Scrambling into a cab, she prayed, at least she'd get there a minute before her boss.
Sansa knew she should have stopped at one chapter but a wave of inspiration came over and one chapter became three - and the next thing she knew she jumped, awakened by the loud metal clang of her stationery holder that must have toppled onto the floor in the midst of her slumber.
“Oh shit! Hold please!” Sansa sighed in relief and mumbled her thanks as she rushed into the lift. She could still make in time.
8.56 am. Whew.
But of course like most of her days, it all turned to shit in a split second.
“Son of a! Nooo!” a warm sensation pooled at her chest, one of the coffee cups had smashed onto her black dress as the mail boy she raced into frantically picked up the envelopes strewn all over the floor.
“Arrghhh!” Sansa screeched and glared at him as she stomped to her desk. Angrily, she punched her computer start button. Nothing ever goes right. Nothing. 8.57 am.
“This will have to do. Jeyne will have to do without this shirt for one more day,” Sansa mumbled to herself, ripping open the plastic that covered a dry-cleaned white silk shirt she could wear over her dress. She meant to return it to Jeyne that morning but well, this was an emergency. The stain wasn't noticeable at all but Sansa was too self-conscious to ignore it.
Tying up the hems into somewhat of a cropped top over her v-neck black dress now stained and smelling of triple shot espresso, Sansa figured it looked professional enough for any meetings today. She just had to pull it off for the next ten hours or so.
“Good morn- hey is that my top?” Jeyne chuckled at Sansa's makeshift style statement.
“A teeny accident but I swear I will return this to you tonight if I have to okay. I am so sorry,” Sansa pouted, hoping her one and only friend at work would just let it go and leave it, seeing how the day was turning out to be.
“No biggie Sansa but looks good on you. I should try that some time.”
Oh thank god.
Then, the IM dinged. Two words flashed on her computer screen.
“IT'S HERE!”
Sansa looked around and watched everyone scramble back into their cubicles; no more giggling by the water dispenser, no longer was there laughing by the coffee machine just heard seconds ago. Everyone was just trying to avoid getting stuck in any common areas, any walkways that meant they had to come face to face with the boss.
Her boss, that is. Jon Snow.
How unfortunate was she to have a boss everyone loathed. Satan, she dubbed him once. Well she had many names for him, recounting many tales of her frustrations at work during her many calls to her family and it became a term of endearment almost. She could probably write a best seller one day alá Devil Wears Prada - with film rights and everything. But for now, it's ten hours a day, weekends at the office and crowded book fairs.
A figure in black went past her. His head of jet black curls was unmistakable. He was a male Medusa; never look him in the eye unless you want to be turned to ash, metaphorically speaking. The rumours that went around were ridiculously vicious albeit amusing.
“Good morning, Mr Snow. As always, here's your c-”
“Sansa, get George on the line. I just scored him an interview on Oprah and I'm gonna need to talk to him. Also, after that get Aliser a meeting with me because that dick is gonna get it from me today,” her boss strutted into his office, as if he owned the building, without as much as greeting her since his eyes were too glued to the email he was furiously typing on his phone.
“Coffee.” Sansa mumbled and cleared her throat as she waited for him to grab the takeaway cup from her outstretched hand. Like clockwork, he did, still ignoring her like as always, every morning. Sansa had gotten used to it.
Jon Snow settled into his chair and immediately turned on his computer, his phone now tossed aside now that there were more important things to start off with.
Yep, good morning to you too Satan.
“Well, so we have a staff meeting at 10, a conference call with the Westerlands office at 11 and you have an appointment at the Immigration office at 1. So should I cancel your lunch and push it back to 2 pm?”
Jon swivelled from the screen and looked at her. His brows were furrowed and to Sansa that was never a good thing. Three years with this man, this slave driver, she knew everything there was to know about him, his likes, dislikes, his micro expressions that helped her navigate through this murky depths of hell she called a job - of being the executive assistant of one the most well known and respected former Pulitzer prize winning journalist now turned editor-in-chief of Mormont & Sons Publishing. Good things don't come easy, she would tell herself that every day, through the late night coffee and dinner runs, the book fairs and the weekends in the office.
“Immigration? What? No, cancel that. I filled out those papers already. You sent them out, didn't you?”
Sansa nodded. Of course she did, she also collected his dry cleaning, his groceries and the expensive watch he had serviced, which took her an hour and half to get to the other side of the city because they were the only ones Jon trusted enough to do.
“Right, so back on with the lunch meeting then.” Sansa inched her way to the door as Jon turned back around to his computer.
“Sansa?”
Ugh.
“Who's Rick and why does he think I'm hot? Why does he have his Tinder handle here?”
What?
“Umm.. I have no idea who that is.” Sansa froze at her spot.
Jon took a sip of his coffee, his stern face visibly amused by the awful scribble on the white coffee cup. “Triple espresso shot, no sugar. Hmm.”
“Well, I'm guessing that should be my coffee that was meant for me,” Sansa finally admitted.
Jon pursed his lips as he stared at her. “So, you're telling me that you too, drink triple espresso shot with no sugar?”
Sansa shrugged. “It grows on you.. I guess.”
“I thought you drank tea.”
“Well... variety, right?”
Jon's eyes were still on her, unamused. “You spilled my coffee didn't you?”
Sansa sighed. This day was no better than any other. If only she could catch a break.
Jon pointed to his own jacket and then to her. Sansa looked down and saw a small spot of dark brown on her makeshift cropped jacket, the pristine, shiny and well pressed silk blouse. Damn it.
“Good save on the shirt.”
Umm.. thanks?
“If... there's nothing else, you know where I'll be,” Sansa pointed to her desk outside as she slowly made her exit.
Then, the phone rang.
“Mr Snow's office,” Sansa answered dutifully. “It's Mr Thorne. Do you want to take it?”
Jon thought for a moment, then gestured to a general direction - it could only mean he wanted a one on one.
“Mr Thorne, Mr Snow is on his way to you right now.”
Jon stood up and tossed a notepad to Sansa. “You're coming with me, I need a witness.”
A witness? For what?
Murder?
“Oh you self righteous son of bitch!” the bellow shook her and Sansa almost dropped her notepad.
“You think you can waltz right in here with your big head and big ass editor ego and tell me what to do? I don't think so!” Aliser yelled at him, ripping the glasses from his face.
Shit. Don't punch each other. Please.
“Oh Thorne, you really are a thorn in my ass. Actually everyone's ass. You're just a lazy, entitled braggart who can't do the job right.”
Aliser only scoffed. “So you think your hot shot award is going to get you places huh? Throw your weight around like you own this shit?
“We told you many times, get George on board, get George on board, sign him and write a couple of books. But guess who did that instead? Me. I always have to finish your job for you because you can't do it ever.”
Aliser turned silent but his face was red with rage. Sansa couldn't blame him. He was being fired.
“Look, you have two months to look for another gig. I won't make you sign a non-compete and I'll tell everyone you resigned. I'll make sure Finance settles a leaving bonus for you. For all your years of service. How about that, huh?” Jon coolly offered in an effort to diffuse the rapidly growing tension in the air. Sansa gulped. Please take it, I want to get out of this room.
“You're going to regret this Jon Snow,” Aliser warned. Jon only shrugged and made his way to the door. Sansa quickly followed behind him and only managed a polite smile to Aliser.
“You got all that down didn't you? About the non compete and everything?” Jon asked as they made their way back to his office.
“Make a note to HR and let them get on it. And tell them I'm scouting for new editors. Which means I need you this weekend.”
Sansa's heart sank at the thought. No not this weekend. It's Gramp's 80th.
“Sansa? Did you hear what I just said?”
Sansa cursed under her breath and turned her attention back to Jon as they both stood in front of his office.
“Yes.. yes of course. Got it all down. But this weekend-”
“Why? Do you have plans?” Jon's tone was enough to warrant a slap from her.
“It's my grandfather's birthday weekend and I already told them I'll be there.”
Jon looked at her unblinking. “Well, tell them you'll come for the next one. I mean, if you want to keep your job that is. You do know birthdays happen every year, right?”
Sansa hated every time he brought that up. If it wasn't the book fairs it would be overtime at the office. When does it end?
Sansa bit her lip; there was no point arguing. “All right. I'll call them later.”
Jon winked and gave a token smile. “That's the spirit.”
Defeated, Sansa inhaled deeply, picking up the phone on her desk, hoping no one would be home pick up the call.
Sansa Stark, Editor. Sansa Stark, Editor. Sansa Stark, Editor.
It was the only thing in her mind that could help pull her through whatever life had in store for her that day.
“Hey Sansa, Mr Mormont wants to see Mr Snow right away. He says it's urgent,” Jeyne's voice broke her out her reverie.
Great, another one.
#jonsa#jon x sansa#jonsa fic#the proposal au#it's going to be a long one#so hang in there lol#fave movie aus#modern jonsa au
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Talking about your emotions is the only way to get it off your chest
“I’m fine” “I’m really fine, I’m so happy” were overused, overly rehearsed phrases I’ve been long conditioned to present to people whenever I was asked if i was okay. When most of the time, this was contrary to how I really felt.
I’m not really fine, thanks for asking.
I’ve very rarely ever admitted to not being ‘okay’, not exactly because feeling down is a societal stigma but because I’ve never really wanted to allow people to see how truly torn-apart and damaged I was.
Moreover, being consistently emotionally invalidated throughout my entire life has made me feel like my emotions were ‘wrong’ and that the only way I’d find acceptance from people is to stash my emotions away in a safe box where no one could have access to them.
I was heavily uncomfortable with exhibiting my emotional vulnerability, being candid about my struggles for fear that this would cause people to alienate themselves from me.
For the longest time - I’d unintentionally misled people into believing that I was fine through my happy-go-lucky, radiant facade that people gradually began to believe that I was actually fine, that people were visibly shocked when I’d told them that I was very much struggling in Uni.
The fact that I’m also pretty high-functioning and seemingly well-adjusted renders my struggles more inconspicuous towards people.
I hated going into detail into why I wasn’t “fine” -because it simply isn’t a reducible explanation.
I never knew what I was supposed to respond with, so I always resorted to saying “I’m fine” to deflect the question and to save the hassle of going in-depth of why I’m actually not ‘fine’. No one likes to hear sappy stories.
It’s not like people genuinely cared anyway, is it?
But I’d realised gradually just how toxic and handful that mentality was. As each time I’d convinced myself that I was fine, I was inadvertently locking away and avoiding my emotions through a multitude of self-destructive coping mechanisms to dissipate and numb my emotional pain and emptiness, which really only distracts me in the short-term and exacerbates things in the long-run.
My ridiculously and unbelievably high emotional threshold, however, didn’t mean that I was routinely able to suppress my emotions as successfully as I’ve always done so.
It’s precarious times like these where my capacity to stifle anymore emotions has reached its brim, and I thus can no longer repress anything else without eventually imploding.
Because I’m such a talented actress in the making who’s been able to delude everyone into thinking that I’ve been having the time of my life here in Uni, *flips hair* lol jk - people have been relatively astonished and dumbfounded when I finally muster the courage to be transparent about how I’ve been feeling.
Their responses range from “omg I never knew you were struggling tho. your life on ig seems so glamorous and you’re doing so well in Uni” to “wait bruh this is coming out of nowhere.”
Are you seriously asking me that?
Although me opening up was later met with an overwhelming amount of regret and embarrassment, I’d realised just how therapeutic and relieving it was to finally be honest with how I’ve been feeling all this while.
It was as though a huge weight was lifted off my chest.
Amongst my friends and readers, I’d found a heavy sense of relief when I got to learn that a startling number of them were actually going through the same thing, with some even sharing similar, nuanced emotions as I do. Some have even come forward to ask me for advice for how I’d managed to cope so far, which is both gratifying but also perplexing because I’m merely surviving in the meantime.
Just knowing that I wasn’t the only odd one who’s been struggling to make sense of my situation so far has made me feel significantly better. This escalated into having deep, lengthy conversations with my friends and general public who reached out to me, in which we uninhibitedly expressed our deepest fears and emotions.
Through my vulnerability, others were able to find solace and come forward to tell of their experiences and struggles and find strength in the fact that they weren’t alone.
And that is incredibly important - because part of the reason why I feel the way I feel is the fact that I’d always perceived it as a ‘ME’ problem.
I often felt angry and infuriated with myself for not having the time of my life in Uni unlike what the masses have portrayed.
The ruthless self-blame and criticism I had towards myself consumed me and I loathed myself for not being able to acquire the same cookie-cutter, euphoric and illusory experience that everyone seemed to be having in Uni, which progressively made me feel awful about myself.
I mean... what’s the worst that could happen?
People leaving me? That just goes to show that these people never had ingenuous and sincere intentions towards me in the first place.
People who genuinely care for you and love you wouldn’t give up on you the moment you’re going through a formidable time with life (well unless you’re extremely manipulative/destructive/toxic of course)
But people who simply leave just because their friends/partners are humans who just have unmet emotional needs or have hit a rough patch not only are undeserving of you when you’re at your BEST, they’re undeserving of you as a whole. .
Life isn’t all unicorns and rainbows, sadly. It’s fraught with unending struggle and suffering and everyone has bad days.
This was something I had to come to terms with when I finally allowed myself to open up.
I was afraid to have my vulnerabilities manipulated and used against me in the future, for people’s twisted personal agendas, or have them perceive me in a different light.
Then again if they were to do the former, that’s on THEM and not on me. It’s a reflection of their character and moral judgment and questionable ethics.
It’s like the trash takes itself out, and I don’t have to do any “spring-cleaning”.
Them leaving and walking out of my life would be a blessing since I have no tenet or interest in keeping unwanted people who’re only in my life for the glitz and glamor anyway.
I’m a firm believer that how one reacts to your sadness determines how long they’re going to stay in your life.
Let that sink in.
If they’re irate or annoyed by the fact that you’re simply searching for the bare minimum of support and a listening ear when you’re going through a truly troubled time, then why keep these people anyway? Let them go.
They’re probably better off being friends with/dating sex dolls, since sex dolls are simply vacant robots and plastic with no depth or emotions to them.
Don’t be apologetic for expressing how you feel. Every human being deserves to be heard, loved, supported and listened to. If you’re not getting that from the people who claim to “care for you”, then it’s time to re-evaluate who you keep in your life.
If they get tired of you just for being a normal, harmless human being who’s simply going through a hard time, are they really worth keeping in the first place?
Because let’s be realistic. Everyone goes through shit in life and needs support from time to time. People don’t actively choose to feel upset or depressed. It’s not within our control, what’s within our control is how we cope and deal with it and how we act on it.
Let them go. Nothing’s wrong with you. If your fundamental, basic emotional needs aren’t met, then why bother?
Having emotions isn’t wrong, and neither is it unlawful. It only becomes detrimental when you turn these emotions into anger and rage and project it onto someone to hurt them, now that’s wrong.
If you’re harmlessly expressing how you feel and need that extra bit of support, you’re okay. you’re normal, and you deserve to receive love and empathy.
Don’t let these people fool you into thinking asking for the bare minimum is a standard that’s insurmountable.
Because it isn’t.
It’s like asking for water. And what happens when you don’t drink water for a month straight? you die. You’re goddamn right.
SUPPORT IS A BASIC NECCESSITY.
Don’t dehydrate and deprive yourself of support (water) just because you want them to stay in your life. It’ll kill you eventually.
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FMA Fic - Despondency
First finished fic in literal years and it's more sad/angst stuff? Ugh. Sorry. I guess that's My Thing now...
Features: Trans girl/feminine Ed pre-transition, or more accurately, pre-realization. Quiet dysphoria, Self-loathing, Anxiety, mentions of nudity, but only one vague reference to genitalia.
Pronouns change between he/she because she's barely realizing anything, really.
Kinda based on personal feelings.
Read on Google Docs
Read on AO3
---
"Y'know kid, you never bathe with us. This is like, what, the fourth time now? What's your deal?"
Greed was frowning, leaning with his hands on his hips in the manner he usually took when he was fed up with something. Like right now. With Edward. As usual.
They're standing in front of a freshwater lake, part of a long, winding river they'd been following through the woods lately. They'd stopped here for the evening, and after setting up camp, Greed had the bright idea to have another of their group-bath-slash-swimming-party-things. And as usual, Ed refused to take part, because it was fucking stupid when they could just bathe by themselves, with fucking privacy, like they usually do.
Behind Greed, Darius and Heinkel exchange glances, then shrug and turn back to the business of taking off their shoes and shirts. They'd already grown numb to these arguments.
Ed groans, standing in front of them with his meager armful of towels and bar of soap. Bathing had been uncomfortable for him for as long as he can remember, but out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, it's nearly unbearable. Especially now that he's travelling with two shitty chimeras and an even shittier homonculus wearing his friend's body like a fucking skin-suit and asking him the one question he didn't want to fucking hear right now.
Ed grinds his teeth, scowling. "My deal is how much I gotta deal with you fuckers until the Promised Day arrives. Now fuck off," he growls.
Irritatingly, Greed only cocks his head at him, looking at him quizzically.
"What, you shy or somethin'? You got a-" He twirls a finger at him, glancing down toward his legs. "-like uh, an issue, or something?"
Ed blinks at him. The gestures mean nothing to him, until he follows Greed's gaze and pointing finger and realizes that he's actually- looking at his. Crotch.
Ed jerks back, almost flinching, dropping his bent arms to his waist to hide himself as if he were already naked. "You fuckin- NO! I DON'T! There's nothing fucking wrong with me, you stupid-ass homonculus!" he barks out.
Greed just sighs at him, lowering his hand. "Jeeze, you don't gotta be so defensive all the time..."
Then he shrugs, lifting his arms and smirking in his trademark shitty way. He gestures toward the lake and half-naked chimeras behind him. "Look, dude. It's fine, really. I mean, c'mon..."
"-We're all men here," he says, almost laughing.
Wow. As if that made him feel any better. 'We're all men here'? More like 'we're all assholes ready to laugh at you'. Fuck that.
...Laugh at him for what, Ed doesn't really know, but his brain is insistent that they will. And it was usually right, since apparently it was a running theme for these guys to take the piss out of him as much as possible, since this "trip" had only made his day-to-day attitude more and more unpleasant.
And the words just... rub him the wrong way. He doesn't know why, he doesn't want to know why, all he knows is that it makes his skin crawl and he hates it.
Ed huffs turns on his heels. "I just- I like my privacy, okay? Fuck off already."
And then he starts walking, not even bothering to glance behind him. He doesn't need to - he can hear Greed's exasperated "Okay..." and Darius and Heinkel's laughter well enough.
Told you they'd laugh at you, his brain says. They always do.
Ed just keeps walking.
-
After an annoyingly large amount of hiking, Ed finally finds a place where the river pools into a round, swollen body of water, still flowing but much calmer than usual. There's a large bank that's muddy but has some large rocks perfect for sitting and drying clothes on. There's a lot of tall grass and foliage too, but he'll deal with it.
He looks behind him. There's no sign of the others or the lake they're at, just the long stretch of river he's been following, surrounded by trees. He must be downhill, or in a dip in the forest ground. He can't hear any voices, or much of anything, above the babbling of the river and the occasional sounds of tree branches rustling from the wind.
It's not the most ideal spot, but it's the best he can ask for right now, so he decides to settle here. If he walks too far downriver, it'll be dark by the time he gets back to camp.
He sits down on one of the big, flat rocks that juts out from the mud, partly-submerged in the water. He sets down his pack, his handful of towels, and his small bar of soap. He doesn't have a clean change of clothes or underwear to change into - tends to happen when you're branded a criminal and have to run off into the wilderness with just what's on your back.
He scoots himself near the water, takes off his boots and socks, rolls up his pants and dips his flesh foot into the water - it's pretty cold, as he suspected, but he doesn't pull his foot out, acclimating himself to the temperature. Still, he keeps cringing and shivering as he uses his soap to scrub his boots and socks until they're at least somewhat cleaner. Then he lays them out to dry on a flat-ish slab of rock next to him.
Then he prepares to strip down.
...He has to psyche himself up for this a bit. It's not that he's a stranger to stripping naked in the wilderness - he'd done it already several times since going on the run. And before then, he did it a few times in the past, during trips to particularly remote parts of the country in his travels with Alphonse. But it still feels... awkward. It's not like anyone's watching him, except for whatever random forest animals were out here - and they wouldn't give a shit about him - but it's still, it's...
...Eh, whatever.
One by one, he takes off each article of clothing, trying not to think about anything in particular, and heaps them in a pile next to him. Once he's got nothing but his bare ass sitting on the cool rock, he takes a deep breath, and slides into the water.
"FUCK! Fuck it's cold! Shit!" He can't stop himself from crying out at the shock, and he's alone here, so he lets himself curse and scream and groan as much as he wants just to deal with this cold-ass water. It's not even that deep, just barely up to his hips, but still. Jeeze.
He bends down to wet his face and splash water over his shoulders, which just makes him even colder but forces his body to acclimate faster. Fuck, though. Still sucks. Hopefully that lake the others are at is just as cold. Fuck 'em.
He tries to slowly wade around in the water to try and warm up, but it's so cold. His teeth are chattering too much to even speak anymore, and he can't do much but stand here shivering, rubbing his own arms vigorously. When the water is still enough, he catches a glance at his own reflection.
Ed looks at it, at his naked body. He's built like a barrel, short but stout, muscular and strong. It's... nice.
But it also feels... not. Like it's... not nice.
He tilts his head at his own reflection, studying it.
Like he looks good, sure, especially for his age, but he's kinda... lumpy. Too thick. Too uneven.
And on top of that, he's covered in scars and bruises, his flesh discolored and grotesque where his automail is attached, throwing his metal limbs into even greater contrast to the rest of him. He's all bumps and scratches and hard lines and dark shadows. Nothing's soft. Nothing's... pretty.
Wait, pretty...? He doesn't- Bah. Just thinking about stupid shit again. Like he always does.
Besides, there's nothing wrong with him (besides the automail). He's fine as he is.
...But at the same time, there's nothing... great about it either. Like sure, it was his body and he appreciated it well enough, but at the same time... well...
To be totally, completely honest? He wouldn't be against giving up another limb, or an organ, or any other body part, to bring back Al's body. If it came right down to it.
He wouldn't, ideally, but it was an option. A last-resort sort of thing. He could probably live without another limb or two. He'd get used to it. Just like he is now.
Just... used to it.
He's started lowering himself into the water by now, still trembling and gritting his teeth with the cold, but pushing through it. He wades around until he reaches a part of the pond deep enough for him to sort of sit under the water, drifting in place. He dips down his head to wet his face and hair, getting rid of whatever dust or dirt was on them.
He can't really remember a time when he didn't think this way about himself. Looking at his own body and feeling like it was just... there. Like in some way, it wasn't really his. But it still is?
It's... hard to put into words.
It's like he's just... A skeleton. A framework, looking out from a shell-like body that he was just... stuck with. Kind of like Al, in that sense.
Wait-
No, not like Al. Stupid- Don't even start comparing your suffering to his. Nothing you've gone through, or ever will go through, will compare to what he's been through. And you caused it.
So shut up and get back to helping him first, his brain says.
He closes his eyes, a familiar, crushing weight re-emerging from the depths of his heart, weighing him down and threatening to pin him here, in the water.
He needs to distract himself before he ends up bursting into tears or something.
He wades back to the rocks to retrieve his bar of soap and clothes. Starting with his shirt, he cleans them one piece at a time, soaking them in the water and scrubbing them with the soap, then spreading them out on the rocks to dry in the fading sunlight.
Despite himself, his mind wanders again.
And thinking about it, hey, no one ever feels completely okay with their own body, right? Everyone sees mistakes in themselves, since they're so easy to notice. We're all petty, insecure beings who want to be bigger and grander than anything we can actually be in reality. So you may as well settle with what you've been dealt. Be happy with it.
Besides, he'd feel better once Al and him get their bodies back. He'll have his real arm and leg again. He'll feel whole.
...Hopefully.
With his clothes now cleaned and drying, Ed finally gets to the task of cleaning himself. He sits in a shallower side of the pond, lifting his legs to scrub at his feet and ankles first. He works his way up his body to his head, scrubbing his scalp and working the suds into his hair in place of any decent shampoo.
Ugh. His hair's gonna be gross for this whole trip, isn't it? It sucks because, if he had to decide, he'd say it's the only part of his body that's his 'favorite'. Oh well... He cleans it as best he can, with what little he has.
Then he rinses, submerging his head under the water for a moment to wet everything, coming up and shaking the water out of his face, pulling away his long, sticky bangs from his face.
And then he sees it again... his reflection. And something... strikes him about it.
He-
She looks at it again. Really looks at it. Her long hair, dark and honey-colored with its wetness. Glittering and shining brilliantly in the fading sunlight, a halo of gold flowing from the top of her head, draping along her face, neck and shoulders. Long, elegant lines of color flowing down along his features, softened by the warm light of the early sunset.
She looks beautiful.
And at the same time, she looks... normal. Comfortable. Like a real person. Somehow in this blurred, warped image, gently undulating with the flow of the water, she looks more real than anything she's ever seen.
She's just... here.
The real Ed.
Er- wait... Who even was "the real Ed"?
She's not really sure. She's not much different from Edward, she guesses, but at same time she's... totally different, somehow. Intelligent but strong, elegant but fiery, gentle but firm. Ready to take on the world, and win. And look damn good while doing it.
Yeah. A good looking.... Woman. Person. Thing?
...What the fuck is she even thinking at this point? A bunch of nonsense, That's what. Who cares what she is? Right now, she's Edward Elric. State alchemist. Child prodigy. Grade-A Ass Kicker.
...But also, an arrogant shithead. A naive child. A pitiful, angry little boy who couldn't bring his mother back, couldn't protect his brother, doomed them both to a life without a home, without redemption, without even whole human bodies.
He couldn't even save a little girl's life.
She rubs her eyes- rubs his eyes. Stupid. All of it.
None of that now. Back to the task at hand.
He wades back closer to shore until he can stand up and out of the water, dripping and shivering again at the exposure to the chill of the evening air, intensified by the water clinging to him. He powers through it as best he can as he retrieves the towel he left next to his wet clothes and wraps it around himself, padding off the water from his body. He squeezes water out of his hair before ruffling it with the towel, leaving it a mess.
His clothes are still damp but he puts them back on anyway, making him even colder. Beggars can't be choosers, and neither can naive state alchemists.
All the while, she keeps her back to the river's surface.
-
Soon enough, he's gathered his things and started trotting in slightly-squishy shoes along the river, back to the others as night began to fall.
Back to business. Back to being Edward Elric, currently a wanted criminal on the run with two chimeras and a homonculus possessing the body of a prince of Xing, all trying to survive in the wilderness until the Promised Day arrived.
She sighs. Yet another big. stupid mess she'd gotten herself into.
END
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Heaven Can Wait We’re Only Watching the Sky Ch. 5
“I am Groot!” Groot protested with a rage barely concealed, Rocket glared up at him.
“He’s right,” Peter agreed, “you’re not dying. People who are dying don’t rip out their IV’s, bribe impressionable empaths to sneak them out of the med-bay and start rebooting the weapons systems and installing a mini-bar!” Rocket only huffed, hands on his hips. Peter glanced at the nav-controls and frowned. “You got hurt and you’re getting older that’s not the same thing.” Rocket glanced at the flora colossus, Groot know he wanted him to agree. But he couldn’t agree. Could not bring himself to agree. He heard the truth same as Rocket when Gamora told them a few turns ago.
“That reminds me,” Rocket continued, pulling a handgun from its holster and cleaning it with a cloth. “I want to stop by Erate and try stealing one of those rare quatandin ships again.”
“We are not doing that,” Peter glanced over his shoulder looking at the flora colossus who shrugged. They always expect me to mediate for him, he stared down at the raccoonoid.
“But I’m dyin’ Pete,” Rocket wined. “That means you have to do what I want.”
“People who are dying don’t use that as a pathetic excuse to they what they want,” Peter practically growled. Rocket’s tail flicked in irritation, he ran the cloth across the barrel of his gun methodically.
“Yeah how do you know?” He pressed, Groot rolled his eyes, why couldn’t he just let it go? “And how would you know?”
“I am Groot,” stop it. Peter slammed “auto-pilot” and bolted up, turning on Rocket so fast the raccoonoid dropped his gun.
“My mother Rocket!” Hurt and sadness, pain resurfacing. Groot could feel it coming off of Star-Lord like oozing black ink. Rocket’s mouth opened, ready to spit some smart retort. Groot shot him a warning glance. The raccoonoid shut his muzzle, glancing up at Peter.
“A’right Pete, sorry. Geez.” He muttered, Groot watched as his friend seemed to deflate in the shadow of the human. Peter shook his head,
“It’s fine,” he snapped. “Just stop using ‘I’m dying’ as an excuse when you’re not.” Rocket rolled his eyes, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall continuing to clean his gun.
“Besides,” Groot watched Peter recover and break into a grin, “we can’t get a bar because I have no self-control and neither do you.”
“Speak for yourself humie,” Rocket mused. “I wasn’t the one who did six shots of dranaln vodka.” Peter laughed, lifting the ever-presen nausea in Groot’s mind.
“That was you.” Peter reminded the raccoon. “I said ‘Rocket don’t have that shot’ and you said, ‘don’t tell me what to do Star-Butt’ and ordered five more of them.” Groot laughed, chest vibrating with happiness and light as he remembered that night, and Peter clapped him on the back. “
“So no mini-bar?” Rocket laughed, stifling a cough at the end of his chuckle.
“No,”
“Not even a mini-fridge in the kitchen?”
“No!”
“Fiine,” Rocket gave in, shaking his head in laughter. It feels good to hear laughter, Groot thought. After the nights of nightmares, of watching the raccoonoid dift in and out of nightmares. Sometimes fighting unseen demons, sometimes just lying there in the delirium of the pain meds, crying, vomiting and shaking. In the past few days, Groot had come to realize he preferred the former to the latter. But Rocket seemed to be well again, well enough to re-design the Milano’s sound system for optional effect, well enough to complain and well enough to continue doing all the things that typically annoyed them. A knock on the cock-pit door swung Groot’s attention to where Drax stood, bald head bowed. Drax, Groot’s bark hardened at the thought. He should have known to go easy on Rocket. He’s not stupid. Peter slid the door open and the Destroyer cast a wary look at Groot.
“Drax, what’s up?” Rocket asked, “haven’t seen you round since I got outta the med bay!” Drax said nothing and Groot’s mouth hung open in disbelief as the Destroyer got to his knees, before Rocket.
“Small furry friend,” he began. “It was my fault you were hurt so. I feared you were going to die. For my stupidity I forfeit my victory in our match. You will be the new winner.” Rocket blinked, Groot watched him trying to decide how to respond no doubt there were a variety of sarcastic comments he could make, half of which Groot wanted to say himself. Drax would deserve whatever barb he got. The flora colossus fumed, but Rocket only picked something out of teet with a claw and grinned.
“Rematch then,” he answered simply.
“I am Groot!” No, I’ll fight him.
“No!” Peter and Rocket both shouted. Drax looked up at him, eyes laced with a pain that made Groot feel shame for a small moment. Drax really hadn’t meant to hurt him at all.
“There’s no rematch,” Peter stepped between them. “We’re cancelling this whole tournament.” Drax didn’t even protest, he only nodded and stood.
“I am Groot!”
“What’s that?” Gamora asked, she sauntered in and kissed Peter on the cheek.
“We’re not doing the tournament anymore,” he answered shortly. Gamora frowned,
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“It’s cuz I got hurt and Star-Lord here don’t want it to happen again,” Rocket interjected. “But I ain’t made of glass a’right humie? I’ve had worse.” Your bio and hard-ware are compromised, Groot thought to himself with a pinch in his proverbial heart. The incorrigible raccoonoid only continued to shoot down Peter’s protests. Groot looked him over, even as Rocket argued he could see the pattern of his short breaths. The twitch in the muscles of his face and the lethargy of his tail. Like a leaf clinging to the branch…a strong vine coil before it’s cut down.
“What do you think Groot?” Gamora inquired finally remembering he was there. Groot looked at Rocket’s hopeful eyes. They were more bright then they had been in months.
“I am Groot,” I want to continue the challenge.
“See! Told yah!” Rocket boasted. Anything to return to some sense of normalcy. Peter surveyed them all, anxiety. Finally he gave a dejected sigh, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair.
“Fine, Groot, Gamora you’ll fight tomorrow. Same rules as last time.”
“I am Groot!” He reached out a vine, giving Rocket a high-five. Gamora laughed and even Drax smiled.
“I will tell Mantis to come and make you feel better about this Quill. It will be fun. No doubt it will distract Rocket from the pain he is feeling.”
“I can hear you Drax,” Rocket drolled. The Destroyer nodded,
“Come then small rodent, let us go and see if we can find more of that poisonous liquid to consume in celebration of your recovery.” Groot watched the two of them exit the cock-pit, shaking his head. Rocket was incredibly smart, how could he be so ignorant? But yet again, Groot could not judge too harshly. He’d felt like a failure more times in the past few days then any other time in his life. Unable to soothe his friend, unable to ease the misery and stop the seasons taking their toll on Rocket’s small body. The greatest joy of my whole d’ast life has been raising you, Rocket’s wondrous, pleading words echoed in the depths of Groot’s bark. They had all raised him, Peter, Gamora, Mantis, Drax, even Kraglin in his own way. But Rocket’s part in Groot’s life was different, amplified. It was Rocket he tried to please as a sapling, Rocket whom he loathed and longed for approval from as an adolescent, even if he’d never admit it. Rocket, Groot contemplated even as Gamora and Peter turned back to piloting the Milano. Rocket is the black, rocky, liquor-soaked soil I’ve grown through. Tough, and messy and broken but stuck in every crack of my bark nonetheless. And to see him age so rapidly, just the other night he’d fallen on his way back from the tiny restroom in the med-bay. Crashing to the ground like a rock, his cybernetics shattering. And Groot had frozen over watching it. Had not rushed to help and had not called anyone for aid. He’d only watched as Rocket tried and failed to stand, at least five times. Each time he hopped his friend would succeed. He let Rocket drag himself back to the bed, reassuring himself the agony of it was worth it. Winter makes all things brittle, he recalled that which he’d seen on his newly regrown home world. All things age. Age…
“I am Groot?” Groot asked, making his way over to the planetary index behind the pilot and co-pilot seats.
“A rajoon,” Gamora answered.
“Raccoon,” Peter corrected. “A North American raccoon.” Groot nodded, typing “Earth” into the index, Earth. Flora and fauna. Fauna, search by type: r-a-c-c-o-on. His eyes rapidly scanned the screen.
“I am Groot,” what is the lifespan of a North American raccoon? The flora colossus watched Peter and Gamora exchange worried glances. A bling on the screen made him look back,
“2-3” years.
“I am Groot,” he read aloud. Gamora stood, coming over and looking over his shoulder.
“That’s impossible,” her lips pursed. “We’ve known rocket for at least ten years, your entire growth years Groot.” Peter muttered something, switching the controls to auto again and coming over, peering down at the screen.
“He’s not a raccoon though, not entirely. He’s more human then raccoon guys.” A nervous laughter broke the silence,
“His biology is still the same, he still has the internal organs and cells of a raccoon,” Gamora pieced together. “His physiology and anatomy is still raccoon, thus he’d age in the same way.”
“I am Groot,” he is not entirely raccoon. He’s got cybernetic enhancements. As if that fact would prevent anything. Groot stared at the image of the animal the screen. If this is correct then Rocket….Rocket should have died years ago. A cold chill iced his leaves at the thought of it. With a grunt Groot swiped the data pad off and stood. “I am Groot,” don’t tell him.
“Groot, we can’t…” but the flora colossus only stalked from the cock-pit, unwilling to hear the rest.
---
That night, Groot watched Rocket tinker with his bombs.
“I am Groot,” the flora colossus pointed to the compressor.
“Yeah it needs to get replaced,” Rocket muttered, trying to attach yet another cartridge to the his latest gun. It already had three. “Quill that cheap skank won’t buy us a new one.” He shoved the pack into the gun and clicked it experimentally.
“it’s cheap-stake,” Groot turned to see Quill walking into the engine room. Rocket snickered,
“Oh don’t worry Quill, I can fix it again. It’s just gonna keep breaking though.” He glowered at the human though not with too much distanste as far as Groot could tell. “I can fix it again and I’ll do it with my shirt on.” Peter only laughed, he wore nothing but pants.
“I am Groot,” Groot asked pointedly.
“No! Gamora and I were not…we don’t…” his voice drifted off as he came up to them and sat down next to Rocket. “How you feelin?” The raccoonoid fiddled with the contraptions in his hand, shaking his head. “You tired?” Quill asked gently. Groot could read the concern in his eyes. Rocket glanced up from his work,
“I’m always tired these days Quill.,” Rocket eventually answered sadly. Peter nodded, Groot watched as the human reached out and touched Rocket’s shoulder. The raccoonoid flinched, evidently biting back the instinct to attack.
“Your not dying, we’ re gonna get you fixed up.” Groot nodded to himself, then pointed to the tape at Quill’s hip.
“Oh yeah, it’s new.” Rocket leaned closer, evidently glad for the change of subject.
“Got any good tunes on it?” Peter grinned from ear to ear, he unplugged the headphone jack and pressed play. Groot listened as the music began, shimmering like the sunset over water.
“Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while, heaven can wait we're only watching the skies, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?” Groot closed his eyes, letting the music carry him as they sat in the heat of the engine room. It’s constant whirling and omnipresent force. “Let us die young or let us live forever. We don't have the power, but we never say never. Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip, the music's for the sad man.”
He opened his eyes, Rocket was looking up, at the window of the engine room, the stars floating past. Beside him Peter gazed outward, both of them sitting in silence side by side, allowing the words to be spoke by the music. “Can you imagine when this race is won? Turn our golden the faces into the sun, praising our leaders, we're getting in tune the music's played by the, the madman.” The flora colossus felt the ship drift, pushed onward by the very engine and thrusters and rockets that Rocket meticulously tended. The music continued, carrying them through the endless expanse, “Forever young, I want to be forever young, do you really want to live forever? Forever, and ever.” Do you really want to live forever? Groot wondered as the music continued, he watched Peter lean closer to the raccoonoid, one hand gently patting the top of his head. Rocket did nothing, just sat, watching the stars. Could anything truly live forever? Groot asked himself. I was grown from the twig of another flora colossus…what will happen if I age someday? Will another Groot grow from my bark? Do I live forever like that? Everything is a cycle. All living things are young, then grow old and eventually die, don’t they?
“I like this song,” Peter said quietly. Rocket nodded as it continued on. “Forever young I want to be forever young. Do you really want to live forever? Forever young. Some are like water, some are like the heat, some are a melody and some are the beat, sooner or later they all will be gone. Why don't they stay young? It's so hard to get old without a cause, I don't want to perish like a fading horse. Youth's like diamonds in the sun, and diamonds are forever.” A small cough from the raccoonoid broke Groot’s thoughts, as if to magnify that which he was already thinking. Peter pat Rocket on the back and finally the temperamental raccoonoid shrugged him off. Taking a deep breath as Groot turned to the sky once more. “So many adventures given up today, so many songs we forgot to play. So many dreams swinging out of the blue.Oh let it come true, forever young. I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever. Forever, and ever? Forever young.” The music spun around them, lifting Groot’s vines. He reached out his arms, enveloping Peter and Rocket in his embrace. Hold them tight and protect them. Finally the silence crept over the notes of the facing song. The only sound being the whirl of the engine and the shallow thrush of Rocket’s breathing.
“We’re gonna fix you up,” Peter whispered. Rocket turned to the human, sparing a glance over his shoulder to where Groot forced a smile. “We’ll take you to Wakanda,” the human continued. “Shuri can patch you up in no time.” Rocket’s red muddled red eyes looked up through the glass to the galaxy,
“No,” Rocket finally breathed. “We ain’t going to Wakanda.” Peter turned sharply, Groot felt the human’s momentary anger, born out of the inability to face the fact.
“You know what that means then?” he finally asked.
“Yeah humie I know what that means,” Rocket sighed, shuddering against Groot as if from a chill. On instinct Groot wound his vines around his friend, securing him there. The truth of Rocket’s words not yet hitting his heart. Peter sucked in his lip, shaking his head.
“No.” He hissed. “No. You might be willing to lay down and die, but I’m not willing to let you.”
“It’s not like that Pete,” Rocket tried. It’s already hopeless, Groot knew of Rocket’s effort to convince the human otherwise.
“Really?” Peter turned to the raccoonoid once more, “then what’s it like Rocket? Tell me.”
“I am Groot,” they both looked to him.
“Forget it,” Peter dismissed standing up and breaking free of Groot’s hold.
“I am Groot!” the flora colossus called after him, but the cold metal door of the entire room slid shut.
“You better get ready for your fight tomorrow,” Rocket said. Groot shook his head, not realizing his friend had even addressed him.
“I am Groot,” he nodded, numb. I know what that means humie. No. There must be some way. Some way we don’t know yet. There must be. Uselessness like rot threatened to bore into Groot’s bark and spread its cancerous doubt.
“What do you mean your not worried about it?” Rocket asked, “it’s Gamora! She’s the best fighter we got! She’s gonna wipe your wooden ass with the floor if you don’t practice!” He tried to laugh, but Groot only shook his head. Your not the only one who is tired of fighting.
“I am Groot,” goodnight.
“Groot!” He halted at the door, as he had so many times.
“What I said…about raising you,” Rocket wrung his paws together. “It was true a’right? It wasn’t just the meds. I meant it.” Red searching eyes looked at him, into him. Begging for something Groot could not name nor give.
“I am Groot,” I know… Groot smiled sadly. Rocket nodded and Groot contented himself as he turned away, shutting the engine room door.
The next day, Groot fought Gamora. He watched Rocket cheering on from above, and Mantis clapping frantically. It was tough, Gamora’s speed and cutting blade forcing him to be constantly moving, dodging. But in the end he won, tangling her in his vines and disarming her. She had only cut off two of his limbs. That night they got drunk off the rest of Rocket’s ivamoa brandy. Groot watched them all, the alcohol having no effect on him. Finally, after Rocket passed out in Kraglin’s lap, Groot hoisted his friend over his shoulder and headed down to the engine room once more.
“You got him?” Mantis asked as Groot stood. He turned, her expectant face wide and full of concern. She’s talking about me, he realized. Do I have Rocket? Yes. I’m holding him. Looking after him since he can’t look after himself. But I don’t know how. Rocket hiccupped, his whole body contracting with a spasm. No, the terrible face reared its head in Groot’s heart. I don’t have him. Don’t know how. Halfworld, nightmares, Rocket’s simultaneous acceptance and refusal to acknowledge age. The only thing Groot could do was what he’d always done. Try his best, hope it was good enough.
“I am Groot,” he answered with sickly honesty.
______________
“Forever Young” By Alphaville: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5guhMw_EH0
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20, 21, 34, for anyone you’d like!
For this one, I’m going with my main four characters: Solus Vetra, Lumi Kirrin, Jazari Naaji, and Kamelia Malo! It’s going under a cut because I already know I’m going to get long winded with it.
Are they insecure or happy with themselves?
Solus is happy with herself more often then not. There’s always room to improve things (she’s only going to stop that when she’s dead) but overall she’s content. After what felt like forever Solus finally became herself again and found her true purpose. The further she gets from the Jedi Tenants the happier she becomes.
Lumi is super happy with herself. Are there flaws? Yes, but they’re her flaws. Some little habits she needs to change, others set in stone that she has just accepted, and a few that straddle the line between flaw and strength. But, she considers the important thing is she recognizes her own self worth.
Jazari is insecure sometimes. When compared to the other two, it is hard to not feel down on herself some days. Solus and Lumi are extraordinary in her mind. Their generation will be shaped by them. Those feelings come up even more during the Clone Wars. Most of her time is spent within Arca Barracks running the back end of various ops next to their much more active Front Line Presence. It feels like they are risking more, doing more, giving more to the War Effort. But, they make damn sure she knows she’s just as valuable as they are, if not more so. Because they’re always going to lift each other up.
Kamelia’s middle name could be Insecurity at this point. Instead of building herself up from the inside she depends too heavily on outside validation. The simplest bit of constructive criticism sends her spiraling into the depths of self-loathing and puts up all of her walls. It was an okay system until she went from being the shining star of her age group to falling behind. Instead of trying to work past it she continues to be catty, hypocritical, and frankly self-adsorbed.
Opinion on romance?
Solus has a pretty favorable opinion of romance. It takes a backseat a lot to everything else going on in her life but she does enjoy the gestures. Nothing ostentatious like roof top declarations or useless, gaudy gifts catches her eye. But, the small things like remembering her favorite food or forehead kisses? Surprising her with flowers or fixing a weapon/starfighter/etc for her or running a bath for her because her day sucked? Yeah, those will always win her heart over. She’s not there for the fleeting feelings but the long haul instead.
Lumi is wary of traditional romance. It feels like society at large puts too much emphasis on it. Everything about “Love and Romance” is supposed to be some kind of grandiose display of claiming one another. None of that appeals to her on any level. Instead, she prefers a quiet comfort derived from being together. A feeling of caring and belonging and home. Basically, she wants the only difference between her friendships and partnerships to be agreed upon rules among themselves. If she cares about someone then she cares about them. There’s no strange feeling of mystery or excitement to put it on some unattainable pedestal. That being said, she will melt from little gestures from her lover(s). Those are the things that matter most to her.
Jazari really enjoys spoiling others with little romantic gestures. There’s something that warms her heart about warming others hearts. Flowers, little snacks, fixing a broken datapad, even just the cutesy messages back and fourth throughout the day are fantastic to her. Being on the receiving end is almost always equally as nice. Just spoiling one another with little dates to fall deeper and deeper in love makes her happy. The Galaxy has enough hate and discord, what is needs now is love and kindness.
Kamelia has a very torn opinion on romance. Outwardly, she denies wanting it. Because romance implies falling in love therefore breaking the Code. She is so desperate to be a good Jedi she will do anything to avoid breaking those rules. Hell, she judges those who fail to follow the Code repeatedly. But…she wants romance. She wants the big gestures and shows of affection. More than anything she wants someone to show her off (and that she can show off) because they belong together. She watches dramatic romances or historical dramas dreaming of living the charmed lives of the heroines. Dating, love, marriage, and babies ever after is what she wants but refuses to admit.
Do they have any trauma? if so, what?
Solus had a very traumatic life before the Jedi Order. She was born during the Great Clan Wars on Mandalore and was almost executed during it, at age four along with fellow future Countess, Ursa Wren (age 14/15 and the general of the stronghold), in an attempt to take the planet. The Jedi voting her in was luck but also a curse because she was always too much for them. She grew up bullied for being Mandalorian, for being a “Bad Guy” if you followed the Republic’s biased history. She was also far too intelligent, too skilled, and too keyed into a sort of Past Force Vision sense to make anyone comfortable. At eleven, she became a Padawan and forged her second lightsaber, to dual wield at her Master’s suggestion for a challenge. At fifteen, she was grouped into the Jedi Assault Team for Geonosis and watched Jango Fett (the last True Mandalorian, legacy of Jaster Mereel, and her Manda’lor) die by Mace Windu’s hand. Her history died and she blamed herself. Only a few months later her Master, Leska, died during the Battle of Jabiim, along with most of their Clone Troopers and 26 other Jedi overall, leaving Solus to snatch a barely there victory from the jaws of defeat.
Lumi was born in a very Hutt Cartel controlled region of Ryloth. Her father was a Lethan Twi’lek slave and her mother his half-Sephi, half-Rutian Twi’lek master. Because of his misstep of “seducing” her mother, her father was executed, then some months later her mother died in childbirth. By age three, she knew was considered weird among her family and often ignored, due to her innate talents with Shatterpoints and reading everything. It was only a matter of when, not if, they would grow tired of her and make a lot of quick credits. The Jedi Order was a blessing and a curse. They had no idea how to handle her fear and anger but Mace Windu helped. Her understood her Shatterpoints and her feelings and helped so much. At age 11, he became her Master and at 15, the reason she was on Geonosis. Seeing him kill Jango Fett, feeling the reactions of everyone around her (Solus screaming in unimaginable pain like death and Boba wailing) changed her opinions. Their slave army, her repeated trips to Ryloth, and her Master’s devotion to the Republic made life difficult.
Jazari was born on Jedha, in the capital city even. Her mother was on an extended pilgrimage from Mirial to Jedha to see the Kyber Temple while her father was a mechanic and native. Early on her mother left (she has no memories of her) but she grew up with her father. He died when she three leaving her an orphan. Until a Jedi could be dispatched to bring her to the Temple she lived with Guardians and was sad to leave them. Her life could’ve been idyllic among the Jedi except she favored tech to people and she befriended outcasts, Solus, Lumi, and Kamelia. At 12, she became a Padawan to Arligan Zey exposing her to fantastic master but also to the underbelly of the Galaxy within Intel. At 16, she helped run back end operations for Geonosis spending many agonizing hours waiting to hear who lived and who died. From there, she was tossed headlong into the war rarely to the front lines but always analyzing data, holed up in Arca Company Barracks and within the Special Operations Brigade. Included in her tasks was making judgement calls that the many outweighed the few…something she absolutely loathed. They were out there dying as she stayed on Coruscant safe.
Kamelia was given to the Jedi Order as an infant. Everything about her life should’e been cookie cutter perfect within the Temple walls. She was never the outsider in terms of age or life experiences. Her touch of Force Visions and quick skills should’ve made her a shoe in to make friends. Instead, she stayed isolated because of her preoccupation with the Future instead of the Now. As that dividing line grew wider her age-mates’ tolerances of her attitudes grew thinner. She was a teacher’s pet of sorts, a bit of a tattletale, and socially awkward leading to her being teased. Accepting Solus’ offer of friendship, with Lumi and Jazari as well, cemented her Outsider status. It was difficult but not impossible until her friends, the ones who were always ranked beneath her in a way, shot forward into Padawanship…while she did not. It created a rift between her and her only friends. They were always away on missions while she stayed back…waiting. By 15.5 she became a Padawn, finally, when she was assigned to a Master. The fear of being sent to the Service Corps or ousted from the only home she had ever known, because of failure, weighed on her. The other three at least knew a life outside the Temple. The Clone Wars only touched her life in abstract ways. She was never assigned to the fronts, never left the Halls of Healing (exactly where she wanted to be), and never feared really. Until, Solus was assigned there to study (after Leska’s death for the 3 months it took Master Fisto to claim her) challenging Kamelia’s barely held on grip to “I am worth something” because her former friend was moving into her skill set better than her.
#caff answers#rowansparrow#solus vetra#lumi kirrin#jazari naaji#kamelia malo#cw death#cw trauma#cw slavery#cw bullying
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Chapter 43
There was an almost deadly silence that’d blanketed the inside of the warm truck and I kept my eyes plastered to passenger side window. I dreaded what I knew I had to do in only a few minutes and once the vehicle came to a complete stop in the familiar parking lot, I sighed and slowly unbuckled my seatbelt. I glanced over to my left at Chris who sat back in his seat staring up at the apartment complex with an expression of stone. It was in that moment that I realized Destani was absolutely correct when she would often preach that ‘good dick will make you do whatever it wants you to do’… and there I sat, in the passenger seat of Chris’s truck after he’d easily weaseled his way into my excursion to Trey’s apartment. I had no clue how the confrontation between the two would pan out, but after yet another intense and back breaking ‘lesson’ with Chris earlier in the morning, I didn’t even care. All I wanted was to get the darn ring back to Trey so my body could finally have a chance to rest… and heal.
"You gone call him?" Chris asked, keeping his eyes focused on the building… like he knew exactly which apartment Trey was in.
Cutting my eyes at him, I plucked my cross body purse up from beside my snow booted foot to retrieve my phone. I pulled it out and pressed my finger against the home screen to bring the device to life. Once I input my finger print, I searched through my contacts for Trey and when I found him I hesitantly tapped my finger against the green call button and waited for him to answer.
"What’s up?" He answered and I wondered if he’d looked at his caller i.d. before answering the phone.
"Um... hey Trey." I stuttered. There was a moment of silence on his end and for a few seconds, I thought perhaps he’d hung up.
"Hey Sy'Diyah." He finally said.
"Do you think you could come downstairs for a minute?" I asked quickly, making sure to get straight to the point so I wouldn’t chicken out with Chris sitting there, staring at me.
"Uh, yeah. You outside or something?" He chuckled.
"Yeah I am. I just need to talk to you… if that's alright."
"Cool. I'll be down in a sec." He said, hanging up after a quick goodbye. I released a withheld sigh and dimmed the screen of my phone.
"He coming?" Chris probed from his seat.
I nodded, refusing to face him, and stared up at the second floor of the building waiting for Trey to step out. He finally emerged at the top of the stairs and I quickly glanced over at Chris just before pushing the passenger side door open and climbing down out of the truck. I walked briskly toward the bottom of the stairs… I had no desire to be anywhere near that truck while I made this awkward exchange.
"What’s up?" Trey said as he slowly approached me near the last step.
"Um, nothing. I just... I wanted to talk to you about something." I spoke quickly and quietly as I played with the ring that rested warmly in the pocket of my jacket.
"What about?." He asked.
Wasting no time, I plucked the ring from my pocket and stuck my hand out at him. I refused to make eye contact with him, so after a few seconds of keeping my head angled to the left with my hand sticking out, I started to wonder why he hadn’t moved yet. I peered at him from the corner of my eye and spotted him simply standing there… staring awkwardly at me.
"What you doing ma?" He asked with confusion all over his face.
I sighed, dropped my hand, and finally turned my head to face him "I'm giving you the ring back. I can't keep it Trey."
"Why?"
"Because..." I started then paused, finding it more difficult than I’d imagined to give the thing back to him. Through my peripheral, I could see Chris staring dead at us with no shame and that alone left my nerves completely rattled.
"I just can't... here. Take it." I stepped toward him and attempted to hand it off to him once more, but he only stepped back away from me and shook his head.
"Nah ma... I think you should just keep it." He persisted.
I sighed in defeat and dropped my hand back down to my side. I absolutely loathed the fact that on one hand there was Chris forcing me to give the ring back as though it were detrimental to my life, and his, and on the other, Trey made it so unnecessarily difficult for me by refusing to take it back… the thought alone was starting to give me a headache.
"Look, I know your dude brought you over here," He said, glancing quickly over at Chris’s truck, "I know he’s probably the one who don't want you to keep that ring either, but I do. So just stick it in your pocket and tell him that you gave it back to me?"
I wanted to tell him that it wasn't as easy as it sounded. Approaching Chris and lying right to his face would be almost equivalent to walking through the world’s best lie detector… he would detect it immediately and we’d be right back at square one.
"Trey, you don't understand..." My thought was completely interrupted when I heard the sudden sound of a car door slamming. I kept my fingers crossed in the warm depths of my pockets and prayed that the door that’d just closed belonged to somebody… anybody other than Chris. I heard the footsteps before I saw him and my heart leapt into overdrive from the thought of him approaching us. Eventually, I could feel his presence behind me and I tried to maintain a straight face… though on the inside I was absolutely terrified and truly felt like vomiting right then and there.
"You good baby?" His voice was low and almost deadly as he leaned in close behind me, swarming me in a cloud of his addictive scent. I swallowed hard as I stared at Trey and nodded my head, hoping that Chris would believe me, yet knowing that he wouldn’t because he knew me better than I knew my own self. He eased a hand into the right pocket of my jacket and rummaged around for a bit, then pulled it out leaving my pocket occupied by nothing but my hand. He swiftly tossed the ring at Trey, who instinctively lifted his hands from his own jacket pockets and caught it. Trey looked down at the gleaming piece of jewelry as he twirled it between his fingers then slowly raised his gaze to Chris once he began to speak.
"Let me explain something to you bruh. This..." He placed his hands against my waist and pulled me back against him, "Is my girl... my woman. I’m gonna make this shit as simple and to the point as I can... from this day forward, you will keep your distance from her, alright. If I catch you tryna communicate with her in any way, me and you will have a fucking problem."
Chris delivered a simple nod to Trey then grabbed my hand and turned to walk away without waiting for a response. I didn't utter a single word. I simply walked along behind him as he held a firm grip on my hand. Glancing back as we walked, I caught the astonished eye of Trey as his eyes danced back and forth between Chris and I. Though he seemed thrown off by the speech Chris had just delivered, he maintained an expression of stone and his jaw bulged repeatedly as he watched Chris escort me to his truck.
--
The moment we arrived back at the apartment and he unlocked the door to let us in, I nearly ran down the hall and into his bedroom where I quickly shut and locked the door behind me. I exhaled a withheld breath of air and rolled my eyes up toward the ceiling as I leaned my back against the door.
I could feel the knob jiggling against the side of my wrist and I listened carefully to the sound of Chris shuffling outside the door.
"Babe, what's wrong? Why you got the door locked?"
With a roll of my eyes, I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed "I'm just tired Chris. I'm gonna take a nap… can I do that?"
"Okay, but why is the door locked?" He asked, continuing to wiggle at the handle.
Leaning away from the door, I moved toward the bed as I pulled my jacket off with each exhausted step that I took "I'm just tired..."
The sound of the jiggling door handle finally stopped and I assumed he’d walked away when I didn’t hear any more noise outside the door.
I allowed my body to fall face first onto the down comforter and I began to succumb to the plush material. I wasn't exaggerating when I told him that I was tired and only a few minutes after I’d plopped down on the bed, I was out for the next few hours.
I awoke from my slumber with the sudden urge to use the restroom. I climbed down from the bed and made my way over to the bathroom where I quickly relieved myself and washed my hands before moving back out into the bedroom. I ran a hand over the top of my head in an attempt to tame my crazy curls and yawned as I pulled the door open. With only one step out into the hall, I nearly jumped from my own skin the moment I noticed Chris sitting right outside the door. I held a hand against my chest as I watched him sit with his back pressed against the wall a few feet away from me, knees raised and feet flat on the floor. His elbows were resting against the top of his knees and his hands were loosely linked together in front of him. I could only see part of his face due to the black beanie he wore pulled almost all the way over his eyes.
"You still tired?" He mumbled after slowly raising his head to look up at me. I shook my head as I watched him push himself up from the floor to tower over me.
He continued to stare at me before dropping his gaze down to the floor beneath our feet with a soft sigh "You're mad at me... you weren't just tired, you were mad."
I watched him closely as he swiftly swiped his tongue out over his lips, impressed at his ability to understand my emotions from my actions alone. I didn’t want to tell him that though… I refused to admit that I was upset about the entire ordeal back at Trey’s, because I knew that would open the door for another argument that I didn’t have the energy for.
"No I'm not Chris." I stated tiredly.
"Yes you are." He mumbled, turning suddenly and moving down the hall toward his bedroom.
I stood there and stared at his back as he quickly walked away from me. I started to head down the hall behind him, but stopped abruptly the moment he reemerged in the hall after changing into a pair of classic timberland boots and a black hoodie. He walked toward me and I noticed that he gripped his keys in one hand along with his phone in the other. Just when I thought he would stop and at least tell me where he was going, he slid past me and continued to trek onward to the front door.
"Where are you going?" I asked quietly as I followed him into the living room.
"Out." He replied, failing to turn and face me. I stopped in the entryway of the living room and stared at his back as he unlocked the door, swung it open, and closed it behind him. It took me a minute to digest what’d just happened, but the moment I did my heart sunk. In that moment, I couldn’t help but believe that I’d just driven Chris out of his own apartment by my actions alone. I could only imagine how he felt knowing that I was upset because of another guy and I felt absolutely awful and ashamed that I’d gotten that carried away.
Deciding not to spend another second stressing about the situation, I headed on back to his room and jumped in the shower to prepare for bed. Nearly half an hour later, I lay tucked away in his bed with the pillow that he rested his head on every night pressed against my chest. I lay awake for what felt like hours with a mind clouded racing thoughts before finally closing my eyes and succumbing to sleep.
--
My eyes fluttered open and landed on the bright green numbers illuminated on the alarm clock across from me. I blinked rapidly to adjust to the obscurity of the room then sat halfway up and peered down at the clock again to see that it was a little after two in the morning. The sudden sound of the front door slamming shut startled me and I immediately fell back down against my pillow. Seconds later, the bedroom door slowly crept open and I slithered my eyes open to see Chris walking into the room with his hood pulled low over his head. I peered over the edge of the comforter at him as he moved briskly toward his bathroom and pulled the door open then ventured in without bothering to turn on a light.
A short while later, he ambled back into the room in a pair of dark colored basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. Though the room was dark, there was still just enough moonlight creeping in through the blinds for me to see that he kept his head low as he moved. Because I’d fallen asleep on his side of the bed, he made his way around to the other side and slipped in behind me.
After lying there for several minutes in complete silence, I assumed he’d fallen asleep and I took that as my cue to roll over and face him. The moment I turned all the way around I almost wished I hadn't... he was lying on his back with one hand resting on his chest and the other tucked beneath his pillow with his head turned in my direction... staring directly at me. I froze instantly and stared right back, allowing my eyes to adjust to the sight of his high yellow face in the dark. Though I couldn’t see it all clearly in the dark, I could still make out the steadily darkening bruise just beneath his right eye, the scratch above his left brow that stretched across the entire length of it, and the dried blood on the corner of his bottom lip. I was stunned by the sight, so much so that I couldn’t even bring myself to speak for several seconds. He seemed completely unfazed by the damage done to his face though and he only continued to stare at me.
“What happened?” I whispered. He shook his head and kept quiet with a blank expression on his face. I raised a hand up toward his face, but he flinched and moved his head back when I got too close to the bruise.
“Chris, what did you do?” I whispered once more, sitting up on my left elbow to get a better visual of him.
“Nothing… go to sleep.” He demanded quietly. Knowing that there was no way I would get him to tell me the complete truth, I slowly retreated down into my spot against him and kept my eyes glued to his bruised and battered face. My eyes roamed frantically over every inch of his once perfect face and I fought the urge to reach out and touch his flushed cheek.
“Sy’Diyah its okay,” He murmured and it was now my turn to flinch when I heard my first name firmly leave his lips, “I’m alright babe… just go to sleep.”
“Why won’t you just tell me where you’ve been and what you did for this to happen to you… your face?” I stuck my hand out again to touch him and this time he stayed stock still as I gently grazed the tips of my fingers over his skin.
Sliding over with an obviously pained grunt, he craned his neck to plant a kiss against my forehead before pulling me close to him so he could rest his chin on the top of my head and I could bury my face in his chest “Don’t worry about it love…”
With a sigh, I gripped onto the front of his shirt like he would drift away from me if I let go. I had a good idea of where he was before he came back to me, but the thought alone left me nauseous and I could even feel an oncoming headache as my stomach quivered nervously. He caressed my back for a while, which eventually forced me to doze off and unbeknownst to me, he spent the remainder of the morning hours lying there staring at the wall across from the bed… fooling me into believing that everything was okay.
#chrisbrown#chrisbrownff#chrisbrownfanfic#jasminesanders#chrisbrownfanfiction#jasminesandersff#teambreezy#teambreezyff#fanfiction#fanfic
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A Touch of Comfort 1.
Pairing: J I M I N x R E A D E R
Genre: F L U F F
Word Count: 2.956
Summary: “Magic is real. It’s not spells and cauldrons, no… it’s more subtle.”
DRABBLE COLLECTION
The bath is waiting and ready, but just like every time before, the reflection in the full-length mirror beside the tub stares back at you like a haunting nightmare. Constant self-loathing and self-consciousness eats away at your mind every waking moment, and Jimin, the blessing that he is, can always diminish those thoughts and make you feel like nothing less than perfection. But days like today in his absence are the most difficult, as you are left to fight your demons alone.
You loath the fact that the mirror is there, but it was Jimin’s suggestion that through constant exposure to your body, you might find love for it.
What a load of shit. You thought, nervously tugging at the loose hem of your shirt.
Taking a deep breath, you tug the oversized article of clothing over your head, tossing it to the side next to hamper. Although you admittedly aren’t in terrible shape, the reflection in the mirror makes you cringe. Your hands reach up to the button of your pants, and you swear you can hear the distinct sound of your fragile heart shattering. Without warning, tears start streaming down your face, pooling at your top lip as you try to hold it in, but before you have a chance to control it, the few tears turn into full out sobbing. You don’t understand how something so simple could affect you and tear down your confidence in mere seconds. A task you are certain every other girl in the world can do with ease happens to be one of the many you simply can’t. It also doesn’t help that you are nearing the start of your period. Hormones tend to be your worst enemy this time of the month.
Slipping into the tub, you allow your body to sink underneath the water. Even though your days are essentially empty, it feels as though you worked a 60-hour week while being a single mother taking care of 7 children with only one leg. Emotional exhaustion wears you out more than physical exhaustion ever could. With it being Sunday, it means that tomorrow morning holds the normal routine of waking up early to catch the train to university. Just that thought alone is enough for a wave of anxiety to crash against your chest.
Sliding deeper into the bathtub, your head slips underneath the water, nothing left but silence and the sound of smothered waves. Water, like stepping into another realm, has the effect of slowing down time, nulling all thoughts. To you, water is a second home whether it be swimming or something as simple as taking a bath. A security blanket when a physical one isn’t present.
A sudden pull on your arm brings you back from the depths of your mind, and as your head surfaces above the soapy abyss, you are met with chocolate brown eyes. A pair that you have become so accustomed to and have been missing for quite some time.
“Are you okay? Were you drowning?” He asks quietly, tears already brimming at the corners.
Deep down, seeing him gives you the same feeling in the pit of your stomach, the same rapid heartbeat and nervousness as when you first met him. There is so much on your mind, yet so little, that you don’t even realize you have yet to respond.
The moment his arms wrap around your shoulders, you fall into his body, effortlessly soaking his shirt. He seems to welcome the feeling, as instead of letting go, he only squeezes you tighter.
“When did you come in? I didn’t hear you.” You ask timidly, straining to keep your voice steady. Pulling away from his embrace, he stares at you lovingly before placing a small kiss on your forehead.
“You know that I can’t stay away from you for too long.” Standing from his spot, he reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it off with ease.
“What are you doing?” He stops with his hand on his belt and looks at you with furrowed brows.
“I’m joining you. Unless you want to be alone.” You quickly shake your head in response, nearly giddy at the idea of Jimin taking a bath with you. It’s not as though you two have never done so before, it’s just that it’s been a while, and the days spending time in the bath together tend to be the deepest and most sincere moments for you. It has become a meeting place where you share your emotions with each other and shed all insecurities.
Once ready, he steps into the ivory bath across from you, taking his time adjusting to the burning temperature at which you love your baths most. But when he looks up at you, you can’t help but notice the pain in his eyes, something he tries to hide with a smile, but a façade you always see through.
He’s worried sick. And it’s all your fault.
Quickly you try and hide your face as the tears rapidly begin to fall, but they only come out as choked sobs. Jimin grabs your arm and pulls you toward him, pushing your head onto his chest as he rubs circles across your back. His gesture only intensifies the tears, and in the back of your mind you know that he is too good to be true, that you don’t deserve him, but that you love him and appreciate him none the less. No one has cared for you the way that Jimin does, and it’s a feeling you never want to end. He is perfection, and deserves the world, but you know you will never be able to give that to him which only breaks your heart more.
“Hey… please don’t cry. Please, I don’t like seeing you cry.” His voice wavers as he speaks from him holding his emotions, his attempt at staying strong for the both of you. He only squeezes you tighter, leaving endless kisses on your forehead and across your face.
You want to stop crying, but you can’t. Your cheeks, permanently stained with tears and flush with emotion, ache. You want it all to stop.
As Jimin rubs your arm, he begins humming a melody, the one that he would hum to you whenever you had nightmares. Your mind slows along with your breathing, and you snuggle closer into his chest. He continues humming and grabs the bath pouf, pouring your favorite white citrus scented shower gel. With another kiss against your hair, he begins washing your body, starting at your shoulders and down your back. Your muscles relax against him and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Your mind begins to wander as he washes the soap off your skin, and within moments you feel yourself drift. Caught between sleep and reality, you listen to the sound of his heart beating and the gentle rhythm of his breathing. All the pain you were feeling dissipates and is replaced by warmth and comfort. In the distance, you hear him calling your name, like a mantra falling off his tongue, and with a gentle shake on your shoulders, you open your eyes. Grabbing your chin, he lifts your face and places a few kisses on your lips. He smiles at you before turning you around in front of him so that you face the wall ahead. Without you noticing, he must have grabbed the leave-in conditioner that you normally use when you take baths. Running his hands across the strands, he attempts to spread it evenly, only to realize that he put way more than he should have.
“Sorry, I think I put too much.” You only giggle at his remark, but let him continue. Having someone play with your hair is one of the best feelings.
In the silence, you hear the subtle sound of him chewing on his bottom lip, which only means one thing – he is waiting for you to speak. Jimin is adorably predictable in this way, and after being together for so long, you have merely memorized the meaning behind some of his actions.
“Whenever you’re ready, my ears are open.” A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, your prediction coming to light in the sweetest of ways. He knows you inside and out, like the back of his hand. He knows when you need comforting and when you need space.
“I just really missed you is all… but I’m really happy to see you now.” He drops his hands from your hair and after a few moments of silence, he responds.
“I believe that you missed me. I missed you like crazy. But I also know there’s more to it than that, so please don’t lie to me.” Looking down, you examine your prune hands and hide them back underneath the water. After a few moments, he continues running his fingers through your hair, giving you time to collect your thoughts. There are times when you are unfiltered with Jimin, but there are also times when you feel as though you have to watch what you say.
“You weren’t replying to my messages or calling me. And I know it’s because you were busy and not that you were ignoring me. Sometimes, my mind just assumes the worst, and I was scared you lost interest in me. Especially since I know I have not been… great lately. I’ve been especially needy, and I’m just so afraid of you being annoyed with me or finding someone who is so much better and prettier. Jimin, you don’t realize just how amazing you are. You deserve the world and more, and sometimes I feel like I’m not enough. I don’t think I’ll ever be enough. I just feel so gross in my own skin… I hate it. I hate being me especially when you’re not here.” The tears you had tried so hard to dry up only spill down your cheeks again, and with all your strength, you stop yourself from sobbing, preventing Jimin from seeing just how weak you are.
With a small hum, he processes your words, giving you the opportunity to finish your thoughts. But all that had come from your mouth is all you can muster to spill, electing instead to show him through action your rawest feelings.
Turning around in his grip, you lean in and kiss him passionately only for him to return with equal force. His lips are soft and plump, a sign of affection you haven’t felt in eons, the small nips at your bottom lip only leaving you to desire more. Moments turn to minutes, but your session ends short by the need to breathe. The few inches between your faces allows you to scan his expression, his eyes, for any hints of regret of your relationship. As you expected, there are none. He knows better than anyone that words mean nothing to you without actions behind them, and he always does his best to show you his unconditional love. He wants nothing more than for all the doubt in your heart to disappear. He never wants to see you hurt, and being away took a toll on both of you. Just like he had hoped, the world felt right again the moment he touched your skin.
Magic is real. It’s not spells and cauldrons, no… it’s more subtle.
“Thank you for letting me love you.” His voice comes out quiet, but entirely sincere. Even when you can’t see yourself the way he does, he will always remind you just what you mean to him. He knows the right words to say and the right actions to take. In your eyes, he is perfect so trusting him comes easy. You heart rests in his hands and he does nothing but take good care of it.
After a kiss on your forehead, he stands up and steps out of the bathtub, reaching out his hand to assist you. Instead of grabbing your usual towels on the rack, he rummages through the cabinet, finally pulling out one of the large beach towels. Walking over to you, he puts the towel around his shoulders and pulls you in against his chest. He holds you tight and uses the ends of the towel to dry your back. You can’t help but smile at how cute he is being, and if it was possible, you would stay in this position with him forever. Swaying on your feet, you both begin to rock back and forth to the rhythm of the silent music. The towel drops to the floor and you sway your hips, dancing as gracefully as a naked woman could on wet tile. He watches in admiration for a minute before he joins you, this time initiating some ballroom dancing. You didn’t realize how much you had enjoyed dancing until you met Jimin, and because of him, you’ve discovered a lot about yourself. He spins you, dips you, and leads you, and although you are not the most graceful, you both work well together. That is until a sudden pain in your abdomen forces you to stop.
“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?” The pained look on your face forces him into action, taking place beside you as he grabs one of your hands. Holding onto your stomach, you lie down on the floor, curling up into the smallest ball possible. He tries to repeat his question before you can answer, so mid-sentence you cut him off with one simple word.
“Period.” His eyes widen in realization, offering a hand to help you stand. Holding onto your waist, he places your arm around his shoulder.
“I figured it would be that time of the month, so before I came over I went and picked up some stuff for you. You mentioned last time that you were out of pads, right? Well I bought both kinds since I didn’t know if it was light or heavy this time around. I also bought pain reliever and a couple pints of icecream. All your favorite flavors. But none of that until after you eat the soup I make you, alright? Let’s get you into bed so I can take care of you.”
You stand there, mouth slightly agape. The last thing you expected was for Jimin to remember when your period was let alone the fact that you were completely out of pads.
Noticing your speechless expression, he gives you his cutest eye smile and you nearly melt into the floor. Leaning against him, you hug him tightly as he leads you toward the bed. Once he sits you down, he grabs the sweatpants and his shirt from the chair by the window, handing them to you only to press one final kiss on your forehead.
“Get dressed and I’ll start the soup okay?” You nod and your cheeks nearly fall off from him making you smile so much. After putting on his own clothes, he walks out of the room, closing the door slightly, now giving you time to process everything. Lying on the bed, you gaze at the ceiling, lost deep in your thoughts. Being with Jimin is a like a dream you never want to wake up from, and every now and then you pinch yourself to make sure this is all real. Goosebumps make their way up your legs, and you snuggle against the comforter. Sounds coming from the kitchen catch your attention, and with quick, yet clumsy reflexes, you change.
Walking into the kitchen, Jimin has his back turned to you, so when you sneak up behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso, he jumps and nearly drops the hot soup in his hands.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed.” He scoffs, playing off his response as if nothing occurred at all. You squeeze him tighter and he can only laugh. Setting down the soup, he turns around in your arms, pushing a few wet strands behind your ear.
“Go grab some blankets and hang out on the couch. I’ll set up everything and then we can cuddle.” You nod and rest your hands on his shoulders, giving him a small peck on the lips before you rush out of the kitchen and into the bedroom to grab the fluffiest blankets from the closet. Coming back into the living room, you see the soup sitting on the coffee table, the heating pad plugged in, and Jimin next to the table with a spoon ready in hand. You sit down on the couch and cover yourself in the blankets only for him to follow as he slumps down next to you, inching closer to you as he snuggles underneath the blankets. Handing you the heating pad, you place it on your stomach and wait patiently as he grabs the soup off the table. You are about the grab the bowl from his hands until you notice his slight hesitation. When you look up, you catch him staring intensely.
“Is something wrong?” He responds with a gentle smile before shaking his head.
“I just love you is all. I’m really happy to be here with you. I’m sorry that my schedule has been so busy lately, but know that no matter what, you are the home I will always come back to. Whenever you feel doubt, just hold the necklace you are wearing.”
Your hand immediately reaches to the intricate gold chain around your neck, the necklace he had bought for you during a trip abroad. The necklace itself is simple with a small diamond, but it means the world to you, and you never take it off.
“Just hold that tight and remember that I will always be back.”
#btswriters#kreativewritersnet#bts writing squad#bt-yes-network#bangtanwriters-net#boy group writers net#bangtanbuds#armiesnet#bts#bangtan#jimin#jimin fluff#bts fluff#bts drabble#jimin drabble#a touch of comfort
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For the last year I have been setting up a university bridging module which offers the chance for those affected by homelessness and, often, addiction, to access higher education.
It has been a path fraught with challenges and barriers
It has been a mountain that has sometimes seemed almost impossible to climb.
It has been a journey full of anxiety and worry.
But most of all it has taught me to understand the strength of the human spirit, the power of determination to beat the odds, it has reminded me of the innate kindness of the human heart.
I still remember the first day, the sense of trepidation with which I stood in front of a group of strangers who had experienced more in their lives than I could begin to fathom.
They walked together through the door of the University, And I could see it in their eyes, the uncertainty of the welcome they would receive.
This group of people used to being judged and ostracised, misfits expecting to be labelled and rejected
I tried to imagine the courage it must have taken to walk through that door, the demons they had to battle to take that first step.
We all of us struggle with imposter syndrome, the belief that any minute now someone is going to find us out and realise we are not who we say we are, but for those guys on that evening I can only imagine how alien the world of academia must have seemed.
But from the moment they sat in the lecture room, they were transformed. They became hungrier for learning and thirstier for knowledge than any students I have ever taught.
And as the year progressed, they became more confident and with each week, I became more humble.
I was and still am, overawed by their ability to link the theories that we talked about to the lives they had lived.
I was, and still am, blown away by their intelligences and quick -wittedness.
And I was, and still am, overwhelmed by their generosity of spirit, by their kind heartedness. From those who have been out in the cold, I have received more warmth than from many who have never known loneliness.
From those who have nothing, I have learnt the value of a kind word and a smile.
From those who are used to being invisible, I have learnt the difference that treating people with respect and having just one person who truly cares can make.
And so, on that first evening, we began a journey that profoundly changed us all. There were times when we cried together, times when we almost gave up.
If you have no identity, no documents to show who you are, then it is hard to prove you are someone.
If your default reaction to stress is to reach for a bottle or a needle, then writing academic essays when you have never really been to school, becomes more than just an annoying challenge.
But there were times when the room was warmed by laughter, when the sense of achievement was almost tangible.
Some did not complete the course but what I have learnt, is that the sum of what we are trying to do is greater than its parts. It is not about completing a course but about offering hope, about understanding your own potential, about maybe, just maybe, making the impossible seem possible. And even when the dream doesn’t quite come true, honesty and self-awareness grow.
“Sorry, but I struggled with the essay…every time I worked on it, I really had a bad craving for a drink …I almost relapsed,” wrote one student ” My sobriety is more important than a uni degree…but thanks for making me realise I had a brain.”
They learnt how to reference, how to write critically. They read academic journals and spent hours in the library, leafing through books. Guest lecturers kept asking me if they could come back, library staff told me enthusiastically how hard they were all working. Almost without any of us noticing, they became absorbed into the fabric of he University as hard-working, dedicated students.
“Can you think of a time when you have been labelled?” I asked them. And of course I expected everyone to tell me stories of how they were perceived as “the homeless,” or “addicts,” ….but that is not the story they told me. One by one, sometimes whispered, sometimes angrily, they spoke of a time when they were children and a parent or teacher called them “thick.” or “stupid,” or “useless.”
Education is transfomative but being described as uneducable is one of the most destructive things that can ever happen .
It destroys self-belief and self-worth.
It destroys trust and love.
It shatters everything you were beginning to believe about yourself.
It leaves nothing but a sense of self-loathing, worthlessness and emptiness. And the best way to fill that is often with drugs or alcohol.
As parents and educators we need to take some responsibility for that. We hold the future of every child and student in our hands. We cannot protect them from danger or injustice, but we can fill them with a hope that tomorrow might be better than today.
We can give them the tools to make better decisions.
We can wrap them in the belief that they can be someone.
Because if I have learnt anything on this journey, it is that homelessness cannot simply be solved by cheaper housing ( although that will help) and addiction is not something that ever leaves us.
” I will always be an addict,” says someone from the course, ” But I can choose whether to be a drunk addict or a sober one. ”
It is easy to walk past figures slumped in a doorway, to cross the street to avoid the Big Issue sellers. We only need to turn our heads away from what we choose not to see. We all of us have a pre-conceived idea of homelessness. Drunks and tramps and self-chosen outcasts. But as I talk with the ex-deputy headmaster who is currently trying to fight his way out of addiction or with the ex-head of a department in an internationally renowned firm, victim of an abusive relationship that destroyed her, I am struck by the precariousness of life, by the knowledge that it could happen to any of us, by the awareness that next time it might be me.
I am climbing the stairs in the education department, on my way to a meeting when my phone rings. I glance at the name, one of the students from the bridging module.
” Hi,” he says.
“Are you alright,” I ask immediately.
For a second he hesitates.
“That’s why I’m ringing,” he says, ” We are always ringing you because we are not alright, because we need something, But today I’m ringing to ask how you are. I know your mum hasn’t been well and so I’m just checking that you’re ok. You have done so much for all of us and we want you to know that we are all here for you.”
And for a moment I can’t move, paralysed by the depth of emotion that such genuine kindness evokes in me. That’s who they are these unwanted dwellers on the edge of society, some of the kindest, most generous people it has ever been my privilege to meet.
And at the beginning of September the first 4 students started at University. They shrugged off their past and stepped into their future and so far… they are blossoming. Every time I see them, sitting in the cafe, wandering around campus or chatting with other students, I feel my heart skip. I watch as slowly, very slowly, some of the weight they have carried for so long on their shoulders, lifts. I watch as they make their way to lectures, just another student, stressed out about essay deadlines..
And for a moment I feel as though I can almost reach out and touch hope.
And on the same day that they started, the next group of uncertain bridging module students stepped through the university door and holding their heads as high as they dared, started their journey.
And I know however long it takes, each small step will make our lives, theirs and mine, more meaningful.
And every time I walk past someone bundled in a doorway I catch their eye and smile.
Because sometimes all it takes is a smile to make people believe that they exist.
Sometimes a smile is the very first step.
The First Step For the last year I have been setting up a university bridging module which offers the chance for those affected by homelessness and, often, addiction, to access higher education.
#Big Issue#excluded#fringes of society#Higher education#homeless#Homelessness#housing#identity#university
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Why America is the World’s Most Uniquely Cruel Society
Or, How Punching Down Became a Way of Life
In this essay, I want to share with you a tiny theory of what it means to be American. It is up to you to judge, as ever, whether it carries any weight. All that I will say is that when I look around, it explains, a little, what I see.
Any theory of being American must explain one salient and striking fact: cruelty. America is the most cruel nation among its peers — even among most poor countries today. It is something like a new Rome. It has little, if any, functioning healthcare, education, transport, media, no safety nets, no stability, security. The middle class is collapsing, and life expectancy is falling. Young people die for a lack of insulin they cannot crowdfund. Elderly middle-class people live and die in their cars. Kids massacre each other in schools — when they’re not self-medicating the pain of it all away. The combination of these pathologies happens nowhere else — not a single place — in the world. Not even Pakistan, Costa Rica, or Rwanda. Hence, the world is aghast daily at the depths of American cruelty — yet somehow, they seem bottomless.
(Of course I don’t mean that all Americans are cruel. I just mean that in the same way we say countries have attitude, dispositions, that there’s such a thing as a French or German national attitude or disposition, so, too there is an American one. Nor do I mean America is “the most cruel society in the world”. Can we really ever judge that? But it is uniquely cruel — a kind of special example — in weird, needless, and singular ways.)
Let me throw that into relief. Scandinavians are the happiest, longest-lived, and most prosperous people in the world because they do not punish one another constantly — but lift one another up. But Americans do not believe this reality. The underlying sentiment that unites America’s manifold problems is a myth of cruelty.
So. Where did the myth of cruelty come from? That is the question before us if we really want to understand America. I’ve wondered since I was a kid, to be honest. I thought, once, it was about capitalism, patriarchy, race, once. But now I think that while those are expressions of it. That something more primary, fundamental, and unique happened.
America was a strange, improbable combination of things, singular in history. A Promised Land —but one for the despised. Waves upon waves of them washed up on its shores. First, the Puritans, mocked and loathed in England. Then peasants and farmers and outlaws from across Europe. Then Chinese, Japanese, Latinos, and today, Muslims.
These emigrants all tended to share a common trait. They were at the very bottom, the lowest rung, of social and economic heirarchies in their own countries. All of them. That has changed a little recently — but America was founded by and for the despised, loathed, hated. People referred to as trash, nobodies, serfs, exiles, outcasts — who were never given an ounce of respect, dignity, or even belonging, in their societies of origin.
Let me make that clearer. We did not see nobles and landed gentry emigrate to America. British Lords and German Counts and Italians Barons. We saw German peasant, Irish villagers, Swedish farmers, the dwellers of Italian slums. People from the very lowest of heirarchies elsewhere, the oppressed and the subjugated, came to this Promised Land.
So first the English and French settlers supposed that this New World was theirs (and began a kind of genocide against its natives, of course). But it wasn’t just the natives that they came to hate, for threatening their natural right to this Promised Land. It was the next waves of settlers, too. The English settlers hated the French. The French hated the Germans. They all hated the Irish. The Irish hated the Italians. And so on. That much is historical fact. Do you see the pattern forming yet?
This is very abstract, so let me make it concrete. Here came one wave of settlers — English. They dominated their way to the top of a hierarchy, above natives and blacks. Then came a new wave — German. They were punched down too — and began punching down — to bitterly establish themselves in this hierarchy, as high up as they could. Then another wave — Irish. Punched, punching down. All desperately vying for relative dominance among the rest.
You see, the crucial fact is that this didn’t happen elsewhere in the world — waves of settlers, all desperately trying to establish themselves above the next, last, most recent, in a hierarchy, all the more so, because they were despised, at the bottom, to begin with. In Europe, Asia, South America, heirarchies were long established — and broken only by revolution. America was the only nation where this constant reconstruction of hierarchy happened to such a degree, over and over again. Hence, the establishment of cruelty as a way of life — how else but to establish one’s self above the next wave of migrants?
Each new tribe that came to this Promised Land brought the burden of being despised, subjugated, oppressed, with them. They were finally above someone else in a social hierarchy. They were not at the bottom anymore. But to be above requires somone else to be below. And so there was a constant battle for relative position within a growing hierarchy — hence, dominance, competition, conquest soon became the prized cultural values, norms, and institutional goals. Cruelty as a way of life was born.
When we noted that the despised of England hated the newly arrived despised of France hated the newly arrived despised of Germany and so on, not to mentions natives, blacks, and Asians, in an endless vicious circle, we are also saying: America was learning to be cruel, by forever constructing greater heirachies to seize the fruits of a Promised Land. But greater hierarchies require greater cruelty to climb up, too. And the irony is that all this is what the despised came to America to escape.
(I’ll add peripheral point. The despised, when coming to a Promised Land, are the least likely, perversely, though we might not immediately think so, to want to share it — because they, at last, have something that they feel is theirs. Today’s servant wants to be tomorrow’s master. Today’s peasant wants to be tomorrow’s landlord. Today’s victim aspires to be tomorrow’s oppressor.)
Now. What was really happening here, in more modern terms? People were learning to “punch down”, as we might put it today. Americans were being taught to take out their anger, rage, and fear on those less powerful than them — usually, the most obvious and immediate ones they could find. An Irish mutt bastard moved into the neighbourhood? Get them. No Chinamen allowed. Those Italians? We’ve got to move them out of our city. Intern those Japanese.
Punching down began to be institutionalized and normalized. Cruelty was becoming a way of life and a norm. Tribe after tribe of the despised fled to a Promised Land, but each one demanded their position above the last, having never had anything before. People who had been hated and outcast had status and belonging at last — but only by punching down the next wave. So no mechanisms ever really developed to allow the Promised Land to be shared wisely, well, or reasonably. Might became right.
Now, American leaders tried to intervene every now and then. FDR’s second bill of rights, JFK’s vision for a fairer society, and so on. But they were not very succesful — because they were fighting a history of cruelty that they did not really understand: one that went to the heart of what it means to be American itself. So they never really said: “Wait. What do we all really have in common, us Americans? We are the despised and mocked of history. Its outcasts and its exiles. This is what unites us! Let us stop punching down, then. Otherwise, what have we really learned? We are only repeating the very history of cruelty that we tried to escape from.”
How sad. How funny. Americans came to a Promised Land — but they could not escape themselves. Each new wave, trying to rise above the next, built a world even more cruel than the old one. Punching down, down, down, endlessly.
So, today, here we are. Punching down has become a national institution, a norm, and a way of life. School shootings? Can’t ban guns — let the kids have “active shooter drills”. We are punching all the way down to our little five years olds. Life expectancy falling? Can’t have healthcare — let them self-medicate with opioids. We are punching down to the poorest. Education cost a fortune? Too bad, take out debt. We are punching down to our young people. I could give you endless examples. But perhaps you get the point by now.
What does it mean to be American? To really “be” — see, feel, think, act American, so much so that you are not self-aware of it, because it is unconscious, reflexive, invisible, this way of “being”?
Well, it means what it always has. Punching down, not lifting up. Punching down is hardwired into America by now, thanks to a unique history of settlers — who had never had any — punching the next wave down for relative hierarchical position. An attitude of cruelty was born. And so today cruelty is the point of its institutions, the purpose of its norms, and the linchpin of its perverse idea of virtue, that by punishing people, we can better them. It is all that Americans expect from each other — and give to each other. That is the terrible burden of a Promised Land that history’s despised warred among one another for domination of.
The problem is this. A society of people punching one another down must collapse. What else could it do? It cannot rise, can it? If I am punching you down, and I am punching the next person down below me, how can anyone ever lift anyone up? But without lifting one another up, a society cannot grow in quantity or quality of life. This, too, is what happened to Soviet Russia.
America has never reckoned with its history of cruelty. Instead, it developed a defensive mythology of being welcoming — even while every new wave of immigrants had to fight, sometimes quite literally little street by street, against the last wave, for a piece of the Promise Land. Like all myths, that one — was a lie that revealed the truth: America was a Promised Land for the huddled masses to roam free — but only if they could fend off the other tribes, by punching them down, endlessly,.
A Promised Land is like a Garden of Eden. But who can live in the Garden peacefully but angels? Human beings, flawed, indelicate things, are only meant to be cast out— they are ever in conflict, in tension, hungry and ravenous. And that is never truer than for their most despised — who need to be healed most, or else will ravage their Gardens worst.
In this way, a Garden, given to the despised, is a war, waiting to happen. A war against itself. America is at just such a war, and has always been. The name of this war is cruelty. But the end of this war is not victory, but collapse.
I don’t say any of this to blame, shame, or judge. But only so that, perhaps, this history of violence can at last be reckoned with.
Umair
February 2018
https://eand.co/why-is-america-the-worlds-most-uniquely-cruel-society-f67afc5c6b9a
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The Distressful Allegory of Discovering my Career Path
Michelle Viloria
Purpose: Writing Sample
Introduction Class
August 22, 2017
For the majority of my life I had always been organized and determined to achieve my goals. At a young age, I developed admirance for the way health care professionals provided help to the ailing, despite age, hierarchy or ethnicity. I was astonished that one could make an affluent living by simply caring for others and bettering their lives. Logically, my mind was set on the path of pursuing medicine. I progressed through life and my studies with a fixated goal to which i was determined to achieve. After years of diligent research on the pediatric field, I was certain on my readiness to embark on the 11 year collegiate journey required in becoming a licensed pediatrician. I was tailoring my high school classes toward a major that corresponded with my intended profession until I abruptly found myself lost in the depths of an existential cataclysm.
It was my junior year of high school. The year known for being the most stressful and nerve wracking of all four. It was the year a student was expected to be taking rigorous college prep courses, applying to colleges, studying for the SAT’s, weekly tests and essentially preparing for the rest of your life. Moreover, said student was expected to maintain a healthy diet, hygiene & social life, all while receiving a substantial amount of rest per night and being active in extracurriculars, seems simple right? Of course we can’t neglect the students parental unit, notorious for bombarding remarks about cleaning their room and doing the dishes instead of recovering the rest sacrificed to studying the night prior. Being oblivious to these upcoming adversities and due to my inherent passion and optimism for academia, I commenced my junior year with vibrant enthusiasm regarding my several AP classes. Prioritizing immense workload and tormenting deadlines over my own health, I progressed through the first semester of my junior year with poor strategies. I was receiving 3 hours of rest per night and relying on high doses of caffeine in order to surmount the subsequent school day. I found myself transitioning into academic machinery, utterly emotionless, monotone and my diet and sleep routine solely consisted of the bare minimum required to survive. I expended my remaining energy on completing each night's assigned workload and making another cup of coffee. The only ounce of self care I took part in was allowing for brief moments of rest when applicable, this left little room for outlets of enjoyment. My loved ones became concerned for the toll that these habits would inevitably unveil. Despite their unease, I was rendered sightless in a desperate state of in denial. I insisted on fortifying an unrealistic concept of balance that i yearned for internally. Although being one I had never anticipated, the most detrimental adversity occurred in the midst of the chaos. I gradually grew distant with my faith and as a result this eliminated any remnants of hope and motivation that lingered within myself.
To no astonishment, my physical health deteriorated as i continued to advance through the year. My undeviating lack of sleep ensued a constant state of low energy by default, an unwavering lethargy and poor social skills attributed to my absence of interest or motivation for anything other than rest. I was utterly hopeless and simply striving to get through each mind numbing obstacle that prevented me from returning to the solace of my bed. I awoke every morning distressed at the sight of sunlight peering through my blinds, as this entailed another day of compliance. Eventually my daily routine became mechanical and involuntary, everything from showering to walking to school was a hurdle, an irrational yet unbearable internal battle i wasn’t sure i could overcome yet proceeded to endure mindlessly, simply because that’s what other people did. These overwhelming daily hurdles were tasks expected of all students, this being said, i spent hours desperately contemplating why these were particularly difficult for myself to overcome. This ongoing frustration soon ingrained feelings of worthlessness, disappointment and self loathing. Despite the daily battle of having to face the unrelenting emptiness, i proceeded to let my loved ones be oblivious to the gravity of my despair and simply attributed my disinterest and gradual distance to my substandard sleep habits. I spent each day feeding a facade that was silently eating away at me. In a bittersweet prosperity, i had succeeded. Absolutely no one, had noticed that the light in my eyes had gone out.
To contribute to these disheartening series of events, came an inconvenient epiphany. In the midst of embracing the planes of my emotional solitude, although I was unsure of how to find happiness again, I was certain that I would not find it in pursuing a profession in medicine. As an individual who has incessantly identified with habitual organization and structured goals, I had developed a fixated vision of my desired career path. Due to this adamant notion, this newly found consensus of uncertainty rendered me spiraling into a state of turmoil with utmost severity.
As predicted, the anticipated toll arrived as the year came to an end. I completed the year in a spiraling nature plagued by immense confusion and a conceivable diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) along with an anxiety disorder (GAD) and Panic Disorder, which confined me to several involuntary hospitalizations and psych ward transfers.
On a much lighter note, although i cannot declare that these were in fact a misdiagnosis, I can fortunately say that I am undergoing medication and intensive treatment in an effort to repossess my life. Can I say that i’m happy? No. Can I say that I overcame that introductory hurdle to mental illness that many never got the chance to? Yes. Although I am admittedly not the familiar enthusiastic spirit I was prior to these events, I can confidently attest that I have learned more about myself than i ever thought possible. In the midst of the abyss that was my mental stature, and within the countless installments of disassociation and forgotten purpose, I was exposed to a significant lesson-one to which would resonate with me perpetually. Promptly, the confusion and distress that had afflicted me daily, had ceased. Within the damaged networks of my mind, a brief yet momentous period of clarity had manifested itself into existence. I discovered the value of embracing the peace encompassed within the unknown. I became aware that directing my energy toward accomplishing set goals and desired incentives were utterly meaningless and served as merely underlying factors when seeking happiness and self fulfillment. It occurred to me for the first time in my life, that it was acceptable to not have everything figured out. Upon this awareness, a weight was instantaneously lifted from my chest. It became apparent that the path of uncertainty was to my astonishment, manifested as a more desirable condition-instead of being distressful, burdensome and therefore additional evidence of my own incompetence. The state of not knowing was no longer a stressor nor ignorance but rather an embodiment of liberation.
Although a catastrophic concept among asian academic culture along with my own onset beliefs, I learned that the exploration of life’s various opportunities performed as a more beneficial and educational route than pursuing previously set fixations in order to guarantee safety. A common misconception fails to acknowledge a paradox within this unpopular design; the definite elimination of conventional walls rather than the creation of additional obstacles when striving for genuine happiness. What if in reality your safety net was in fact acting as a driftnet? A figurative prison floating through the sea of life’s vast opportunities, awaiting release within the enclosures of doubt within your mind.
There presents a great irony in how those who have lived and done more than the rest of us, are most tormented by the brief instances in which they simply did nothing at all. For the sake of preventing the influence of primary biases, I have no intentions to conceal the risks responsible for deeming this concept vastly unorthodox, even blasphemous among average scholars. Although advancing through one’s life in this manner surely entails an expensive risk, it is accompanied by invaluable wisdom. When asking an elder upon the rearmost stages of their life of their utmost regrets, the most common responses were regarding the decisions in which they never acted upon. These actions which were never fabricated into existence do not simply vanish upon loss of opportunity, they discover vitality lingering as a ghost in your conscience, haunting an individual's memory and manifesting itself as repentance. By choosing a path that promotes a greater chance of whole hearted decisions, This ensures a more accomplished livelihood. Regrets are decreased significantly as one who exhibits fundamental control over the changes in their lives is more likely to sustain authority over their own fulfillment. As originally theorized by psychologist Julian B. Rotter, an internal locus of control is strongly linked to an increase in an individual's quality of life. From a brief analysis of Rotter’s data one can begin to create an implication that undergoing a lifestyle with little regret is in fact ideal and something we should all strive for. Without risks the pursuit and purpose of finding the meaning of life itself is invalidated and essentially eradicated by those who submit to conformity. This introduced the idea that perhaps the risk is greater when choosing the safest proposal.
To conclude the distressful allegory that was discovering my career path, my goal in the next 5 years is to be nothing short of utter and unapologetic happiness. I intend to work part time for the duration of my senior year in hopes of shortly moving out following my graduation along with bidding farewell to my financial dependency along with becoming the primary guardian of my younger sister while my parents deservingly enjoy their retirement residing in the Philippines. I plan on sharing a living space with close friends in order to efficiently meet the demands of rent as a working student. I intend on beginning my collegiate experience of 2 years of community college at De Anza, with intentions of transferring to Southern California for the remaining years and graduating from a university. As much as I would have coveted for a more conventional response to this prompt, this is one that renders most true to the heart. I learned that in order to genuinely find yourself, you first have to completely lose yourself. Caution is to be expected when being exceptionally vulnerable and raw, however, the utility of adversities to your advantage results in a refining effect rather than a detrimental one. After the smoke cleared it became apparent that the debris left amidst the rubble were far more valuable than anything the storm could have initially destroyed. Whichever direction in life this may encompass remains another glorious uncertainty that the universe grants us the good fortune of witnessing unfold. Before I found myself spiraling involuntarily, plunging directionless and simply anticipating the impact. In my newly found perception, I am choosing to free fall, releasing my inhibitions, embracing the possibilities, and in that choice- lies all the difference.
Prompt: Where do you wish to see yourself in 5 years?
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Note: As of this posting, I’m doing swell, which is just a testament to how quickly a mood can change. Still, I’m going to post it in its entirety because when I wrote it, I really needed to.
…
Guess what? The last few days have been, by and large, not great.
I work my ass off to not feel like total garbage: Daily meditation, a pretty rad diet, a lot of running, sobriety, journaling, baths… and of course I’ve done my rounds in therapy and with medication. In spite of these efforts, the thought that has dominated my mind lately has been along the lines of: “I’m going to blow my brains out.” (Please know that I wouldn’t be putting this on my blog if it was really a concern.)
I keep wanting to drink (I haven’t) and sometimes I get devastatingly lonely. I know I have created my current circumstances—and we all have, whether we like it or not—but of course I don’t know why. I recently texted a loved one that my “5-year plan” involves getting back into binge drinking and shooting myself in the head off of a cliff. I was kidding, but there really are times when I feel, sincerely, that I am Not Okay, like at all, and I don’t think there is anything that will help. At night I ask the universe to just make me normal and good, but I never wake up normal and good. I wake up the same me who falls short in every regard, who doesn’t love correctly, who isn’t open enough, patient enough, consistent enough, un-thinky enough, kind enough, calm enough, or safe enough. I do not always act like who I am, and I haven’t yet figured out how to fix that permanently.
Why am I posting this even though I try to be all about light and the possibility of well-being? First, it’s real. We are supposed to share our experiences with one another, and I know that the feelings I have are shared by millions of others. The second we fall into the trap of believing our isolation, depression, grief, and self-loathing are any different than those felt by the rest of humanity, we become doubly lost.
Positivity and spirituality are sometimes treated as synonyms, and that’s just not genuine. The path embraces all feelings and states of mind, and it is generally understood that (for a while anyway) waking up hurts. And, even when it’s really horrible, I know that all of my feelings and thoughts are teaching me something. For whatever reason, I haven’t gotten the lesson. If I’d gotten it, this shit would cease. Maybe the lesson is simply in impermanence itself: Never, ever expect to feel All Good, because you will never, ever be static.
Mainly I’m posting this because hiding brings its own kind of pain. When we do this, we deny our true selves to the people who want to love us. It feels worse to hide, even though it definitely feels super uncool to write about my feelings, too. I also know I’m running the risk of sounding dramatic, and at some point—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, probably right after I hit “Publish”—I’ll regret posting it. Soon, I’ll file away this time period away into that which I psychologically label “a tantrum.”
The point is: I’m better than I’ve ever been, and still, I am This.
…
In spite of the intensity of these emotions, I remain unwilling to consider myself ill. I will not accept the bipolar story and I will not label myself “disordered.” This narrative doesn’t serve me, and if anything it damns me to believing I am fixed being. Part of that fixed narrative comes with the notion that I’ll never be fully healed, and I don’t buy that. The only reason I’m even here and in an overall healthier place than I’ve ever been in is because I’ve refused to buy it.
Of course I don’t deny the existence of mental disorders, but rather consider all life experiences as variations in consciousness. This way of thinking makes the difference between the chance at deep healing and perpetual, cyclical illness. One promotes a false “normal/abnormal, neurotypical/neurodiverse” dichotomy; the other promotes a much more realistic spectrum. Training oneself in higher consciousness (by way of self-care, meditation, journaling, etc.) can lead to the cessation of suffering, or at the very least, the dampening of it.
Because really, that’s what it’s all about: Suffering. Whether you call it depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or a personality disorder, the main concern of the human experience is suffering. The harsher felt aspects of life that are pervasive and repetitive—the ones that get called “disorders” in our culture—persist because we are, on the whole, in a very low place. Greed rules the day. “Every man for himself” is the prevailing ethos. “Us and them” is a mentality that very few people ever escape. When our overall level as a people reaches something higher, we will see mental illness fall away. I’ve said this before and I’m going to keep saying it.
I doubt that this will happen in my lifetime, since our system still seems hell-bent on letting individuals know that they’re the ones with “problems.” In our haste to diagnose—to codify, to limit, to “explain”—we tend to just not bring up the ugly truth of the situation, which is that the world is burning to the ground and our paradigm is truly fucked up. Sick societies create sick individuals, and vice versa. Healthy people depend on a healthy planet, and our planet is really not healthy.
When healing occurs, it does so on an individual and collective level at the same time: We heal ourselves and—brick by brick, mind by mind—build healthier societies that make wellness a possibility for future generations. Until we do this work, we can only expect to see rising rates of suicide, depression, addiction, and everything else we claim to be against. I for one am getting a bit tired of the short-lived outpour of concern that follows celebrity suicides. I am also tired of the idea that a person simply not killing themselves is a great victory: If all we’re doing is constantly pulling each other back from the brink, we’re still failing miserably.
…
Not a single professional I’ve worked with has really broached the fact that I suffer because A. Suffering is inherent in human existence (and so I have no reason to expect not to suffer), and B. Our culture basically breeds people to suffer for the machine. It was always about “my condition,” “my problems,” “my depression,” “my story of why I hurt.” We all have stories about why we hurt, and to some extent, these stories need to be explored. Some stories are more harrowing than others, but even the most well-off, well-loved people suffer.
Finally, meditation and yoga are being regarded as helpful treatment modalities for mental illnesses. I want to address that here: The science behind psychiatric medication is based on the theory that your brain makes the wrong chemicals and these other chemicals will kinda fix it. The science behind yoga is based on the theory that you are a universal being and ultimately, you are pure consciousness. Get in touch with the part of you that is pure consciousness—through systematic postures and meditation—and suffering begins to transform. This is true for all forms of suffering, be they given medical labels or are simply the “normal” malaise of routine adult life.
These theories/sciences are not mutually exclusive. I will always advocate doing all the things to help yourself. However, through my (largely unintentional and also explosive) exploration of inner space, I’ve found that the latter theory is a whole lot more complete.
…
There is tremendous power in stepping into the realization that it’s not you. You are not an addict or a depressed person or anything else because something is wrong with you. Instead, we have tendencies to harm ourselves because…
Our overall culture is unconscious of the way it thinks and acts.
We do not understand and/or accept the depths of the ways we all affect one another. Even people who fancy themselves hella woke tend to carry some amount of hatred and derision in their hearts. This doesn’t work, and it still hurts everyone.
We literally carry legacies of pain in bodily memory.
Fear is the default mode of living.
We have forgotten the truth of what we are.
It’s not that you’re a defective model, and you do have the power to rise above all of these things.
When it comes to mental health and overall wellness, that’s what it’s all about: The cessation of suffering through the exploration of higher consciousness. Not endless treatment, not an illness-oriented model, and certainly not a narrative that you will always be one thing or another.
…
Let’s end this on a high note, shall we?
Before I sat down to write this post, I went for a run. Even when I’m in the depths of it, meditating and running tend to lift my spirits. Near the end, I found this rosebush in someone’s yard, and it was too beautiful not to take pictures:
Being a good millennial, I put these on the Instagram where a friend commented, “Peace roses.” Again, being a good millennial, I Googled it. Lo and behold, this is what’s called the Peace Rose. And although I regard the entirety of my life experience as equally meaningful and meaningless, I’ll gladly take signs like this in times of need.
If you’re reading this, the message is meant for you as well.
– Lish
When It Gets Bad Note: As of this posting, I’m doing swell, which is just a testament to how quickly a mood can change.
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