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jimlingss · 4 years

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Worshipers of the Spring

Part of the Worshipers Series

➜ Words: 9.5k

➜ Genres: 55% Angst, 40% Fluff, 5% Smut, God!AU

➜ Summary: The God of Wine is carefree and indulgent. Unlike many others who depend on pride and dignity, he does not care that he is not a powerful god. But when he stumbles upon a forest in the mortal realm, he discovers what desperation and anguish means.

The flowers bloom on command. With one simple flick of the wrist, they bud and blossom, spilling over in an abundance of petals and flourishing in the living forest. The trees breathe, dancing together to the melody of the chickadee birds perched in their branches. It’s a hidden place that not many but brave souls or wandering children come across — a place where fields are verdant, hills grow and water bends. And in this serene meadow, you are screaming. If not from anger then out of sheer boredom.

The God of Wine waltzes into the grand hall. As he stands with his feet rooted in the ground, chin high in the air and back straight, he runs his hand through his honey hair and then catches sight of a nymph dressed in loose robes barely hanging off of her shoulders. He smirks, the corner of his plump lips tugging with a sense of superiority and her eyes widen. He winks and she nearly swoons to her knees. “Jimin.” The interaction is unfortunately cut short by a playfully stern voice, one where he can already envision the pout on the god’s face. It is only confirmed when he turns to find the God of Sun quickly skedaddling towards him, white and gold clothing swaying with him, and his glorious presence is enough to make the nymph scatter away with her cheeks blushing. “You take all the fun away.” “No, I am merely making sure that no one copulates on my floor.” “Do you take me for some wild animal?” Jimin feigns offence and then bursts out laughing when Seokjin gives him an extended stare. “I can promise you that it would be extra fun to indulge in our lustful pleasures together, Seokjin. You, your concubines, and I.” “You’ll know I’ll agree to that proposition the day the sun rises in the west instead of east, Jimin.” Seokjin fishes a red envelope out of his sleeve and hands it to him, the emblem of Heaven sealing it from being opened. “I need you to give this to Hansol.” The God of Wine takes it with curiosity, wondering what Seokjin desires from the God of Mountains. “Isn’t he residing in the mortal realm?” “He is.” “I’m not your messenger boy, you know,” Jimin whines, realizing that he was called for yet another lousy task. “I’m supposed to be supplying wine to the gods, answering prayers of fertility, and throwing extravagant parties! Not reduced to delivering your letters like some measly servant.” “I know, but you’re the only one I can trust, or at least the only one who I know won’t pry into my matters and try to open that and spread unnecessary gossip.” There is a held silence, and then the god of all gods relents. “The anniversary of the war is coming. It’ll mark one century of peace kept, I’ll let you host a celebration, alright?” The corner of Jimin’s mouth pulls, the taste of victory sweet on his tongue. “That sounds more like it.” // There are many gods that despise mortals — it’s no secret when all they seem to do is beg, destroy, get greedy and beg some more. But the hatred has lessened greatly after the war, even when it was caused by a mortal. It’s true that the anger and resentment of the mortals forged the destruction, but it followed centuries of the gods being unforgiving and punishing. It was the consequences of them abandoning the humans for pride and contempt. So while customs and habits have changed to ensure peace, the better part of Heaven still had their distaste for humans and the mortal realm. There were the strange ones who sympathized and adored mortals, but for Jimin, he was quite neutral. At best, he found them amusing. Thus, he takes his time to enjoy the realm he seldom arrives at. Or at least those are his intentions until he descends and finds himself in an unfamiliar forest. The God of Wine wanders for a moment, trying to find an exit, but it is strange. Even when the place is seemingly friendly, the sunlight cascading through the canopy of the trees and illuminating the shades of green into brighter hues, he cannot leave no matter what direction he takes. The trees seem to trap him inside. Jimin is about to vanish away to free himself, but then as a breeze brushes through his hair, he halts. The god catches sight of something. Or rather, someone. Through the warm wind, peace blossoms flutter down from the tree like rain. It entwines with your hair, seemingly wrapping your entire frame with the soft colour. The petals decorate your crown, getting caught in your light pink silks adorned on your body, hugging you. The aroma of the flowers surround him, not pungent but rather faint, like a whiff of fresh perfume passing by. “Stop that,” you scold while the loveliest of giggles befalls your lips and your nose scrunches as a petal falls onto your cheek until you brush it away. “It’s getting all over my dress and it tickles!” You are the most beautiful person Jimin has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on. The God of Win’s breath hitches. He struggles to find the power of speech and then it uncharacteristically stutters out of him. “W-Who are you?” Your neck snaps around at the sound of his sweet and soft voice. His honey hair is swept back, body adorned with luxurious black robes that are embroidered with gold swirls. Your gaze meets one anothers and it instantly goes quiet, the sound of the wind whistling between you two. Jimin doesn’t notice the way the flowers around him bloom. “Who are you?” The question is given back to him. “I don’t give my name to strangers.” The corner of the god’s mouth quirks. “Well I’m not a stranger anymore.” “You are until you give me your name,” you presumptuously state with your soft-spoken voice and the God of Wine grins, giving into your stubbornness. “Jimin. My name is Jimin.” “My name is Y/N.” A smile itches onto your face. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.” You catch a blossom within your hand, one that hasn’t bloomed into its full potential and he watches as you flourish it within your palm. The petals open up, pale pink that matches the shade of the sky during the first blush of dawn. Jimin is frozen in his spot as you close the distance, stepping across the forest floor to approach. “I haven’t had someone stumble here for quite some time.” You extend your arm and he takes the flower you’re offering him, not sure what to do with it. But then you smile, quirking your head to one side. “Would you like to accompany me for a little while? I’ll make it worthwhile.” Jimin smirks. “And if it isn’t worthwhile, then what shall you compensate me with?” There seems to be a long moment where you genuinely contemplate, but after a beat, you huff out and have the audacity to grab his hand abruptly, tugging him along. “Just come see.” Jimin nearly bursts out laughing. If you knew that he was the God of Wine who resided in Heaven, you’d probably get on your knees and bow — but your ignorance is endearing. For once, it’s enjoyable to be treated without caution or fear. He follows you into a small meadow clearing where the tall trees surround and protect the area. The grass is a vivid hue of verdant, the lights soft with flower beds around. It’s clear that this is your home and that you’ve naively invited him into it. You have no sense of caution at all, unaware that he’s known for lust, that he embodies the entire idea of it. You’re merely humming underneath your breath, an infectious smile placed on your features. Jimin wonders who exactly you are. “I haven’t had a guest in so long,” you sing-song. “Come sit!” You show him to a measly tree stump and he stares at you in indignation while you look at him blankly and then he’s giving in yet again. Jimin swishes his robes behind him and sits, thighs spread as he claims the spot like it’s a throne. He eyes you as you waltz to several baskets under a nearby tree, tearing objects out. “It must’ve been a very long stroll to come to my forest. You must be hungry, right? Do you like nuts and berries?” “I’m actually not hungry.” Yet, you still come over with two wooden bowls that are filled with nuts, fruit and berries. You place it on the pathetic stump in front of him, a small table of sorts, and you plop down across from him, smiling wide. Your elbows are propped on your knees, cheeks rested on your fists and you intently stare at him like he’s a new toy. “I insist.” Jimin holds his sigh in his nose and takes a berry into his mouth. He nods at the taste. If possible, you become even more enthused. “Like it?” “It’s nice.” “Yay!” You cheer and Jimin scoffs lightly with a smile. The things he does for fair maidens… If Seokjin knew this was what he was doing in the mortal realm instead of running his errands, he might smite him. But in your presence, it might just be worth it. “I’m sorry there’s nothing to drink. I need to go to the stream again to collect freshwater…” Jimin cocks a brow. It’s an opportunity to impress and he steals it while he still has the chance. “Well that’s not a problem,” he declares with a smirk and flicks his wrist. At once your bowl fills with deep ruby wine. You’re visibly taken aback, perplexed, and your expression quickly turns into a pout. You eye him. “You’re….not a human, are you?” “Nope.” He playfully smiles, shaking his head. “I am the God of Wine. God of Fertility and Celebration, Jimin. Pleasure and drunkenness are in my domain, lust and bliss are bound to my will. Heaven knows no name but mine.” Jimin leans in, eyes connected with yours. You’re still surprised and a wolfish grin spreads across his face. “You aren’t a forest nymph, are you?” “No.” Your head quirks and the corner of your own lip curls. In spite of knowing he is a god, you don’t appear to be anxious or reverential — and that fact is entertaining. “What are you, girl?” You hum as if contemplating to tell him. Jimin sits on the edge of the seat. But then— “It’s a secret.” The God of Wine scoffs. Though he must say, he likes the game you’re playing. Of all of his lifetimes, the females that have wanted him have given themselves to him easily. If he was not slapped by goddesses, then he had them in his lap. It’s not that he minds that it’s effortless, but you make him intrigued. He wonders how he can shed your coyness. “You seem like a creature of many secrets.” “I am, Jimin.” Suddenly, the collar of his robes grabbed in both your fists and he’s pulled forward. Soft lips meet his. The god’s sound of surprise is muffled but he welcomes it. His eyes droop to become half-lidded and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, dominating your tender point of contact. It’s a velvet texture and Jimin can’t resist slipping his tongue into your mouth, drawing out those delicious whimpers of yours. It’s sweet, almost like what he imagines roses and tulips to taste like. The bowls are soon knocked over, the wine dripping off the wooden stump and you push yourselves forward until the two of you are colliding onto the grass. Jimin rolls on top of you, pinning you to the soft meadow floor. And when you both break apart to gasp for air between your swollen lips, Jimin realizes he was wrong. You’re beautiful, but even more beautiful like this. “Are you not fearful that I am a god?” “Should I be?” you ask, shamelessly staring at his mouth and still grabbing onto his clothing with a tightening grip. Your hair pools around you, eyes glistening in the sunlight, your smile warm. Jimin considers that the best painting and sculpture in Heaven doesn’t even contend with you. “You should.” He smirks. “I would hate to break someone as fragile as you.” “Hmm, I’m afraid you’ve sorely underestimated me.” “Oh?” Jimin’s shit eating grin expands. “I’ve had many servants, nymphs and goddesses cry for me before, Y/N.” “And you assume I’ll be one of them too?” Your lashes flutter and he smiles, brushing a strand of your hair away from your face. “If this is a competition, then I’ve made plenty of mortals cry before too. Who knows, you might be the next one.” The God of Wine laughs candidly and seals your lips once more in a searing kiss. Your arms wrap around his neck and you pull him closer until he can feel your chest against his. His hand snakes up your leg, silk robes rolling up with it. Jimin knows it now — you’re a temptress. All you’ve done is play with him and tempt him, and he doesn’t know anything other than your name. One moment he’s speaking to you and the next, he has you underneath him in this empty meadow. You are talented, he has to admit. To get a god like him crumbling so easily… He is a master of lust but also one of self-control, though he was quickly losing it. The thought has him pulling away before his desires overcomes his dignity. “Where are you going?” It’s difficult when you look at him that way, rounded eyes and pouting as he comes to stand. You sound urgent too and it’s sweet. “Are you leaving?!” “I’m glad you enjoyed my company, but trust me, pet.” Jimin leans down to tap your nose. “It’s better to miss me than to be bored.” You scramble upwards, eyes glossy. “Won’t you stay a while longer?” The god has an urge to kiss you, to hold you and bury himself inside while having you crying his name, but he shakes his head. “I’ll come back.” Jimin’s too smitten with you after all. “I promise.” // The envelope still sits in Jimin’s pocket, but before he goes to deliver it, he lingers in the nearby town. The God of Wine approaches a cluster of people at the marketplace and doesn’t hesitate to intrude into their conversation to ask about the girl in the forest. No one knows what he’s talking about, confused at who he is and what he’s inquiring about. But before the god turns away without answers, a lady enamoured with his looks stops him. “There are children myths. No one grown believes them, but they say there is a girl of flowers in the forest who makes the green grass grow. And a lot of young men who wander there don’t often return.” The rumour has him perplexed and befuddled, coming up with more questions than answers. And before the woman can ask where he has come from, she looks back and he has vanished. // Jimin returns within three days' time, unable to break his promise or refuse his desires. He descends to the forest, finding the familiar peach blossom tree and taking refuge beneath it while he waits for you. The God of Wine stays patient — surprisingly finding that he wouldn’t mind waiting years if he needed to see you. It all just adds to the anticipation after all. Luckily for Jimin, he doesn’t need to wait more than a few minutes. He finds you wandering the forest while humming, a basket of flowers swinging from your wrist. And the moment your eyes connect with his, a smile plasters on your features, the basket drops to the ground and you’re running over. The god laughs, worried that you’ll trip but you manage and even throw yourself around him. “You’re back!” He returns your embrace, arms wrapped around your shoulders. “I said I would be. You missed me, huh?” “It’s not like I have anyone else to miss,” you say, pulling away from him and while he doesn’t know exactly what you mean, he’s distracted when you point to the bottle in his left hand. “What’s this?” “It’s a gift for you.” Jimin smirks at your surprised delight and when you take it, he pompously crosses his arms across his chest. “The best wine in the entire universe created by yours truly. You should treasure it! It’s not often that others can receive gifts from the gods.” “I...love it.” You’re ecstatic, studying the bottle intently as a grin expanding into your cheeks like you’ve never received a present from anyone before. And your genuine reaction only makes Jimin’s heart soften even more. You’re too naive, too innocent for him. It’s dangerous. Jimin’s endearment for you makes him want to treasure you. He knows he won’t be able to throw you away so easily — and he doesn’t want to. “It’s only fair if I give you a gift too, right?” You smile tenderly, handing the bottle back to him for a moment. Before he can protest and tell you that it’s unnecessary, you approach the tree and press your palms against the truck. As if you’re calling onto the universe or speaking to nature itself, suddenly the peach blossoms begin to bloom and fall. A warm breeze sweeps over the meadow, entwining into your hair and your dress. His breath becomes caught in his throat, head tilting towards the sky and he watches the way the pink petals dance in the air, enveloping him in a ticklish embrace. Soon the God of Wine is being consumed by a whirlwind of blossoms. A storm of flowers raining down from the sky. It’s beautiful — especially with the way you cheekily grin at him, obviously enjoying how impressed he is by your powers. And it’s at this moment, as Jimin is encompassed by flower petals bursting forth, caught in the middle of this rain, that he finds himself unequivocally captivated by you. “What do you think?” you ask of him when you’re done, arms behind your back as you tilt your head, lashes fluttering. There are still flowers drifting in the air, sweeping in the horizon downwards. Jimin gazes at you and then he tugs you in by your waist. He presses his mouth against the delicate petals of your lips. He can feel you smile against him and that only serves for him to deepen the kiss. His half lidded eyes soak in your sheepish expression and the God of Wine’s palm lifts to cradle your cheek. You’re letting him have his way with you and he’s unable to resist temptation any longer. Jimin’s fingers gently trail down to the collar of your robes and he slips them off your shoulder. The silks cascade down. You’re a sorceress that has trapped him — who has completely enchanted him. The two of you collapse back onto the forest floor, on top of the bed of fallen flowers. You pull him in, arms encircling his neck while murmuring his name through swollen lips that gasp for air. Your hands interlace together and Jimin eagerly parts your thighs with your timid permission, allowing him to slot himself where your heat is. He kisses you again, plush lips against your neck, between your breasts and down to where you’re wet. As Jimin’s mouth wraps around your bud, broken sobs of his name are drawn out of your heaving chest. He relishes in the noises and the way your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull. The God of Wine feeds off of the lust swelling between the pair of you and soon, you’re both trapped in his thick haze, intoxicated off of one another’s bodies. Jimin is drunk when he lifts himself to kiss you again. He is giddy when you urgently pull at his own clothes until he’s bare like you are. And he’s dizzy when he nudges the head of his cock to the pink lips of your heat. Your legs wrap around his waist when he finally pushes in, groaning your name while you cry out, writhing beneath him. He brushes a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead, finding you utterly captivating. You’re beautiful when you’re beneath him, surrounded by a bed of flowers, calling out his name like it’s the only thing you know. It makes the God of Wine selfish — holding a desire to keep you here forever. To keep you by his side for eternity. “Feel good?” “Y-yeah.” You nod shyly, teeth sinking into your pink lips. Jimin looks down to where you’re connected, where he continuously thrusts in and out of your weeping center. It’s mindless, where he succumbs to his own self-created atmosphere of pleasure, but when he looks up at you again, your eyes are fluttering at him. You have the sweetest smile spread into your face, hands grabbing at his arms. He’s corrupting you in the middle of the forest floor and you don’t even seem to mind. It makes his hips stutter and your breath catches in your throat. “J-Jimin.” “I love you.” The confession spills out of him unintentionally. They are words of affection that were always too great for the dignity and pride that he carried on his shoulders. Yet now it tumbles out without thought, without any consideration for the consequences or your inevitable rejection. But even when it's an accident, even when he fears the emotions swelling in the pit of his stomach, the God of Wine doesn’t mean it any less. “Ji-min.” You’re gazing into his eyes before you’re cumming around him. He picks up pace and leans down to kiss you quiet, allowing the smallest of muffled whimpers to spill over. And then soon after, his pelvis hits against yours and he’s cumming deep into you, ropes painting your walls white, leaving himself inside your core until you’re dripping past. When the pair of you are done and spent, Jimin holds you close. His lips lay against your forehead, arms wrapped around your torso as he dreams. “Let me bring you to Heaven.” He doesn’t care who you are anymore. He just wants you by his side. “I can show you my home. You can have whatever you want. I’ll take care of you.” Suddenly, his side becomes cold. You’ve pulled away from him, body looming over his as you sorrowfully stare into his eyes. “I can’t, Jimin. I can’t leave this place,” you murmur with the scrunch of your brows. He sits up with you. “Why not?” “An….an angry god has trapped here.” Your forehead leans in to press against his. “I have to stay in this forest.” The God of Wine pulls away, hands wrapping around your shoulders. His eyes darken and his tone lowers to resonate all around the meadow. “Who? What god?” You shake your head. “I don’t know.” Your anguish only serves as his own heartbreak. // The God of Wine has never been so bewildered and distressed. He is used to easing other gods, allowing them to become tranquil under the cloak of pleasure and drunkenness. In the realm of the gods, Jimin is fun-loving, carefree, irresponsible as opposed to many of their disciplined and imperious personalities. He enjoys throwing extravagant parties and celebrations, making wine to get divine beings under his intoxication, even when he is aware they are all trivial affairs that don’t affect the universe. Jimin knows he is not a powerful god, but it has never bothered him. Until now. Now, he yearns for you. Now, he has been overcome with such a strong emotion that his incapabilities bring forth frustration. Now, he is troubled instead of jovial. It doesn’t make sense. There is no reason a god should ever punish you. You are genuine, demure, kind hearted. You wouldn’t even hurt a flower or butterfly, much less anything else. He does not know the reason as to why you have been trapped. He does not know who has punished you so. And he does not know who you are. “Jimin.” His name booms from an individual with the scent of the sea wafting off his dark blue robes. His arms are placed behind his back as he walks with his lips tight in a line. And he approaches him in front of the palace of the Sun, below the hundred steps and on the cobblestone path “I was looking for you.” The God of Wine brings his attention away from his thoughts and grins at the God of the Sea in all his glory. “The Great Jungkook looking for me? That doesn’t happen every decade! I am honoured.” Jungkook is unamused. “I heard you were throwing a celebration to mark a century of peace.” Jimin hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” “I can assume then that you will not extend an invitation to anyone unnecessary.” Jimin smirks, aware of the ongoing conflict between him and the Goddess of Sky. “Perhaps,” he playfully answers. Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “It would be wise of you to tread carefully.” He hums. “Perhaps.” “Jimin.” The God of Wine laughs. “Last I checked, Seokjin has given me full permission to do as I please, so I will. I don’t get to throw celebrations like this every century and you have to come whether you like it or not. But fear not, there will be plenty of opportunity for you to indulge yourself, so if you want to release some of your tension….” Jungkook huffs, slapping Jimin’s hands away when he comes to squeeze at his shoulder and wrinkles his luxurious clothing. “I don’t know why I even bother.” The God of Sea turns away, stomping and while Jimin smiles, it falls after a moment. “Jungkook.” “What?” All traces of his mischief and lightheartedness have dissipated. What remains is a state of solemnness and urgency. “Do you know of anyone who lives in the mortal realm’s forests?” The two of them look at one another after Jungkook turns. “Someone who can make flowers bloom.” The Great God of Water furrows his brows. “I don’t. Why?” “No reason,” he murmurs. It is difficult to find the answers to the numerous questions he has. Jimin doesn’t want to ask Seokjin himself, certain that the god would never respond seriously and might just give him riddles that would make his mind want to melt. And inquiring from the Goddess of Wisdom, Yena, herself would simply arouse her curiosity. Rumours would spread and he doesn’t want to risk putting you in danger if you were indeed a mortal. After all, relations between gods and mortals are looked down upon. It’s disgraceful. And the last thing that Jimin wants is for you to have to suffer the consequences, of having to face the council and have other gods meddle with your affairs. He would never be able to keep you right by his side as he desires… The God of Wine finds himself seeking refuge to one of the most ancient gods — one that he knows would never chatter about his predicaments to others. Jimin slams down the door of the cold palace, causing the God of the Moon to jolt where he’s asleep on his grand bed, blindfold on and blanket tucked to his chin. It’s too easy to disrupt him or to come and go as he pleases, especially when there’s not a single servant around to stop him from making such a rude entrance. “You must be asking for death,” Yoongi mutters out of the corner of his mouth, voice husky and thick with slumber. He raises to slip off his blindfold and glares. One of the most composed gods in the universe is glowering at him with the intensity of death itself. “It is midday, Jimin.” “Was just checking to see if you were lonely.” Jimin grins, waltzing in casually. “I was asleep.” The God of Moon is nocturnal, sleeping during the day to lift the moon during the night. But in spite of his rest being disrupted, he sighs and loses tension in his form. The wise god knows it must be of importance to be suddenly awakened. “What do you want from me?” “I want to give you an invitation to a party. I don’t have it on me now, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re invited.” It goes quiet. Yoongi stares, cat-like eyes in the colour of obsidian and he repeats himself. “What do you want from me?” “Well, now that you say it like that, I feel kind of guilty for coming at such an inconvenient time…” Jimin lingers and then clears his throat. “I was wondering if you knew of someone who lives in a forest in the mortal realm.” “There are many forest nymphs like that—” The God of Wine shakes his head. “Someone who can make flowers bloom. Someone who can turn buds into full flowers and make it rain petals.” His fists clench in his lap as he remembers you and your heartbroken expression. “I keep thinking about it and...I can’t come up with a proper name for them.” It is silent once more. “Why?” Jimin shrugs, feigning a smile. “Curious, that’s all.” “I don’t know of such a person. I’ve never heard such tales.” Yoongi falls back down onto his bed and rolls over so his expression isn’t seen. He tugs his covers up over his shoulders and the God of Wine scoffs. But before he can leave, his calm voice calls out to him— “Spare yourself. Don’t wander where you shouldn’t, Jimin.” “You know who she is?” Jimin halts at the darkened doorway. “Yoongi.” There aren’t any answers. Jimin leaves a bottle of wine on the God of Moon’s table anyhow as compensation for waking him so rudely. He knows full well that Yoongi won’t say any more than what he already has. But that doesn’t stop Jimin’s frustration from swelling, feeling powerless when he is trying to find the answers to what he so desperately wants to know but having nowhere to turn. Once outside, he turns to search the sky that’s painted over in a shade of bright azure without a cloud in sight. The rays are almost blinding, and with the reminder of Jungkook’s apprehension, Jimin goes to find a friend he has known well — a lonely goddess who lives on a lower part of Heaven. It’s a peaceful place without prying eyes, but with two servants who constantly fret over her. The Goddess of the Sky greets him with her customary hug, eccentric as she is energetic. And the pair of them sit together on the patio of the garden house with a small table in between. They share drinks like they’ve done occasionally through the decades while silently sharing their sorrows. Today, Jimin enjoys how the goddess has decorated the place with flowers blooming from their boxes as a slight breeze brushing through the leaves of the trees. The atmosphere reminds him of you and suddenly, the wine tastes bitter on his lips. He calls the Goddess of Sky’s name. “Hmm?” “Do you know of anyone who has been trapped in the mortal realm’s forest?” He thinks of you and his heart aches. “Someone who lives in the meadow. Someone beautiful and kind who collects flowers in baskets, who makes petals rain from the sky, who makes flowers bloom.” Jimin speaks your name in a soft whisper like it is a prayer. “Do you know anyone like that?” The Goddess of Sky’s head quirks and she doesn’t wonder why he asks. “There is only one goddess who can make flowers bloom.” // Jimin doesn’t care for keeping his promises. Perhaps it is because he is fickle like many gods, or tricky. He has always liked to find loopholes after all and twist things the way he wanted them to be. Promises, after all, are merely words that hold little consequences. But with you, Jimin has always kept his word. He has no desire to lose your trust, for you to wait for him and be disappointed. Everything he has said to you has been his vow. It has been the oath of a god. So he visits you again, descending down to the forest, patiently awaiting underneath the peach blossom tree as he studies the trees that breathe and whisper his name, allowing you to know that he is here. And soon enough, you are humming and hopping down the path. When his gaze meets yours, the biggest smile spreads into your cheeks, one infectious enough to make him laugh too. Then you’re running and he opens his arms, stumbling back as you leap into his embrace. “I missed you so much! “I said I would return, didn’t I?” He is a fool, no less than a mortal man himself. He’s fallen in love with you without even knowing who you are. Your arms wrap around his neck and you lean up to press a kiss against his smile. It makes Jimin’s grin widen while he tries to kiss you back and after a moment, as the flowers dance through the warm breeze, you take his hand. “Come on.” Just for this second, he savours your warmth and softness of your hand. But like all moments, they never last as long as one would like. The two of you make it to the clearing, to your home. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Would you like anything?” “No.” Jimin pulls you back before you can run towards your baskets and he gazes at your features with softened eyes. “Actually, there’s something that I want to talk to you about, Y/N.” “Oh?” You loll your head to your shoulder, pout at your lips. “What is it?” The God of Wine braces himself. He squeezes your fingers that are laced together with his own. He inhales a breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air and his senses with the scent of the fertile soil around him. He listens to the rustle of the leaves, watching the way the wind tangles through your hair and silk clothing. Jimin wants to bottle this moment to keep by his side, but he can’t. He can’t plead ignorance to what he knows now, can’t turn a blind eye like he wants. “I know who you are.” The words befall his lips in a murmur. His gaze locks with yours. Jimin calls your true name— “Goddess of the Spring.” The wind whistles around him. But the trees remain still. The verdant grass does not move. The flowers no longer sway. The forest is at a standstill, frozen in time. You are the Goddess of Birth, the Goddess of Flowers. You are the controller of the vernal equinox, of fertility of vegetation and of budding florals. You are the Goddess of Spring. And you were in the council of fifteen before being exiled and banished from Heaven for your participation in the Great War — for fighting against Seokjin and the other gods. You’ve been forgotten and now trapped here as a punishment, forced to live amongst the mortals that you despise the most and forced to watch your beautiful creations die when the seasons end into the cold and frost. Jimin knows how much you hate humans; how much you detest them for tricking you, taking advantage of Spring and killing everything that you love. He knows how you often lure humans here to kill them — that underneath this forest floor is a layer of blood and bones — that you were probably going to kill him too until he revealed that he was a god. And he knows how you haven’t been reborn since that time, since over a hundred years ago and you’re still holding onto your resentments of the past. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Like a faint spot on his mind, Jimin can faintly recall you. He remembers seeing you over a century ago, walking down the paths of Heaven, giggling with the other goddesses, always with flowers in your hair. He can barely remember the way his eyes used to stray towards you, not thinking much but merely how beautiful you are…. Your hand lets go of his. You stumble back. “It wasn’t my fault.” Jimin remains still, staring into your eyes. The wind whistles around him as if calling his name. “I was tricked,” you murmur and shake your head wildly. “I don’t deserve to be here. I...I’ve been by myself for so long.” Tears fill your eyes, droplets hanging off your lashes and you gaze at him. “Don’t leave me...don’t leave me….you...can’t leave…” He doesn’t notice the way the branches grow, twisting towards him until they’ve wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Jimin sharply inhales, fighting against the pulling binds and trying to break them apart. But the thorny vines from the rose bushes grow, capturing his limbs. “Y/N! I won’t leave!” “You lie to me!” You shriek and the tornado of petals surrounds him in a storm. “Everyone lies to me!” “I haven’t,” the God of Wine spits while struggling against the shackles that hold him up. Jimin knows — you were manipulating him, trying to use him for escape, using him to find a way to leave. And even though it hurts, he didn’t care for a second when he found out. “I’ve given you everything you wanted!” you scream and the forests darken, creeping towards him. “I let you abandon me twice! Leave me here waiting for you to return! And now that you know….you’re going to leave me here forever!” The thorns sink into his skin, branches tightening around his flesh. Jimin gives up. He stops fighting. Instead, he chooses to gaze into your eyes tenderly. “I love you.” “Liar!” you cry out, sobbing as a great tremor breaks through you, tears rushing down your cheeks and the flowers around you begin to wither away. “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you’ve done,” he says, heart aching as he watches you succumb to your derangement, having been trapped in this one place for a hundred years by your lonesome. “I want to be with you, I want you by my side.” “All the gods have ever done was lie to me.” You shake your head and crumble to the ground. Your hands lift to cover your ears as if you don’t want to hear his sweet words any longer for fear of being deceived. “All they’ve done is taken advantage of me, trapping me from one place to the next!” Jimin’s unable to escape and you’ve broken down in front of him. He stares at you while he becomes enveloped in branches and vines, much like how you’ve killed other young men. But he is not a mere mortal. A haze erupts from the God of Wine. It’s a smothering spell that sweeps across the meadow, making it hard to think. And it creates an intoxicating atmosphere of pleasure as if you had bathed in wine. It steals your sobriety, making you drunk and incapable of thought. Through the gaps between the branches, Jimin can see tension leave you. He can see the way your form softens, your hands dropping from cupping your ears and the forest lights again. The grass and leaves become verdant, flowers standing upright, the animals peeking out from their hiding places. He’s impaired your wrath, made you inebriate from your anguish of isolation and imprisonment. And he frees himself from the vines and branches. “J-Jimin…?” you call out to him gently, words slurring and eyes narrowed as if you cannot see. He thickens the haze, keeping you in place — into yet another prison — cloaking you away from reality. “I will come back. I’ll figure out a way to free you, I promise.” With the God of Wine’s oath made, he vanishes. // The palace of the Sun has always been the grandest of all of Heaven. It faces west so that when the sun rises, it lifts behind the towers and illuminates the hundred marble steps leading up to it. It is deserving that the place Seokjin resides in is the most impressive — after all, he is the ruler of all rulers, the god of all gods, and somehow manages to keep the peace between the most prideful and self-interested deities. It is a task that most would be unable to do. But on this occasion, Jimin cannot muster forth his respect or come quietly into the palace as he often does. “Your Highness!” There is a sea of servants chasing after him, the God of Sun’s advisors floundering at his feet as he marches through the corridor, ripping open every door. “Please!” “Where is he?!” “Who dares make such a ruckus in my home?!” There is a booming voice that resonates across the sky and when Jimin whirls over, he finds Seokjin staring down at the yellow room from his place on the upper terrace. His many servants jolt and lower their heads immediately, moving aside as he walks down the stairs, glorious robes brushing against the tiled floor. Seokjin sighs, anger quickly fading at discovering the God of Wine. “Is there something wrong, Jimin?” “You trapped her there, didn’t you?” he asks, brows furrowed and expression crumpled in sorrow. The God of Sun inhales a deep breath and turns to where his servants are. He waves them off with his hand and they deepen their bow before scattering away. Once alone, Seokjin returns his attention onto the god. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that if you want me to know what you’re talking about.” “The Goddess of Spring.” Jimin speaks your name, looking up at Seokjin for an explanation. It goes silent and Seokjin places his arms behind his back, slowly walking towards the open arch window of the room where the silhouettes of temples and homes in Heaven can be seen. Jimin follows him, eyes pinned on his profile. “How long have you been seeing her?” “So it’s true.” Jimin doesn’t answer, knowing that Seokjin's question is the confirmation he needed. “You trapped her in that forest.” “She is intelligent, Jimin. More than what she seems. She knows how to influence others,” the God of Sun murmurs and twists to look at him. The two gods’ eyes connect to one another’s. “But yes, it’s true. She fought against us in the Great War, caused chaos and devastation of Heaven and the mortal realm. But she showed me sincere remorse and because I pitied her, I gave her what she wanted. She wanted to be in her forest and in the mortal realm.” “You trapped her,” Jimin argues. Your biggest desire was granted to the greatest extreme. You were brought to the human realm and forced to watch everything you love constantly live and die when the seasons end. Never to return to Heaven — never to leave the forest. “It is her punishment,” Seokjin clarifies. “And she was treated with the most leniency.” Jimin shakes his head, throat becoming clogged with grief for you. “How long do you intend to keep her there?” “More than a century.” The bright sunlight casts on his face, causing his skin to glow. “Perhaps indefinitely.” “Let her go,” he whispers, pleading. “Jimin.” “Free her.” The God of Wine pushes all dignity aside to beg. “Her isolation is driving her to madness and because she hasn’t been reborn, she is still holding onto resentments of the past. Her anger can’t fade.” “Good,” Seokjin says, turning away from him. “She is our enemy, Jimin. This is supposed to be her punishment.” “For more than a hundred years?” “You do not remember what destruction she has caused.” The God of the Sun sighs. “Many gods wanted worse for her. And she has been exiled from Heaven. I cannot risk conflict when peace is still fragile.” Seokjin snaps his neck around when Jimin suddenly drops. He looks down, finding the God of Wine on his knees. “She won’t hurt anyone anymore. I will swear to it.” “How can you assure that?” Jimin lifts his chin, gaze unwavering. “Allow her to be reborn with me. I will watch over her. We will start anew together.” “You love her,” Seokjin mutters and exhales steadily. He shakes his head in disapproval. “Get up, Jimin. No god should get on their knees, not for another and not for me. She has manipulated your emotions into feeling this way. Your mind will clear with time.” “It won’t,” he says with such certainty. And for a God like him to have such conviction, the God of the Sun is surprised. “Please, Seokjin. Give her a chance. If not for her, then for me.” “I never took you for such a fool, Jimin. Get up before someone sees you.” On his command, Jimin wobbles upwards. “You must trust that my judgment is not wrong. I will free her someday but not now. Collect yourself and if you know what is good for you, then you will not see her anymore.” Before the God of Wine can part his lips and make counters, beg and plead on his knees once again, the God of Sun has already strode away with his arms behind his back and his shoulders square, unwilling. Jimin is left staring at the god’s backside until it fades away from his sight. And against Seokjin’s advice, he goes to see you again. He can’t leave you behind. He won’t. No matter what anyone says, no matter if you are using him and tricking his emotions to your advantage, he won’t abandon you. As foolish as it may be, his affections for you are unconditional. Jimin steps through the thick haze, coughing at the atmosphere he had created and put in place. It is smoldering and suffocating, making it difficult to think. But because it is his own power, he is able to tread through it, past the trees of the forest and into the familiar clearing. There he finds you, slumped on the ground where he had left you, muttering to yourself. “Y/N?” “J-Jimin?” Your eyes narrow, unable to see him and your words slur as if intoxicated. The force of pleasure has rendered you incapable of much thought or movement. “You’re back?” He lowers himself down, tears threatened at his lashes as his gaze sets upon you. Jimin reaches out and embraces your body, your head against his chest. “I’m here.” “I...I can’t feel...my hands,” you blubber, panic leaking into your voice with the shreds of your sanity fleeting. “Help...he..lp.” He has imprisoned you — to keep you from your anger, to keep you from hurting him and yourself. The God of Wine has done the one thing he swore to liberate you from. “I’m sorry. I...I’m sorry.” Jimin is powerless. He cannot free you from this forest. He can’t free you from your isolation and madness. “I’m sorry.” He holds you against him as you drunkenly sob into his shoulder. The meadow is serene, but when you begin to scream, he wraps his arms around you tighter.

The celebration marking a hundred years of peace is planned and thrown successfully with all the gods invited to commemorate. Jimin is diligent, more so than usual, having personally handed out each invitation and ensuring that Seokjin would be satisfied — he is, but never brings up the Goddess of Spring again in spite of how hard Jimin earnestly tries. Time passes as Jimin continues to throw parties and celebrations, drinking wine with the gods above, expediting the pleasure that they can indulge in. But it’s not the same. And the God of Wine never stops seeing you. Each time he has a moment to spare, each time Spring begins and ends, he comes to be with you, cradling you in his arms and soothing your maddening worries. “’m cold.” You’re shivering against him, placed lifelessly in his lap with your forehead pressed to his cheek while his arms are secure around your shoulders. Winter has come and claimed all you have known and love. The branches of the trees are enveloped in frost, icicles hanging where petals once were. The meadow is blanketed in white, frigid snow making all that was living hiding away. Your forest has turned into a frozen void, an eerie silence lingering where the violent blizzard was — it took all that you had created and nurtured over the year. “I know.” Jimin pulls you closer. “Everything’s dying…” you murmur, surrounded in the grave of once was. The flowers have withered and tears slip down your cheeks. The droplets aren’t of sorrow but anger and the God of Wine thicken the intoxicating haze to try to ease your mind. “It’s okay…” He does what he can to console you over the loss, but he knows it does little. Jimin is helpless and incapable. But if he were stronger, if only his powers meant more… You’re lulled to sleep in his embrace, breathing steadying. Jimin sighs, breath creating a cold cloud from his parted lips. And after a quiet moment, he hears the crunch of snow — it’s not made by an animal, but footsteps of another. Jimin turns to discover the God of Sun walking through the field of snow, slow and cautious with his arms behind his back as his golden and white robes sweep against the ground. “You never listened well, did you, Jimin.” Seokjin offers a soft smile and his fond eyes stray to you for a moment. It’s been a long time since he’s seen you. “Don’t let her wake up. If she sees me, she might just die in a fit of rage and make it worse for the both of us...” “How did you know I was here?” “I was looking for you and heard you didn’t return to Heaven. I knew there was no other place that you could be. I knew you ignored my warnings and continued to see her.” “Are you going to take her away from me?” Jimin asks, fear and wariness rising in his voice. But Seokjin calmly shakes his head. “I’m going to stay with her, whether that means in Heaven or here,” Jimin declares while his arms around you become rigid, in case he’s torn apart from you. “I know.” He nods. “I’ve never considered you so loyal and devoted, but it suits you well, Jimin. I am glad there are gods like you.” Jimin sets you down on the blanket and you stir for a second before falling back into your slumber, chest rising and falling in a state of ignorant bliss. He gazes at you for a moment and then comes to face the God of Sun, trusting him enough that he won’t rip the two of you apart. “You can’t protect her forever, even in this haze you’ve created,” he sighs and waves his hand around as if dispelling away a cloud. Seokjin is the only god unaffected by Jimin’s abilities. Yet he has never belittled his tricks and even now smiles. Jimin doesn’t need to ask why he’s here. Seokjin tells him, “You can say I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve been thinking of what you’ve told me. I wouldn’t be a good ruler if I didn’t have mercy and compassion, right?” The implication of his words sinks into Jimin and his breath catches into his throat. “You’re….going to free her?” “Justice has been served,” Seokjin says, looking around the forest, able to see how well it’s been taken care of even in the middle of the coldest season. “It’s not good to live in the past either. But I have conditions—” The God of Wine is eager. “What conditions?” “I will release her from her imprisonment and you both will be reborn as children for a fresh start.” Seokjin’s voice booms across the forest, resonating all around them as if he was making an oath. “A new lifetime if she can agree to put the past behind her. But you must watch over her, Jimin. It won’t be easy. Most of the gods won’t be happy about this arrangement. It will be an uphill battle to gain acceptance. So, you must guide and protect her. If the Goddess of Spring ever steps out of line or causes bloodshed or strife in Heaven, the fault will be both of yours to bear.” He pauses and the corner of his plush lips quirk, eyes lit with mirth. “Do you agree to this deal?” Jimin answers through an embrace. The God of Wine leaps up to hug the God of the Sun, causing the latter to stumble back and burst out into laughter, patting the former’s back awkwardly. “Alright, alright. Don’t forget who we are.” “Thank you, Seokjin. Thank you…” “I know.” He pulls him apart and grins. “But if it were not because I trust you, I would not so easily agree.” The God of Sun’s hand falls on his shoulder, touch feather-light but squeezing comfortingly. He has an approving expression, mind put at ease knowing that you have someone like Jimin by your side. And it’s at this moment that Jimin knows his efforts were not futile. What he could not achieve with his powers, he countervailed with sincerity and truth. No longer are you the trapped goddess punished for past wrongdoings. You are the Goddess of Spring, companion of the God of Wine.

“Jimin!” A squeaky giggle streams from your chest and he whirls around sulking. You pout at him, getting impatient with how long he’s taking. The sun wasn’t going to be up forever and you still wanted to play. “C’mon, slowpoke. What are you waiting for?” “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he whines and runs to you, leaving the third jug of wine unfinished from brewing. He’s still not very fast at making it, but he knows he’ll learn. There’s still plenty of time. Your hand opens, catching his and you laugh as your fingers interlace. Heaven is noisier than it used to be. The grandiose paradise of temples and homes of gods, etched with precious marble and gold, now has two rascals making mischief together. As headache-inducing as the pair of you are to the many gods that reside here, you’re still endearing as you are troublemakers. And with how you’ve filled every crevice of Heaven with beautiful flowers and Jimin supplies them wine, no god is ever angry for long— Except that time you transformed Jungkook’s head of hair into a bed of moss; Jimin couldn’t help you much there. But he won’t ever let anyone bully you...unless it’s himself, of course. “Are you sure this is okay?” you ask, quirking your head to one side as you watch him climb the fence into Seokjin’s garden. “It’s okay.” Jimin gives a cheesy grin. “I know a secret hideout!” Jimin still knows his way around Heaven, recalling vaguely from his past life where everything is. But for you, everything seems new and unfamiliar. It’s been a long time since you’ve been back to Heaven, Jimin knows, although he really enjoys the way you gander around with wide eyes as if you can’t believe this is your home now. “Come on!” Without hesitation, you take your best friend’s hand and he helps pull you to the other side. The garden is wide and vast, verdant grass tall and luscious. The bushes and ground are full of buds placed perfectly in rows, petals nervously peeking out, still yet to fully open. Jimin’s been thinking about it for some time now, but he’s sure this is a place you would really love. He looks around with a proud smile. “What do you think?” When there’s no answer, Jimin twirls around. At the same time, a breeze brushes through his hair and he halts. Your palms are pressed flush against the truck of the tree in the center of the garden. And as if you are calling onto the very soul of the tree, through the warm wind, peace blossoms begin to flutter down the tree like rain. It entwines with your hair, seemingly wrapping your entire frame with the soft colour. The petals decorate your crown, getting caught in your light pink silks adorned on your body, hugging you. The aroma of the flowers surround him, not pungent but rather faint, like a whiff of fresh perfume passing by. Giggles befall your lips, nose scrunching as the petals fall onto your cheeks, tickling you. And Jimin smiles. His previous lifetime wasn’t wrong — you are indeed the most beautiful being he has ever seen or laid witness to. “Like it?” you ask with a grin. The flower rain was a gift and one he will always cherish. Jimin smiles as he gazes at you. “I love it.” And the flowers around him bloom.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin fluff #jimin scenario #jimin angst #bts fluff #bts angst

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lokidiabolus · 3 years

Text

Last Resort - Chapter 2

Fandom: The Maze Runner

Pairing: Thomas x Newt

Warnings: ex boyfriends, AU

Summary: Three years after breaking up with Thomas, Newt finally thought the past of hating each other was behind them, until Thomas asked him for a favour - pretend they got back together for a week while staying at his parents’ home. Because it was an absolutely dumb idea, Newt was inclined to refuse, but then found himself in the house he used to visit when he was in love and happy and the bitter reality of only pretending for people he always liked made him miserable. But it was nothing against dealing with Thomas himself for a week straight and trying not to fall back in love that hurt them both.

Or: Prompt ch. 192 with added spice. Or something. I just needed to write for a while :’)

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I think I never did so much rewriting like I did with this chapter. I'm still not satisfied with it, but I swear my brain just can't come up with anything else. Scrapped like 6 pages asdfjslfjslfjsdl. Now it's short :c

Anyway, guess I just wanted a bit of Thomas' insight for it. He's complicated lol. Or maybe not really, just trying to keep up. Don't we all though lol.

Oh and @izzymultifan (actually remembered)

Unbetad!

EDIT: (17. 5. 2021) I edited the ending with a lil continuation of the scene I previously deleted, because I thought it was unnecessary, but then I returned to it after few days and thought it should stay. It's not very long but I guess it's kinda important.

***

Thomas woke up disoriented, thirsty and definitely not rested enough, like when his alarm goes off on a workday and he only slept for four hours. But here was no alarm, no work, just him waking up with a flinch and realizing he wasn’t in his flat, and he wasn’t alone either.

The blond hair right in his face immediately pushed him into realization he was holding onto Newt like he was his lifeline, one hand under the shirt on his belly, other on his chest clutching the fabric, and an unmistakable morning hello tenting his pants, digging right into Newt’s backside. In retrospect there wasn’t much worse Thomas could have done to him, except maybe having a hand down his pants (which admittedly he used to do sometimes when they were together, but then again, that situation definitely didn’t scream murder like it would now).

In a sleepy confusion that hazed his just-woken-up-brain he searched the foggy memory on how this situation came to be, no matter how familiar it felt to him. Newt made himself pretty clear about sleeping together, so the sudden closeness – well, more like an absolute merge, unless he’d slip in – no, no dirty thoughts, bad Thomas, bad – didn’t make much sense.

The night came back to him embarrassingly slow – he got drunk because for some reason his dad decided to decimate his super precious whiskey, even though normally he hoarded it like a dragon his gold. He could only think of Newt being the incentive, drinking the whiskey so fast in his dad’s eyes, while Thomas downed it all to save him from barfing (Newt’s alcohol tolerance never existed in the first place, he disliked about any kind of it, and as far as Thomas remembered he got drunk only once with vodka mixed with orange juice on Aris’ wedding, because he could barely taste the vodka in it until it was too late). Then the world started spinning, Newt dragged him to his room somehow… which sounded farfetched, so maybe dad helped, he drew blank around that area honestly, probably because he stood up and all the alcohol began circulating faster. Then they talked… probably, and then Thomas fell asleep, since that’s all he could recall.

And now his hard-on was trying to get some, and he held Newt against himself with sheer ferocity of an obsessive hugger off his meds and the realization dawned on him like tons of bricks. Was he going to wake him up if he let go? Newt always woke up at the slightest noise before, there was no way of going to pee at night without getting back to the blond blinking owlishly at him, asking what happened. Was this Newt he barely knew anymore still the same? Still twitchy and light sleeper and grumpy and slow to rise when getting up?

Thomas didn’t have much choice anyway, did he. He just had to let go either way, and preferably remove his hips from Newt’s back and act like it was no biggie to be hard when in bed with his ex. He slowly untangled his hand from the front of Newt’s shirt and retreated from under the shirt as well with the other hand and managed to roll onto his back without Newt visibly stirring, which was a success. Unless he pretended to be asleep to avoid talking to Thomas about pushing into him like a horny teenager, which also worked.

Not like he hadn’t been doing that in the last month of their relationship anyway, just... ignoring the problem until it went away (a problem named Thomas) and well, ultimately it succeeded. It would work now too, and Thomas refused to poke the wasp nest this early in the morning – judging from the clock at 8:04 – and just went with the flow.

Need coffee, he thought unhappily when the headache set in. And water. Maybe some alone time in a bathroom first.

Newt didn’t stir until Thomas slinked out of the bedroom, which was a complete lie.

***

“Dad, just drop it,” Thomas repeated for fourth time when his dad couldn’t stop haggling him about his childlike alcohol tolerance the moment he appeared in the kitchen, asking for black coffee. He couldn’t tell him he drank Newt’s portions and without that argument nothing would sound plausible anyway, so he just dodged it with an increasing headache. Newt got up about half an hour later and didn’t speak a word to him – Thomas would even say he avoided his eyes several times, which meant he was absolutely awake in the morning to witness all of Thomas’ struggle to even exist around him peacefully. Which he couldn’t for years, really, so this only proved it.

It was fine. Thomas learned how to deal with it, despite taking him two years to come in terms of being hated by a person he loved since he was 17. Well, everything around the breakup took a lot from him, but he dealt with all eventually, right? He could finally look Newt in the eye without having all the incoherent anger and frustration pile up and he could talk to him fine as well unless they breached one of the thousand forbidden topics. Like them. Like family. Like love. Like sleeping. Like breathing, existing and fucking just trying to live.

Anyway. All dealt with, of course. No hard feelings.

(Lots of them.)

“You dealt with the drunkard just fine, right Newt?” his dad chattered towards the blond, patting him on his back and Newt forced a smile and a nod. Thomas saw this particular expression too often to not recognize it and huffed while sitting down at the counter with his own coffee.

He was used to being a bad guy anyway, no matter how much of the blame he genuinely deserved. They both knew he didn’t get drunk because he wanted to get wasted enough to drop unconscious on a spot and Newt would be a hypocrite to badmouth him when he was pouring all his whiskey to Thomas’ glass with thankful expression yesterday. But then again, not even he could tell Thomas’ dad about it, so they just had to have this unspoken oh yes, Thomas is a real piece of work as always.

Which sort of sucked. But Thomas couldn’t care less what his dad thought about his alcohol tolerance, it wasn’t like he threw up everywhere or broke mum’s precious bowls set (again). Not that he expected Newt to defend him anyhow, but he could at least say nooo, he was fine, he just fell asleep or something. Not that it surprised him he didn’t, but…

“He used to drink majority of guys from my work under the table and now look at him,” his dad delivered his fifth Thomas can’t drink for shit jab. He sure loved to milk that. “At least he has you to look after him, huh.”

Thomas stared at Newt’s back with mild annoyance the more the blond refused to elaborate on anything, just smiling at his dad while making himself a cup of coffee, and then Thomas’s eyes suddenly fell on the nape of Newt’s neck with a vicious, red mark near the hairline, and his whole body seized up like he got paralyzed.

A hickey? Since when? From who? What? Wait, was Newt already dating somebody else?

Saying already like three years were short amount of time… Thomas mentally scolded himself and his body raised up on its own volition, like being pulled in by some invisible force towards the blond. He had no clue if it were a twisted need for revenge or vindication or just him being unable to come in terms of not being told or warned, or maybe all of it together, he just couldn’t stop and plastered himself all over Newt’s back, trapping him between his body and the counter, circling his thin waist like a vine (he got thinner for sure).

“Of course I have you, don’t I,” he purred into Newt’s ear, loud enough for his dad to hear perfectly, and felt how Newt’s whole body froze, his hand mid-stir of the coffee. Thomas could see how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped. “Looking after me when I get hammered into unconsciousness.”

“Yeah.” Newt’s voice sounded small, and Thomas wanted to bite down at that red, angry place on his nape like an animal. His dad probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but his ego sure would. He let his hands slide lower, to Newt’s hips, grabbing a handful, and the habitual movement made him restless. He did it zillion times during the time they were together. He did less, he did more, naked, clothed, lying, standing up, in whatever situation, touching Newt was his privilege.

And some fucking horny prick just took it?

Just marked his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, Thomas, ex-boyfriend for three years, pull yourself together, you’re not 17 anymore – like a property and he didn’t even fucking notice?

Newt’s breath hitched and the spoon he was holding dropped into the coffee, splashing the black liquid around it, dribbling down the drawers under, making the blond curse under his breath.

“Sorry,” he immediately said towards Thomas’ dad who was handing him a cloth to wipe it with, and started squirming. “Thomas, leggo. Can’t reach.”

“Don’t wanna,” Thomas refused, squeezing Newt even tighter. “I’m hangover and miserable and you’re supposed to take care of me.”

Thomas’ dad snorted but took the hint and retreated while calling at his wife the boys are being rowdy again, Anna! And the kitchen fell back into silence, except of their breathing, with Thomas plastered against Newt’s back like he wanted to topple him over (he sort of did).

“Do you enjoy being a bloody prick?” Newt finally broke the spell, pawing at Thomas’ hands to get them off, his voice an angry whisper. “What’s your deal, for fuck’s sake!”

“Hangover,” Thomas huffed, not letting go and to be completely honest, Newt wasn’t really trying as much, just slapping his hands half-heartedly. “Could’ve at least said I didn’t give you any trouble, I covered for you the whole night.”

“You gave me loads of it!” Newt started wiggling, and Thomas had to fight the urge to just bite down, mark any piece of skin available, to make the restlessness go away. “You were heavy as fuck, I had to carry you all the way to your room!”

“Yeah, and?” Thomas grabbed him lower, and Newt pinched his hand in revenge, which finally made him let go with sharp breath.

“Fuck you,” the blond barked at him with fiery eyes. “I don’t know what you are trying to prove but groping me is not on the bloody table, get it?!”

“Mhm,” Thomas rubbed the place Newt pinched him at. “Sure. No fun allowed, got it.”

“Fuck off!”

Thomas hated how Newt turned away and the hickey was so visible it made his insides churn. He used to talk about his problems a lot these past few years, so he could finally let go of whatever was holding him in place, unable to forget, and he thought he reached that point, that he was free.

Looking at Newt marked by another man… no. He was not. Still stuck, still the same.

Still angry and miserable.

Still… there.

***

The fact Newt refused to talk to him completely was an understatement. Thomas blamed his unsteady approach on the alcohol, because what else he could blame it on – his own feelings? He sodealt with those already, there was nothing that would make him see red.

Except of a hickey on his ex-boyfriend’s neck, that would do it. Apparently.

But still – it was the hangover that made him stupid, right. If he’d be completely sober and not aching anywhere and his mind clear, he would just… shrug at it. It was Newt’s business who he slept with or not, or who he let bite his nape like a dog (some young fucking idiot who thought hickeys are still sexy? Stupid shit).

Not Thomas’. Not anymore.

The more he tried to push it away from his mind, the more his mind pushed back, just pointing it out loudly every time he glanced towards the blond sitting on the couch in the living room, bundled in a fluffy blanket, fiddling with his phone.

He was fiddling with his phone a lot actually. Texting somebody?

The guy who left the mark?

Thomas felt the irrational anger seep into his consciousness again and he forced it back down with a frown. He knew asking Newt to help him to get his parents off his back wasn’t exactly a great idea (asking ex to be your bf again for a show just screamed trouble), but at the same time asking anybody else just felt… wrong.

Thomas had to admit he’d be able to go along with this only with Minho, probably. Because Minho was a born actor, he’d be able to breeze though this with ease and Thomas’ parents would like him for sure, because, well, everybody liked Minho, honestly.

Asking Teresa or Brenda was just… desperate. Because other than them it would be Newt and getting back together with Newt… well. Thomas could tell from the moment he saw him getting into his car in front of Newt’s workplace it was going to be tough for both of them.

Not much of a surprise so far climbing Mt. Everest would be easier than keeping his chaotic feelings under control.

“You need some fresh air,” his vision of Newt got obstructed by his mum in a frilly apron she wore unironically and he looked up to her with half-lidded eyes.

“I think I need chicken soup, actually,” he offered in response, because dragging himself through the snow outside now sounded like a death penalty.

“Air first,” she insisted, adamant, and turned towards Newt like an executioner. “Right, Newt? A walk would do him good.”

Newt looked at Thomas and Thomas just knew. He was doomed. Newt was going to betray him like Scar did with Mufasa and he’d enjoy it, he could see the glint in his eyes, just shining there, spelling revenge in big, neon letters.

Please, he mouthed at the blond in desperation and Newt tilted his head to the side and then his mouth curled up.

“Sure, that’s a great idea, Anna,” he signed the death certificate without an ounce of shame and relished in it.

Fuck you, Thomas mouthed again, and Newt sent him a condescending smile. Fuck him especially.

***

“You’re unusually quiet,” his mum casually pointed out like she didn’t just drag him out to cold ass weather while holding a knife (butter one, but that’s what made it scarier), despite his very vocal (or vocal sort of, too loud and his brain wanted out of his skull) protests.

“Hungover,” he reminded her bitterly. The snow under their feet crunched sharply and the noise was tearing his brain to pieces, like walking on a broken glass and he had no idea how much longer he’d be able to act like it wasn’t killing him.

“Well, it was nice of you to cover for him,” Anna shrugged like she didn’t just blew their cover with a killer one liner and Thomas probably shouldn’t have been as surprised. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink.”

“That’s cuz he can’t drink for shit,” he mumbled with a frown. “Did dad notice?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He was too busy boasting about the partnership. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him so happy, you know how he hoards the whiskey otherwise.”

“Yeah, cheapskate,” Thomas snorted, and the noise sliced his brain painfully, like an instant karma.

“Think he was happy about Newt being back too,” she hit the nail on the head a bit too close to home and Thomas hated how his stomach lurched at it. “Well, you know him.”

“Sure is happy for not getting any grandkids,” he just grumbled and Anna patted him on his back.

“We still have Hannah,” she reminded him sweetly. “Maybe one day she’ll feel like having kids and force you to babysit for her two times a week.”

“Me? You’re going to be the grandparents, it’s your obligation to babysit!” The idea of taking care of Hannah’s kids made him scared for life, and they didn’t even exist yet.

“Pretty sure Newt wouldn’t mind,” she chirped happily, and Thomas loathed how right she probably was. Newt never really showed any kind of real interest in having kids or anything, but he never minded babysit for his own sister, and generally all the kids liked him.

Not that thinking about that had any merit anyway, since they split up with a point of no return. Maybe Newt already planned kids with the new person who left the distasteful hickey on his nape, or the person who he kept texting, and the more Thomas thought about it, the more his chest burned.

“Cherish him a bit more, would you,” she poked his arm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you have some beef between you. Had an argument before coming here?”

Why the fuck is she so perceptive?

“A bit,” he answered quietly. “No biggie.”

“Set things right,” she plainly ordered him like he was ten again and had do her bidding. “I don’t want another sad Christmas.”

There isn’t going to be any Christmas for us, he wanted to tell her, but kept his mouth shut. At this rate, there wasn’t going to be anything for them, at all.

I really need some sleep.

***

Not very often did the morning come so peacefully, like a gentle spring washing over tired soul, leaving it invigorated. Thomas basked in the pleasantness of it, a quiet, warm and relaxed moment where he slowly woke up from a dream into reality still welcoming and soft like he never left the fantasy realm.

He took a deep breath, stretching, slowly coming to realize of contours of another body pressed into him, and under his hands and around his legs and under his chin. The soft blond hair came to view when he opened his eyes, with Newt draped around him needily, and his heart melted.

The first night in their flat. Their home. A place that only belonged to them, these walls and floors, and small kitchen and big windows, for them together. It came true, finally, inevitably, for Thomas to have Newt all for himself, to share his mornings, his evenings, his life with him. Nothing else could make him happier.

“You already up?” came a sleepy rumble from Newt’s chest, the hands holding Thomas’ waist slowly moved up, to his back, pushing them even closer together.

“Just woke up,” Thomas kissed the top of the blond strands, his own hands traveling over Newt’s back, right onto his butt, kneading it.

“Mmmm.” Approving sound doubled his endeavour and then Newt was slowly grinding to him, lazily, his lips stretched in a smile, reaching to pamper Thomas’ neck with small kisses. “This sure is nice, huh.”

“Love it,” Thomas agreed with the sentiment while grabbing Newt’s thigh and hiking it up over his hip. The blond softly moaned at the contact and Thomas pushed more into it, completely awake and needy and allowed. There was nobody that could hear them, scold them or gasp in shock like a puritan at them making out – just them, two lovers in their home, free to make love any time they wanted.

And Thomas wanted too much.

***

He never stopped wanting.

He woke to his room bathing in shadows, with the blanket twisted between his legs, his headache still present, even though in weaker state than in the morning, and his body wasn’t any less sluggish. The walk with his mum didn’t help him much, just added to his misery with freezing cold and nagging reality he couldn’t play this game any longer, which made him feel empty and unhappy.

He didn’t feel this unhappy in a while, it usually only came back when he heard of Newt about a year after the breakup. Every time his ex came back to his life, even when somebody only mentioned him in a passing conversation, Thomas’ chest set off that painful pang in it, like a trigger just waiting to be pressed, and he fell back into hollow kind of depression.

He got rid of it, somehow. He built walls around himself, he locked all of his twisted personality traits and pushiness and hateful behaviour away, he spent years searching for more he could fix, for all that made Newt unhappy with him, what made him leave Thomas after seven years without really talking about it.

He thought he managed to become a better person. He believed he could change the way he acted. He hoped if he ever talked to Newt again, at any point of their lives, he would be at least able to show him he wasn’t that ungrateful, lousy boyfriend anymore, that they could at least be friends. Somehow. Just talk normally. Just… exist in the same room without… Newt making that anguished face, like it hurt him still.

Thomas tried. But failed. Maybe it was just recurring theme of his life – to touch something wonderful, to taste true happiness, just to fuck it all up and lose it.

Maybe he was just obsessive. Suffocating.

Maybe making mistakes were rooted too deep in him to get rid of.

Maybe… it was simply impossible.

***

Newt was playing games with Hannah in the living room when Thomas came back down. Hannah made fun of him for sleeping all day like an old guy and his mum said something about hoping he didn’t catch a cold and gave him a bowl of chicken soup.

The strange, unattached feeling stayed with him since he woke up, and only doubled when he saw Newt’s neck marked by some fucker on display. His stomach churned at the implication there was this unknown guy waiting for Newt to come back home, who kept impatiently sending him texts that made Newt frown and smile in turns, like he just slowly sunk back into the problem they never resolved. Thomas felt disgusted with himself, and angry, and, when it came to it, immensely tired.

“Oh, you have the whole week free?” his mum asked suddenly, breaking Thomas’ bubble of trying to eat the soup like a mental case of lobotomy, and he realized there had been a conversation going in meantime and he didn’t catch any of it. Newt wasn’t playing the game anymore, though Hannah still furiously pressed buttons on her controller, and instead of it sat on the couch, turned towards Thomas’ mum at the table.

“Yeah, thought getting out of the city might do me good,” he answered her with a soft smile and the idea of another week like this sent Thomas into desperate mode. Even though it was him who forced Newt to take whole week off, because… he only had bad ideas, obviously.

“But there’s bit of a rush now, right?” he entered the conversation impulsively and Newt glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “At work. Christmas and all that being close.”

“Yeah, it’s… a bit hectic,” the blond admitted, making Thomas’ mum go aww. “There’s lots of people taking vacations they didn’t spend yet, so we usually work crunch time.”

“Yeah, kind of same,” Thomas added. It wasn’t really a lie. But not the truth either. “And I know I said a week, but I’ve got some texts from work already, thought of going back tomorrow instead.”

Newt stared at him with an evident confusion, but Thomas knew at this rate they were going to crash and burn again if they stayed, and he didn’t want that. He couldn’t even trust himself to keep it civil when his blood boiled like in a bull taunted with red flag.

Except the red flag was an unknown nobody on the other side of the line of Newt’s phone.

And bed.

“Uh,” came from the blond. “No, wait. What? You…”

“We can visit again during Christmas,” Thomas offered a big fat lie, he almost bit his tongue at it. Christmas were a taboo, he knew mentioning it were already risky, but it gave him an out with his mum, so that worked at least. “When it’s calmer.”

“When is what calmer?” Newt still stared, Thomas said almost disbelieving, and he just prayed for him to play along and not act like he knew nothing about it.

“Work,” he answered stiffly. Too stiffly, he realized, since Newt’s eyes narrowed.

“Uh oh,” he heard Hannah interject, which meant he already failed in the mission to make this believable. Fuck.

“I need a smoke,” the blond announced instead of reacting and stood up sharply. Then shot Thomas a badly masked glare. “Keep me company?”

He wanted to say no but couldn’t when his whole family watched them like during tennis match. So he just nodded and followed Newt outside of the house while feeling like slapping himself.

***

“Care to explain or am I supposed to guess.”

The cigarette was lit, its fiery tip shone bright in the darkness of the porch once the automatic light shut itself because they weren’t moving like they rooted in the wooden floor. Newt was wearing his coat and Thomas only stood there in the long-sleeved shirt, which in retrospect was probably a mistake.

“I did explain,” Thomas said. “Just thought about work-,”

“No, you didn’t,” Newt stopped him immediately while crossing one of his arms on his chest while other held the cigarette like a weapon. “You said a week, so I took a week off. I’m not bloody leaving now. It’s my vacation.”

“I also said three days would probably be enough,” Thomas asserted. “And they are. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Why?” the blond demanded. “It’s not like I suffer here. I like this place. What’s your problem?”

That kind of question had no easy answer and Thomas held Newt’s eyes only for few seconds, before looking away.

“Am I the problem?” came another question, even sharper. “You just can’t stand me anymore, so you want to leave?”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Thomas scoffed. “Since when did I ever-,”

“No, I don’t know!” Newt interrupted him with raised voice and Thomas flinched. “I don’t bloody know anything about you anymore! You brought me here and expected what? War? Did you want us to fail?”

“Why would I want us to fail?” Thomas’ eyes widened in a shock. “What kind of fucked up logic would that be?!”

“I don’t know!” Newt barked. The cigarette he was holding was slowly fading away, the ash falling everywhere how he moved his hand. “But something’s up since this morning, so obviously you’re lying about work and I want to know why!”

Well, finding out his ex-boyfriend had a lover, or a sex friend or whatever the other person was definitely served as a wake-up call. Thomas couldn’t overlook it – he thought he’d be fine with anything, it had been years, but one fucking hickey and some fleeting texts and he just had the rising urge to tear the walls he built down and get angry and make Newt inevitably miserable, which he despised.

He fucking loathed it. And himself. And everything around him.

“Why did you even agree to come here?” he couldn’t help but demand. “Why did you even bother playing this stupid game when you have somebody home? You trying to make him jealous or it’s just your thing?”

Accusing – stupid Thomas, fucking idiot, just talk normally, what’s wrong with you – as always.

“What?” Newt’s eyes shot up, wide in honest surprise. His cheeks were red from the cold, or maybe embarrassment, Thomas didn’t know. “What are you talking about?”

“About that hickey on your neck?” Thomas pointed towards the incriminated spot and Newt’s whole body went rigid.

“A hickey…?” Newt’s free hand was touching the place now, his voice shocked. “You… ugh.”

“Look, it’s not my business, clearly,” Thomas rubbed his eyes tiredly, desperately trying to make an excuse for his own consciousness why he couldn’t look at Newt. “But obviously it’s causing you trouble with him, so. As I said. Three days are fine, we can leave now. Go back home. Forget about this.”

And forget about me trying to corner you, and me getting hard in the bed with you this morning, and me sounding jealous and lame, and me… just for being me.

“Are you fucking with me?” Newt’s voice sounded disbelieving. “Are you bloody serious right now? A hickey from some random guy appeared over night here? That’s what you’re saying?”

Overnight…?

“Overnight?” he asked a little dumbly, which forced him to look Newt in the eyes, where he saw hell unleashed. It made his throat squeeze almost hard enough to suffocate him.

“You think I just popped back home for a quickie, then back to your bed in the morning like a bloody Cinderella?” the blond seethed, the cigarette in his hand morphing into a protentional weapon of choice. “Where did that even came for, for fuck’s sake? You’d been seeing me for two days, never noticed anything, and then suddenly your Esmeralda syndrome got cured or what?”

“But-,”

“You bloody drunk fucker,” Newt took a step towards him and Thomas found himself hitting the entrance door with his back, when he automatically tried to back out. “Should have known your bird brain won’t remember anything.”

The realization hit Thomas like tons of bricks right in his face, able to cause heavy concussion if it were real.

“I did this?!”

“No, the bloody sucker behind you, who the fuck do you think?!” Newt’s voice was harsh, but Thomas could only hear the bare fact he made a hickey of size of Texas on his ex-boyfriend’s nape while spending the next day being jealous… of himself.

“What the fuck,” he breathed out with an ugly relief flooding his veins, which was all sorts of wrong. Being relieved over attacking his ex at night definitely did not count as a good point in anybody’s book. “What the fuck.”

“Calmer now?” Newt sighed in exasperation and Thomas couldn’t say he was. It just opened door to another set of bad he had to deal with.

“I attacked you when drunk?” he asked quietly, and Newt blinked in surprise.

“Attacked?” he repeated and then barked out a laugh. “No, you really didn’t. You were drunk out of your mind, for fuck’s sake.”

“I see.”

“Didn’t think it left anything,” the blond sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if in memory, which was kind of hot – no Thomas, it was not hot, but embarrassing, shut up -. “I mean you just munched on me a little, then fell back asleep. No harm done.”

“You made a fuss about us sleeping in one bed but it’s no biggie when I leave a hickey?” Thomas couldn’t help but laugh a little and Newt’s face showed signs of hesitation.

“Look…” he tried after a moment, the cigarette in his hand nearly gone. “I… don’t know, you were just sleeping while holding me, it doesn’t mean anything-,”

“And that’s fine with you?” It was Thomas’ turn to interrupt him, and Newt looked a little lost for a moment.

“I suppose that’s fine with me, yeah,” he admitted slowly.

Thomas looked at his shoes, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t deny the knot forming in his belly over the day already started easing off, for purely selfish reasons he had, but at the same time his head became even a bigger mess than before.

“So what does it mean?” he asked after a while. “I’m trying to do the right thing here, I thought… you’d rather leave than stay with me longer, after today, but…”

“I want to stay,” Newt answered immediately. “Unless you really don’t want me here. Then no, of course. I had the same problem the first day, feeling all kinds of weird and jumpy. I guess I just sort of dealt with it. Stepped out of my comfort zone and all that.”

“Sorry you had to.”

It wasn’t like Thomas wanted Newt to change anyhow by doing this favour for him. But he’d also be a hypocrite if he didn’t admit he wished Newt to feel good here. With him. Selfishly, hopelessly. Like before, like they were okay. Like they still… liked each other. At least a little.

He knew that kind of hope was self-destructive and harmful, but he didn’t stop loving this man three years ago, after going through an immensely rough patch, so he wouldn’t stop loving him now for no reason either.

“No need to be sorry,” Newt interrupted his thoughts with much softer tone than Thomas expected. “I mean even despite it’s you, you didn’t really do anything bad yet.”

“Wow,” Thomas snorted. “Way to ruin the mood, boyfriend.”

“I try,” Newt grinned, and it seemed like the tense mood dissipated and they both relaxed enough to breathe easier. Thomas possibly wouldn’t even notice he had been so strung up until now, if the huge boulder of irrational fear of fucking up didn’t fall off his shoulders with a bang.

“And just for the record,” Newt added while finally inhaling the last puff from the already burned-out cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “I noticed you digging into me in the morning.”

“Of course you did…” Thomas banged the back of his head against door in utter shame. “Because universe hates me, and you had to fucking wake up.”

“Yeah, well,” Newt let out a small shrug. “I got hard at night, if it makes you feel any better. Let’s call it even.”

“What.”

“Had a real nice dream,” the blond casually announced like he was ordering pie with no filling and Thomas was a stupefied cashier at Costa Cafe. “Woke up with you being handsy with me. Tried to scramble away, cue for you to make the hickey and fall back asleep.”

“Uh.”

“1:1, right?” The sly smile Newt’s mouth produced did things to Thomas’ underbelly and before he even caught himself, he automatically reached out and grabbed Newt’s side.

Fuck.

“Pretty lousy score,” he just said – bad Thomas, stop making a pass at your ex -, “That’s no match whatsoever.”

Newt glanced at his hand resting on his waist and then back to Thomas with a thoughtful hum.

“I’m not that good at sports,” he just said, looking back into Thomas’ eyes. “But you might be onto something.”

Thomas took a deep breath and risked the second hand grabbing other side of Newt’s waist, pulling him closer. The layers of clothing made him dissatisfied, no matter how cold it was and how his skin already felt like ice, he just wanted to get under the coat and the sweater and the shirt and make Newt react somehow. The blond just silently watched him, let him do whatever he wanted, and somehow it felt like a test and Thomas was scared of failing it.

“That’s it?” Newt broke the tense silence around them when Thomas just stood there, holding him.

“Thinking,” the brunet mumbled with a frown.

“About?”

“How to touch you without it being classified as groping,” he moved his hands a little lower as an experiment, getting no reaction. “Since it’s off the table.”

“Pfff.”

He hesitated, then gingerly let go of one side and reached for the zipper lodged under Newt’s chin, keeping the coat closed like a fortress. His hand barely cooperated with how frozen it was, but Newt still didn’t stop him and that encouraged him unfairly.

“Newt.”

“Yeah?” the blond’s voice was quiet and close to his face.

“What’s with all the texting?” He kept holding the zippier between his fingers like he couldn’t decide, and Newt made a soft huh? noise in the back of his throat.

“You were on your phone the whole day,” Thomas lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Is there somebody…?”

A sigh. Thomas let go of the zipper.

“That’s Alby,” came a reply and if Thomas wasn’t already propped against the door, he’d take a step back. There was nowhere to run now, so he just let go of the blond completely, nodding.

“He’s my partner,” another string of words Thomas comprehended but wished he didn’t. “A bit demanding one.”

“Sounds like it,” he just commented, staring at his feet until Newt’s shoes came into view as well when he stepped closer.

Seriously testing me. That’s-

“A bit cruel,” he breathed out with a puff of white smoke and Newt pushed further and pressed his mouth against Thomas’. His cold lips lingered for a moment before parting, their breaths mingling, and Thomas’ heart fought really hard to get out of his chest and run away. The proximity was non-existent, Newt stood so close their chests were touching, and his eyes were so dark, and pupils blown wide Thomas got easily lost in them.

He always did. Nothing had changed.

“You look cold,” Newt whispered to his lips, hovering so close their mouths gently touched when they took a breath.

“Freezing,” Thomas answered in daze, holding back only by a miracle. He wanted to reach out and pull the blond man flush against him, to grind into him, to kiss him so deep his toes would curl, and he’d buck up, he just wanted so much it made him suffer.

“Alby’s my colleague,” Newt dropped quietly. “Funnily… you weren’t wrong about work being in a rush now. He’s struggling a little. Wanted to know my opinion.”

A colleague. And nothing else?

“Nothing else,” Newt answered like he could read his mind and then sagged against Thomas’ body like the energy just left him, resting his head on Thomas’ shoulder.

“I thought I can handle being this close to you,” he heard him mumbling into his shirt. “But the more I am, the less I can fight it.”

“I thought I can handle you dating somebody else,” Thomas added to it while letting his head fall back against the door with a dull thud. “But obviously not. It’s scary. I don’t want to fuck it up again.”

“Yeah,” Newt agreed with him. “Me neither.”

He wasn’t sure if this had been some sort of consensus they reached, or just a fling that happened because they were both lonely, but Thomas didn’t want to let go – even though he should have, logically, to protect them both. The pain they caused to each other three years ago was still there and festering under their skins, but the more Newt was pressed into him, breathing softly, the more Thomas noticed his reason slowly creeped away, like a thief in the night disappearing with loot.

But he wanted. For fuck’s sake how he wanted to just hold him close and promise him love and eternal happiness, and the scary part was he couldn’t promise shit. His love was real, but not unconditional, happiness was fleeting and simply relying on both of them and the rest of the world deciding whatever to fuck them up or not.

But…

“I give up,” he mumbled, weary to the bone. At Newt’s soft hm? he just sighed. “It’s fucking cold.”

The blond barked out a laugh, but nodded and let go of him, immediately taking all the warmth away.

“Then shall we assure them we’re not breaking up again?” he nodded towards the door and without waiting for Thomas’ reply he already reached for the handle. “Or not leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” the brunet conceded. “Hannah’s going to be milking this for the rest of the week…”

“Serves you right,” Newt laughed quietly while opening the door and Thomas kept the answer to himself.

We’re not breaking up again rang in his head like a bell, deafening his reason even further. Newt didn’t protest when he reached for his hand on their way inside, and he wondered if his heart was ready for another trial.

He ignored the uncertainty and took a leap of faith.

#newtmas #tmr #the last resort series #the maze runner #izzymultifan #edit 17. 5. 2021

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 4 years

Text

An Obituary for Identity Politics

I began writing this text about a couple months before the uprising in response to George Floyd’s death. The uprising, which now has become a global event, has motivated me to share my perspective in this text. My experiences in Minneapolis from the 26th through the 31st of May have furthered my contempt for identity politics and so I have included additional critiques of it based on those experiences.

Rewind back to a time and place where people used pagers and pay phones. When front porches and public parks were the hang-out spots. A time when conflicts were resolved face-to-face and shit-talking came with real life consequences. These were the days before ‘call-out culture’, ‘troll-baiting’, and other internet-dominated social activities. Some say the internet and technological expansion have advanced the fight against oppression. My opinion? The internet is where all potential for social revolt goes to die. In addition to pointless petitions and endless memes, recognition as a rebel can be gained through pity parties and academic loyalty rather than hands-on direct action. While providing an excellent breeding ground for keyboard warriors and pretentious academics, the internet also allows for the stunted development of social skills necessary in navigating face-to-face communication. Conflict resolution takes the form of indefinite internet drama and at most an awkward in-real-life re-construction of judge, jury, and executioner. Face-to-face interaction is almost unnecessary in the techno-society where phones have become a personalized commodity seemingly fused to one’s hand. From a screen with adjustable dimming, a full spectrum of emotional expression can now be digitally represented from a cache of emoticons.

The internet is also a place where the lynch-mob mentality of “call-out culture” encourages people to view one another as one-dimensional beings – only defined by mistakes and imperfections. In the name of ‘social justice’ and ‘outing abusers’, a new statism emerges, utilizing fear and guilt to coerce allyship conformity. And similar to being charged by the State, once condemned on the internet, an individual may never escape that reputation. Instead, any or all personal growth and development remains trivial to the static nature of their past mistakes. Despite personal improvement, a convicted individual is sentenced to forever remain captive by the essence of their online portrayal.

In my experience as a ‘marginalized voice’ I’ve seen identity politics used by activists as a tool of social control aimed at anyone who fits the identity criteria of ‘oppressor’. The traditional power-struggle for equality has turned into an olympic sport for social leverage, inverting the same social hierarchy that should have been destroyed in the first place. Many identity politicians I’ve come across are more interested in exploiting “white guilt” for personal (and even capital) gain than physically confronting any organizational model of white supremacy. I’ve witnessed victimhood used to conceal blatant lies and bullying, motivated by personal revenge. All too often I have seen how identity politics creates a culture where personal experiences are trivialized to the point of passive silence. But this is all old news. Any experienced, self-identifying anarchist has seen or probably experienced some form of being ‘called-out’ or ‘cancelled’. So why do I bring it up? Because I still see this shit happening and I still see so many people lacking the courage to openly confront it.

I don’t expect this text to bring identity politics to a grinding halt. I am merely expressing my hostility for it and its authoritarian, anti-individualist nature. I still see self-proclaimed anarchists fussin’ over ‘white’ dreads (as well as seeing people cut their dreads under social pressure). I still see people justify voting like they did for Obama (this time it’s for Bernie). And I still see ‘allies’ mumbling frustration under their breath, too scared to confront the authoritarianism they see right in front of ‘em.

How many ‘white’ anarchists were called racist (or privileged) and shamed for refusing to vote this past 2020 election?

Imagine what anarchy would look like if people refused to obey the condescending demands of identity politicians. Would people feel more free to explore their lives beyond the narrow limitations of prescribed identity? Would they fearlessly reclaim their power to formulate their own opinions? Is there a joy to be experienced in the hysterical mockery of academic elitism?

Would this text be less valid if it wasn’t written by a queer person of color? What if I was a ‘white’, ‘cis’ ‘male’? Why would it matter?

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t. Because after all, this isn’t just about identity. This is about anti-authoritarian anarchy. If there is one thing I have seen the most in the past few years, it’s how identity politics moves like a plague, consuming every social space — ironically including anarchist circles. For me, anarchy is about destroying socially assigned identity and all the limitations it imposes upon the imagination. Anarchy is an individualist experience that finds itself held captive by the prison of assigned identity. Rather than destroying that prison along with the society that constructs it, anarchism today has become a cemetery of dead potential, internalized victimhood, and an ideological competition for who is ‘most oppressed’.

Rather than taking aim at identity itself and the apparatus maintaining this paradigm, energy is spent tearing one another down, ignoring the complexity of individual uniqueness, and playing the State’s role of defining each other based on membership to identity categories. Embracing a particular identity only reaffirms that identity’s existence as a ‘universal ‘truth’ – and therefore, by the colonial intentions of assigned identity, the servitude and enslavement of some to others as a universal truth as well.

I refuse to participate in upholding enslavement as a condition of my existence, and therefore these ‘truths’ are nothing more than political works of fiction. They are the products of a well-perfected, socially engineered god-complex that enters the mind like parasitic cordyceps, demanding unquestionable obedience. The atom of mental manipulation is a mind institutionalized by the incarceration of industrial society. Identity politics are the antiquated chains of colonization, polished by those who assign personal value to them. These ‘truths’ are the social constructs of control, keeping the life of rebellion shackled in a cold well of reform. And while many have become comfortable there, I have broken out to explore the infinite unknown terrain of hedonism and anti-political anarchy. ‘Black’, ‘Brown’, or ‘White’ power is the antithesis of freedom; it is the ideological charity work of a civilized, humanist form of rebellion. Identity politics is the sterilization of individuality, rendering it both obedient to the collectivist authority of identity and gullible to the nationalist myth of supremacy.

Ultimately, the ‘human’ is an animal domesticated with labels socially constructed to correspond to a hierarchy of economic status. And though this hierarchy has changed over the years, it is constantly held in place by a relationship of those who make demands and those who obey. No matter how the categories are arranged, the hierarchy represents authoritarianism; the group dominating the individual. What defines a ‘human’ is the degree of obedience and commitment to civilized roles and behaviors required by industrial society. The less cooperative a ‘human’ is, the more likely that ‘human’ will be compared to an animal. The animal is the undesireable being – even for the identity politicians who prefer to adopt the colonizers’ ideological anthropocentrism. Perhaps this explains why there is such little discussion on animal liberation in leftist-anarchist writing. The marginalized voice is more concerned with being portrayed as equal to the civilized colonizer than with the lost connection between their animality and the earth. At the core of leftist politics is the humanist aim for social equality within industrial progress — all while the earth continues to be cut up into nation-states and ravaged for anthropocentric exploitation and expansion.

It is my opinion that as long as one maintains a personal relationship with the ‘human’ identity, similar to ‘white’ or ‘male’ identities, the individual will only continue to reinforce the colonial paradigm of civilized vs savage. And as long as this reinforcement continues, the individual also remains vulnerable to imprisonment within other identity constructs that further suppress feral potential.

I wonder when or if anarchists in general will move beyond the group-mentality of leftism toward individualist insurgency — recognizing confrontation with identity as an act of personal emancipation. Will anarchists one day come to realize that anyone or anything above the individual represents an authority figure – whether it be “The Commune”, the “Movement”, or the cultural governance of identity? Maybe some, but I am sure not all.

The Victimhood Saint

After a 45 minute drive we finally arrive. It’s been a long day of retail theft and this is the last stop. It’s my turn and I plan to walk out with at least $500+ worth of merchandise for online resell. But I’m already gettin’ a bad feeling from this place. Unlike the other locations, this store is much smaller which to me means Loss Prevention will have a visual advantage watching the doors. Bigger places mean the enter and exit doors are spread further apart. In addition, the bigger the store, the more difficult it is to keep track of every shopper through the cameras. I decide to go for it anyways. Never know anything for sure until ya try.

I walk in, grab a cart and begin searching for the specific items I plan to take. I also scan the check out lanes and customer service desk. Two customer service employees busy chatting, check out lanes all blocked off except the one near the entrance and two near the exit. The entrance lane has a worker wiping down carts. One exit lane has a cashier, the lane next to it is totally empty. I take note of it as looking “too easy”, but I decide to refocus on where my items are located in the store. After loading my cart I start my journey to the exit. For anyone who shoplifts for a living, they know this is the exciting part. Every moment up to this point I’ve been just a regular shopper. But now, as I walk toward the exit, I begin to shed the costume of “shopper” and prepare for the criminal experience of “shoplifter”. As my heart starts to pound I feel my nerves initiate a well — developed calming response where I temporarily disassociate from the panic in order to keep my senses sharp and focused. I have to be ready for anything. And I still have to maintain my “regular shopper” face and body language. As I pass through the “too easy” lane everything looks good.

Customer service people are still chatting not paying attention, the one cashier is too busy ringing up someone to notice. I pull out my fake receipt and casually make my way through the first set of exit doors. If I was seen or caught, this is about the moment I would hear someone approach me from behind or feel someone grab my shoulder. Out the second set of doors, all is good. Time to start making my way toward the back of the parking lot – and then it happened...

Anyone who has ever shoplifted long enough knows these dreaded words: “Sir... Sir!”. I hear someone behind me yell out. I pretend to not hear it. Then I hear quick footsteps approach from behind. “Sir, I need to see your receipt” he says as he flashes me his Loss Prevention badge. Fuck. Where did this clean-cut lookin’ hipster see me? Must have been in the clothes area behind me... maybe that lane was a fucking trap? Doesn’t matter. Let go of the cart and walk away. I start to walk away and I hear “No no...sir we have to go back inside and fill out paperwork. Don’t worry you will not be arrested”. Yeah, fill out paperwork with all my information, have my picture taken for their records – fuck that. I continue walking away. Another LP runs out and is on the phone. This guy is on the phone with the police. I instantly realize the first guy was secretly stalling me till the police got there! I break out in full run. I hear them both running close behind me. I cross the street and bolt into a trailer park, zig zag between trailer homes and finally hide out in a steel shed. I force my paniced breathing to quiet deep breaths. I calm down and listen to them searching for me nearby.

Finally after not hearing them anymore I text my accomplices a rough idea of where I am. I come out of the shed, trying to tidy up a couple things that fell inside from when I stormed in there. The cops will be here any second. I see my accomplices car slowly drive by and wave em down. I jump in and lay down and we drive off.

I should have trusted my instinct. This was a bad run. But it could have been worse. Instead of being in jail tonight, I am comfortably here writing this text. But this is the reality of shoplifting – or any crime for that matter. No matter how many times you get away with it, it is important to expect to get caught one day. Be ready for it. And when it happens, study the panic, the emotions, the physical responses... know it all well. So the next time you engage in criminal activity, you have a better understanding of the worst case scenario. For me, this is elementary, and there is no place for victimhood or or an outcry of innocence.

While Covid-19 created the conditions for state repression in the form of “stay-at-home” orders, ironically my opportunity for illegalist fun has expanded! Many businesses are left unattended for weeks at a time, meaning property damage goes longer without being reported. In the midst of the panic, supermarket Loss Prevention and security personnel are focused on the number of items people purchase in each cart without realizing the cartloads of food quietly slipping out the other door.

Before shutting down, many stores like REI, L.L Bean and other places would deactivate their security towers. I am guessing this was due to the high volume of people passing through with purchased merch with hidden tags still attached. Probably to avoid the annoyance of the alarm going off every few seconds, the towers were turned off, leaving open a grand opportunity to simply walk out with security tagged items hassle-free.

The past few weeks got me revisiting old memories of when my understanding of anarchy was that of an activity that only lasted as long as a may day march, a demonstration, or night-time fun. I remember feeling like anarchy was the moment I wore black pants, shoes, gloves and a t-shirt around my face. After these activities it was back to the “real world”. Back to wage-slavery, back to the daily routine of paying rent and penny-pinching my food stamps for groceries. Sure, there was the occasional clandestine activity along with tabling zines at punk shows or radical events. But there was this divide that always created a separation, always treating anarchy like an extra-curricular activity. Sure, my life was committed to rebellion; the very concept of a zine distro before I named it “Warzone Distro” was conceived while wasting company time on the shitter. Despite wage-slaving, my mind was always fixated on understanding how to cut corners and work the least for the most amount of money. I was the worker who handed my extra hours over to others. Half-day at work due to light truck load? Hell yeah, I’m out!

Over time, anarchy as mere extra-curricular activity just wasn’t enough. And what I mean by that is I became less and less tolerable of bosses, wage-slaving, alarm clocks, paying rent, and penny-pinching. I remembered what it was like being a kid and not having to conform to such obligations. I remembered adventuring all day outside from early morning to late at night. Everyday was a new adventure, and everyday I was learning something new about myself. Then, as a responsible adult I was learning something new about myself. I hated adultism, adulting, and the performative role and identity of “adult”. But I wasn’t tryin’ to become a child again. Those days have come and gone. I began to wonder what an anarchist life that transcended the adult/child binary could look like.

Fast forward years later here I am, jobless but no longer penny-pinching, and older but more youthful than I have ever been. Some say I am the worst of all worlds; hedonistic, violent, and childish. Of course, what these words mean and how they are applied to me is subjective to interpretation, but one thing is for certain; I feel far more free than I have ever felt and experienced. And I have a love affair with crime. It is an intimate experience — committing crime with a furious contempt for society and the law. Causing disruption and getting away with it compliments my desires for anarchy moment by moment. Nowadays I adventure all day outside from early morning to late at night. And with every criminal activity I am learning more and more about myself. In addition to accepting the fact that my days of joy-riding the fuck out of life will either end in prison or sudden death, I am learning to appreciate the present more than the past or future.

One thing about crime that I have come to realize is a uniqueness that comes with breaking the law, a sense of individual ability, inability, strengths and weaknesses. All are discovered within the experience of breaking the law. And it is this experience that I intend to expand in order to discover more about myself, becoming ungovernable in an anti-social sense.

I reflect back on my past self imprisoned by the cult of identity-politics. I remember how one reason to glorify victimhood was to gain social attention and portray the (marginalized) identities assigned to me in a positive light. “Look at me! A responsible queer person of color holding down a job as a law-abiding citizen!”. But why? So I could prove how similar I was to all those ‘white’ hard-working class heroes that America needs to uphold its colonial establishment? Another wage-slave to passively, willfully accept the conditions of my enslavement? To become another christian of color pretending there is an imaginary kingdom above for all us hoodlums that just never got a fair chance in life? Fuck all that.

The reasons for white supremacists, homophobes, patriarchs, and patriots to fear people like me is beyond identity politics; I am a sworn enemy of their control and order. The societal castle they seek to build and maintain will always be the target of my sabotage!

I think most people can see and understand that embracing socially assigned identities is not necessary for understanding how society utilizes them as tools for social control. I think it is equally as easy to see how identity as a tool of revolution is limited and in fact has led to internal conflict within many revolutionary projects. But what blows my mind is the fact that for so many, these identities were not immediately rejected as a primal, personal form of rebellion. But to be fair I think it is safe to say that these identities maintained the power they do because they are so frequently used by leftist organizations for moral persuasion. Through victimhood and innocence, identity politics is used as an appeal-to-all method of creating group-think that ultimately encourages an individual to surrender independent thinking to a god-complex of morality and collectivism. I think this also plays a pretty big role in statism and the rejection of illegalist revolt.

I reject the statist, civilized binary of guilt and innocence, and therefore also reject the internalization of victimhood. I have no use for “call-out culture” or an internet lynch-mob against my enemies. On the internet, attempts to gain public support against one enemy only informs and empowers another enemy (the state) to confiscate my responsibility. And guilt and innocence is a legalistic binary that only serves to judge and divide based on moral determination. I despise the State, all its social manifestations, and it’s enforcement of repression against chaos. Therefore I am not a victim; I am a self-declared enemy in a war against it. I don’t expect pity, a pardon or charity from it, nor from its defenders.

It was the day Chicago issued its Stay-At-Home order. My partner-in-crime and I were in my home town visiting my mom. While driving home from getting my mom some groceries I notice someone sitting on a park bench alone. “Big Momma” is her name. I was surprised to see her outside in the cold and not indoors at one of the local shelters. Come to find out the shelters had closed their doors probably related to Covid-19. I started to wonder how many others were outside in the cold...

My partner and I head over to a park that I used to do Food Not Bombs at and to my surprise there are about 20 people set up camp outside a building’s air vent blowing out warm air. We walk over and ask how everyone is doing. Some people, after recognizing me from activist projects years ago, excitedly run over to greet me. They are all the unlucky ones locked out of the shelters at least for that weekend. My partner and I get back in the car and come up with a plan.

A half hour later we are at another grocery store. Unlike other times, getting out of this one with free food is going to be a little difficult. The set-up has changed due to heightened security at the door due to Covid-19 and the fear of looting. But it is still possible to get out with a full cart. We load the bottom of the cart with bottled water, multiple loaves of bread, peanut butter, jelly, over 20 bags of mixed dried fruit, fresh apples and bananas. Were ready. We make our way to the door with me leading. My role is to peer around the corner at two self-check out clerks to make sure they aren’t looking. If they are, I will pull out my phone like I am making a phone call. If not, I keep walking forward. My partner and the cart close behind, the coast is clear. First set of doors... second set of doors... all good. Finally get to the car and unload into the trunk. Success! Next stop is another grocery store, but we won’t be getting food at this one: we’re raiding the men’s and women’s bathrooms for huge rolls of toilet paper. The dispensers can be a little loud opening sometimes, but relatively easy to do with any kind of house key. Two backpacks filled with about three huge rolls each, we are all set.

Back at my moms we clean our hands thoroughly before making bags and bags of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Once we finish with that were off back to the homeless encampment. Every person gets two sandwiches, two apples, two bananas, some dried fruit and a bottle of water. In addition we wrap the toilet paper rolls in the grocery bags to keep dry and pass them out. We stick around for a bit and exchange laughs and talk shit on the cops. It was good to make new friends and catch up with old friends. It was good to see they were all maintaining and in high spirits despite the circumstances of the weather and the shelter closures. We left and decided to check other parks for people. Found a few lone wolves who happily took what we had left of the water and sandwiches. We arrive back at my mom’s house and settle in for the night. I open the fridge and giggle while scanning over all the stolen vegan food contemplating what to have for dinner.

The Allyship Coward

In my opinion, the concept of “Allyship” started with good intentions, but like other aspects of identity politics became sour and ready for immediate disposal. Here is how I feel about “Allyship”: If you need a politicized buzzword and concept to motivate you to build bonds with people across gendered or racial categories, your “solidarity” is disingenuous. If your style of communicating is loaded with talking points pre-approved by some Woke Ally 101 workshop, you have become a free-range puppet. Genuine mutual aid or solidarity doesn’t require trendy twitter phrases to motivate bond building. In other words, don’t work with me only because that’s what you read is the “right” thing to do, or because your progressive college professor told you to. Don’t kiss my ass and follow me because I am a victimized, ‘marginalized’ or ‘poc voice’. Or because your friends or comrades will guilt you. Don’t let something as fake as socially constructed categories define our relationship. Work with me only if you personally enjoy our interaction, my personality and most importantly you want to out of individual desire. I don’t believe in coercive mutual aid: it makes a fool out of two people at once.

There are also those who assume they know how other people think based on racial and gendered assumptions. These are the identity politicians who act as both police and representatives of others, coercing allyship through guilt and shaming campaigns. Using their identity, they declare themselves beyond reproach while utilizing a passive-aggressive method of communication for intimidation. But in my opinion, nobody is obligated to support or listen to them, or any one, especially based on something as flat as identity. I am always weary of those who talk as if they represent the interests of people they have never met. It is foolish to think that just because people are socially assigned similar identities that every individual subscribes to the stereotypes of those identities.

Identity politics has successfully offered an understanding of how civilized society works, but as a solution to tearing it all down only leads to boundary policing identities, nationalism, internalized victimhood, and more stereotypes for people to find themselves fighting against.

Wanna know someone’s experience? Interact with them directly. Don’t make assumptions based on social constructions. Wanna show solidarity with people? Treat them as individuals with unique experiences and histories, not as mere drone members of homogenized groupings. And to those who still obey without questioning, another word for white ally is still coward!

The Woke Leadership

Personally, I don’t like to use the word “educate” to describe the communication of ideas between two individuals. “Educate” implies the instillation of universal “truths” rather than the horizontal exchange of personal perspectives. The context of which I see this word “Educate” used the most reinforces a social hierarchy between those who are “woke” and those who are not. Do people actually learn anything when the communication of ideas is asserted in a top-down manner? Maybe. But I prefer not to entertain that hierarchy.

Individual people are more than just ‘white’, ‘brown’ or ‘black’, ‘male’ or ‘female’, or whatever social construction assigned to them at birth. Therefore, communicating with identity-based assumptions will almost always come off as condescending. I see shit like “educate your friends”, or “get educated”, as if to direct toward a Church of Social Justice in order to be “awakened”. And apparently the capitalist mentality of further monetizing information is acceptable without question. Some think the ‘labor’ of answering questions merits a wage, citing something as voluminous as a Google search if one is unable to pay. Ironically, many questions come in good-faith, and are from well-intending activists who endure being talked down to in the first place. In my opinion, this elitist way of responding to well-intending people discourages their empowerment by trivializing their personal histories and guilting them into accepting others as paramount. There is a collectivism to this method of “educating” which creates the foundation of another social system of coercion. I have no interest in contributing to the materializing of that. I can offer a critical view or counter a point without socially stratifying the exchange.

I consider each and every individual mind a rushing, wild waterway of ideas that spill out when the dam of social subordination breaks down. Society collectively discourages any wildness, domesticating the individual and ultimately creating a caged animal within the mind. Beneath all the social conditioning there is a unique individual that discovers itself in chaotic contradiction with society.

Uniformity is the enemy of free expression. There is no “education”, only popular opinion enforced by those who intend to think for others. I think ideas and perspectives can be exchanged in a way that doesn’t resemble an authoritarian model of top-down communication. I’m not an educator and I seek to educate no one. Rather, as they grow and develop, I share my personal experiences and ideas with the world with the understanding that others will differ and have unique experiences of their own.

For example one thing that I have come to realize is that the illegalist life isn’t for everyone. I have seen some people do it for a while and ultimately break under the weight of the very real stress of criminal activity. So when I write these words about criminality – and my contempt for identity politics – I speak only for myself. When I began writing “Descending into Madness”, it was the same night I had walked out of a Seattle REI with two packs worth over $300 each. The security tower alarms never went off as I walked right out with two rope-style security tags attached. Prior to walking out I joked with myself that my criminal affairs indicated that I was descending into madness because attempting this was fucking crazy. And then I was successful. And I realized on the car ride home that if it wasn’t for entertaining such courageous insanity I might not have never known that some of these stores have non-operational security towers.

In my opinion, the “Woke Leadership” of leftism leads anarchism over a cliff into a downward accelerating disintegration. Paralyzed by the fear and shame enforced by a new order, some anarchists will never make it to self-emancipation, or independent thinking as a rejection of group-think authority. It is by a narrow, liberal definition of anti-oppression that many individuals define themselves as anarchists – a type of definition that limits anti-oppression to the moralist, humanist confines of civilized society. It is not a coincidence that most anti-oppression praxis requires a statist apparatus to enforce laws that accommodate equal rights. And while there’s nothing wrong with people having equal rights under capitalism, that victory celebrates the power of statist reform rather than anti-authoritarian attack. And in front of this statist power are the “community leaders” or those who have no interest in critiquing authority. Instead, they have built their socio-political careers on petty reforms in the name of “the community” and scold radicals – calling them “outside agitators”. And following behind these leaders are ‘white’ anarchist allies, confused and frustrated, trying to decide between being called a racist for setting shit on fire or a good ally for kissing a ‘black’ preacher’s ass.

“What you or I may or may not consider ‘tactical’ isn’t really relevant. This is less a war in the traditional sense and more a storm -uncontrollable and chaotic. This is one of the problems with the left’s characterization of ‘the movement’ as something uniform, monolithic, and ideologically consistent. It isn’t. It won’t be. ‘The movement’ consists of a million individuals with their own individual views and opinions and actions, and it does no one any good to deride anyone who isn’t doing things exactly the way you see fit.” Baba Yaga

Another Word For “Black Leadership” is Authoritarianism

After marching, we arrive at the 3rd Precinct at East Lake St and Minnehaha Ave. BLM organizers begin howling into the megaphone about demands, with a few prayers and droning chants mixed in. I notice someone slowly creeping up behind me who starts bangin’ his fist on the window. Concerned it will break, three bystanders begin quietly shaming him “this ain’t the place for that, keep it peaceful!”. The person responds back quietly but with angry tension in his voice “that’s the fuckin’ problem, y’all muthafuckas never wanna do shit except march and chant...”. Discouraged, he starts to walk away. “I’m with you on that shit fo real tho” I tell him. “That’s what’s up – fuck all this other shit” he responds while walking away. A minute or so later, I lose my patience for listening to BLM talk about being peaceful and decide to go look for that same individual again. I round the corner to the back of the police station and notice a commotion. A group of about 5–7 ‘black’ folks are blocking the back glass doors of the police station, arguing with a group of about 20 ‘black’ and ‘brown’ angry youth – including the one from earlier. Unable to contain my own frustration I get caught up arguing with the police-defenders as well. Finally, in the middle of the shouting a couple of ‘black’ and ‘brown’ youth begin spray painting “fuck 12” near the commotion. Cheers behind me erupt from a crowd that has now tripled in size. A brawl breaks out near the doors, and then a single rock smashes through the precinct window and is immediately followed by a hail storm of rocks, street cones, water bottles, and anything else within reach. The group of 5–7 ‘black’ pacifists cry out in desperation to stop the destruction, going as far as attempting to physically detain people, but ultimately are overwhelmed. They try to collect the rocks after being thrown and find themselves in multiple physical confrontations while doing so. People from the front of the building run over and join in on the vandalism. Eventually after every window is smashed the crowd moves toward the police parking lot and begin damaging police cars. I finally pause to catch a breath when I hear a stun grenade go off. The police run out from another door and begin shooting rubber bullets and tear gas. The crowd disperses but with hysterical laughs of joy and accomplishment. The 3rd Precinct is in ruins — and little did I know this was all just the beginning.

The very next day a bigger crowd of mostly ‘black’ and ‘brown’ youth showed up and continued to wage war on the 3rd Precinct. By night, a three mile radius was liberated from police control by the people on those streets. The 3rd Precinct was breached and taken over. Police abandoned the area all together. Their building was looted and cop cars driven into the street and set on fire. A Target across the parking lot was broken into and looted along with other stores nearby. People celebrated the victory by shooting off their guns in the air. Strangers sang and danced around burned out cop cars, exchanged high-fives in passing, and shared looted food. People casually socialized in front of burning buildings while others threw rocks through the remains of store front windows for target practice.

While it might have seemed like a perfect utopia, it wasn’t divorced from reality. Fights broke out between small factions of people and long-awaited personal conflicts were solved in the now cop-free streets. Business owners shot and killed looters and low-income housing units burned to the ground. But this is the difference between the textbook, sugar-coated ideologies of politics and raw, unmediated rage. The revolt didn’t happen due to any teachings of Mao or religious messages from a god. The fires, looting, and attacks against police didn’t need Marxism, a transcript of The Coming Insurrection, or an academic course on the history of anarchism. All that was needed was the chaotic expression of rage against representations of authority.

As expected, many people on the internet – including many self-proclaimed anarchists — passed judgement on the situation – most often coming from an ideological position that placed value in uniformity and a narrowed range of “acceptable” forms of revolt. In my experience, uprisings like this flourish best when least controlled or organized. The more that expressions of anger are controlled and organized the less anarchistic they become — essentially becoming pacified to accommodate a particular political vision. For me that is undesirable and also unrealistic. Destruction is destruction, violence will be violence, and to expect an uprising to be anything less is naive at best. While some can sit on the sidelines and moralize specific tactics or forms of emotional expression, they disregard the reality that full-fledged warfare has no inherent morality. Businesses that were boarded up and declared “black owned” weren’t spared by any moral consideration; they too were broken into, looted, and subsequently burned to the ground.

Also, in my opinion, the more uncontrollable and unmanageable an uprising remains, the less likely the police will have the ability to adapt to its formation and dominate it. The police had the least control over hundreds of individuals rebelling in such a chaotic manner as to overwhelm them and send them fleeing.

Over the next few days, attacks against the 5th Precinct happened while liberals, pacifists, and identity politicians quietly crawled back to avenge their loss and inability to control the first riot. The internet became their ground zero for one of the worst campaigns of lies and fear mongering I have personally ever seen.

As the victories of burning cop cars and police stations circulated online from all over the states, liberals rushed to the scenes in a desperate authoritarian attempt to assert their ideological morality and political program. They insist on a narrative that labels anyone who engages in sabotage as a “white supremacist” or “undercover cop” “infiltrating” the uprising.

Many of these liberals are the same ‘black’ people who failed to stop ‘black’ and ‘brown’ rebels from looting and destroying property. They failed to convince all ‘white’ people to evacuate the riots (because even some ‘white’ people knew not all ‘black’ or ‘brown’ people have a problem with them being there – recognizing their value as accomplices). And in an effort to preserve capitalist, reformist values, liberals of all races sought to halt the looting and vandalism by bombarding social media with blatantly false information. This false information is riddled with catch phrases like “outside agitators” and “white supremacists” in order to emotionally motivate readers to chose a side within a false dichotomy. And those who are not physically on the streets or there with rebels battling police are the target audience of these narrowed, inaccurate representations of reality.

Different ideological motives create different interpretations of events. And since liberals and pacifists tend to dominate social media more than those who are too busy out in the streets, they have an advantage. And since liberals morally frame all people of color as obedient, victimist heroes, most people have difficulty admitting that people of color are capable of destroying property and participating in violent forms of protest. This also plays into the compulsion to blame ‘white’ people for forms of rebellion considered morally undesirable. Riots/uprisings are not all utopian and pretty. They are the dangerous elements of liberation that occur when all other options have failed. Whether people are afraid of violence or not won’t change the fact that police kill, and will continue to kill as long as the concept of law enforcement exists. In my opinion there is no “bettering” the police, and there is no “justice” when someone is already being buried six feet deep.

And the police are not all ‘white’. ‘Black’ cops kill ‘black’ people too.

The worst part about the online interpretation of events is that the people spreading this misinformation fail to communicate to the online-world the joy, smiles, singing and dancing of racially diverse rebels as they celebrated the destruction of the 3rd Precinct.

I mean shit, imagine being a person of color, harassed by police all your life, and then a day and night comes when you actually get to see a police station burning, and police completely abandoning the area. All this is erased from history when liberals credit it all to a group of people — white supremacists — who didn’t exist in those battles in the first place.

To this day as I write this, there are still people spreading conspiracy theories on the internet like the famous “brick bait” video of cops unloading bricks (behind their own building – not in an alley as originally propagated). While I can’t say for absolute certainty that there were no white supremacists at the events at all (I mean I saw some driving past in pickup trucks yellin’ white power shit, and the ‘brown’ dude who rolled up in a truck rockin’ pro-police slogans and a confederate flag) I sure as hell didn’t see any in the battles. I have seen pictures of ‘black’ people locking arms to protect riot police, white allies turning other ‘white’ people over to the police in the name of ‘black’ support, and ultimately police regaining control and using these pacifying efforts to brutalize peaceful protesters.

Feral Delinquency

It is my opinion that the last months expose weaknesses of civilization in very obvious ways. Governmental control had increased as a panic response to social tension and spontaneous ruptures of illegal activity. Covid-19 broke the order of daily productivity and civilized slavery, leaving people more time to contemplate their lives and the value of their free time outside of working. The uprisings in response to the murder of George Floyd demonstrated the weaknesses of the police power and control – even at their own home base. At this point I have no earthly idea what will come next.

I admit to finding it fascinating to see non-human animals and the earth flourish in the midst of our industrial despair. To see clearer skies, various animals walking the streets, flooding that loosens the foundation of this concrete jungle. I can’t help but feel both the pandemic and these continued ruptures against authority are better than a return to normality; a normality where death from industrial civilization and the State is as routine as a slaughterhouse in full operation.

I wonder what kinda conversations people are having with each other or with themselves during this blooming destabilization of domesticated order. Will more and more people seize this opportunity to express anger and frustration through random acts of violence and sabotage against one another? Against law enforcement? Against the institutions that have become weaker due to financial loss and now stand more vulnerable than ever? I can only hope the uprisings continue in some capacity – above or below ground which is personally more favorable for me at this point.

Will people beg for the return of the old daily misery of monotony, or will they explore the depths of permanent uncertainty? Return to work or rewild? I guess only time will tell.

But here, I can only speak for myself. My anarchy is my own, as are my thoughts and words in this text. I don’t write to impress any club of internet anarchists who flex intellectual texts for self-congratulatory praise. I make my diary public in an antagonistic effort to mock the victimist, anti-individualist narrative of leftism which currently dominates contemporary anarchism.

I don’t wish for a return to normality and the daily misery of industrial production. I have no desire to celebrate ridiculous “victories” such as police accountability, firings, or prison terms – which will only be followed by the rebuilding of their ruined precincts or perhaps an equally authoritarian “community-based” replacement. I desire nothing less than the total abolition of all governance and policing. And perhaps those who hold some form of elitist power will find me undesirable and will orchestrate a smear campaign against me, banning my writing and “cancel” me from their Movement. But little would they know that the days and nights, between wide fields and the stars, and between the tree tops and the ground – is the domain of my adventure! And with it is a joy that follows anarchy as a vibrant life experience rather than a measure of social capital online, or a theory frozen in an academic journal.

The internet has created a culture of desperation for social continuity and digital validation. It is the breeding ground for “new” concepts of anarchism that are nothing more than communist corpses with hipster aesthetic. Anti-civ anarchy, impregnated by leftism now displays the extent of its power with endless twitter debates on “eco-fascism”. Twitter — a place where reclaiming one’s life and body is shamed by the disciples of privilege politics – is a graveyard of voices glorifying their own death-by-internet.

My animalism looks nothing like adopting the imagery and behaviors of existing animals. Instead it is the silhouette of an illegalist, feral menace dancing around the burning prison of domestication. My abandonment of victionhood is a foreclosure on both the pity politics of morality-based organizing and the sainthood of innocence. My anarchy is an obituary for identity politics. It is a personal insurgency without a future, a dream without the anaesthesia of hope, a declaration of joy with the lifespan of an exploding bomb.

This text is dedicated to all those rebels whose only negotiation with authority is fire and destruction...I am forever inspired by your courageous wrath across racial and gendered lines... To the youth who made history on May 26th, to the rebels who perished, and to those currently held captive for their part in this war against the state. RIP George Floyd

#george floyd #minneapolis #anarcho-nihilism #anti civ #anti identity politics #identity politics #decolonialization #identity #illegalism #individualism #individualist anarchism #Nihilism #post leftism #post left anarchy #rioting #flower bomb

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daughterofluthien · 4 years

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Fictober - Day 4

Prompt number: 4. “that didn’t stop you before” Fandom: Teen Wolf Rating: T Characters/Relationships: Alan Deaton & Scott McCall Word Count: 1563 Warnings/Tags: grief, angst with a happy ending A/N: Deaton character study, pre-series through 1x11 Formality.

Sometimes, the worst part about the world shattering is that everything remains the same.

Deaton learns about the fire on the local news, and by that time, the only thing left is smoldering ruins. The newscaster labels it a tragic accident, but given the way tensions had been building between the hunters and the Hales over the past two years, he knows that’s extremely unlikely.

The news reports say that search and rescue teams have pulled multiple bodies out of the house, but no further information is given. He calls both Talia and Laura multiple times, but there’s no response, so he opens the clinic at nine in the morning like he always does, in case someone shows up needing help.

He doesn’t really think anyone will, however, because the Argents know about him. He’s been threatened by Gerard’s thugs in the past, and he expects the clinic is being watched. His help might just end up getting even more people killed.

So instead, he waits.

And nothing happens.

The day after the fire, the Sheriff brings in a search and rescue dog to be treated for minor smoke inhalation. Deaton asks a few pointed questions under the guise of curiosity and casual conversation.

He learns that a single survivor was pulled from the house, but his burns were so severe that paramedics were shocked that he was even still alive. Most of the bodies had been identified, but three of the Hale children were still unaccounted for.

He doesn’t plan to ask the next question. He asks it anyway. “The bodies that you found-- I understand if this is part of an ongoing investigation and therefore privileged information, but I have to ask. Was Talia Hale…?”

“Yeah, she was. Did you know her?”

Deaton nods. He isn’t surprised, but he needed the confirmation. “I did. She was a dear friend.” ______________

The Argents pack up and move within a month.

He makes a few inquiries and learns that Laura and Derek fled across the country and moved to New York. He keeps an eye on them from afar as best he can, and assumes that she will get in touch with him if she needs anything.

He doesn’t hear from her.

Years pass, and Beacon Hills is quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary, no mysterious deaths. Nothing that would indicate that a few short years before, the town had been the epicenter of a years-long cold war between supernaturals and hunters.

A war that had ignited in an instant, and once it burned hot was over nearly as soon as it started.

He was supposed to keep the balance.

He had failed.

He failed, and the world didn’t end, because the natural world always comes back to its own equilibrium. It found its own balance, and it wasn’t the one he wanted, but his opinion and interference were neither requested nor needed.

In his failure, he became fundamentally unnecessary. ___________________

He builds a life for himself outside the supernatural. He focuses on his clinic, which sees a fair amount of business, as it’s the only veterinary practice in town.

It’s not really something that someone focused on keeping the balance would do, he thinks. After all, death is natural, and healing is outside interference in the natural order. Each animal saved is a small upset to the equilibrium into which all things inevitably fall.

Each one feels like a small victory.

As the practice grows, and the amount of work starts to become unwieldy for a single individual, he hires an assistant. At 16, Scott McCall is young for a veterinary assistant, and Deaton mainly hires him to assist with clerical work and to help care for the animals. But the teenager is sharp and eager to learn, and soon Deaton starts to teach him about the business and assign him other, more complicated tasks.

He finds he enjoys teaching, and Scott is an excellent student.

If their conversations stray to topics that allow him to dispense a little wisdom and advice-- Well, that was once a very important part of his life. Some old habits are harder to break than others. ____________________

Months pass, and he learns that Scott is not just intelligent and hard-working, but he is remarkable for a second reason: he cares. The teenager cares deeply about every single animal that passes through the doors of the clinic, and he wants to help them because it’s the right thing to do.

Working alongside Scott, Deaton starts to remember that healing is its own reward. Any petty revenge enacted on the universe with each animal saved is just a side benefit. ___________________

Unfortunately, balance cannot last forever. Six years after the fire, events start to cascade again, just as quickly as they did last time.

A deer with the symbol for revenge carved into its side is left in a place where it would be easily found, and Laura contacts him for the first time since the fire.

He tells her he wishes he could help, but he doesn’t know anything more about it than she does. It’s the truth, but there are other truths as well, and he realizes he is afraid to get involved. Afraid to make things worse in a misguided attempt to keep the balance.

She thanks him for his time, and leaves the clinic.

That evening, when Scott shows up for work, Deaton tells him they should make sure that the gate at reception stays closed. He tells him that it looks more professional that way, and he thinks Scott buys the excuse.

A couple days later, the Argents move back into town.

A couple days after that, he wakes up to a news report stating that the partial body of a young woman was found in the woods.

That afternoon, at around the time Scott is scheduled to show up for work, the front door to the clinic opens, but no-one immediately comes into the back. He walks to the front, expecting a client, but instead finds Scott hesitating at the gate.

He opens it, watching Scott carefully, but his heart sinks. If this is the natural equilibrium, it strikes him as distinctly unfair.

For the first time in six years, he starts to think what exactly he can do about it.

He leaves the gate open. ______________________

At first, all he can offer is advice and a sympathetic ear. He keeps an eye on Scott from afar, just as he still does with Derek, but part of him dreads what he assumes will be the inevitable day when Scott stops showing up for work.

He doesn’t know whether it will be because Scott’s dead, or because he’s joined the Alpha.

But the full moons come and go, and while Scott misses a few shifts here and there, he keeps coming back. He stays in contact.

One night, while they’re closing up the clinic and talking about Scott’s plans to enroll in a pre-veterinary program after graduation, Deaton asks Scott why he wants to be a vet.

Scott shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, for one, I just really like animals. But also…” He trails off, thinking. “It’s like, we see so many animals that need help, right? They’re sick, or injured. Or they need protected. And we can help them. And I guess I just feel like, if nobody else is going to do it... Then maybe I need to.”

He’s not just talking about veterinary medicine any more, and Deaton smiles. But he doesn’t forget the conversation. __________________________

A few nights later, a group of hunters led by Kate Argent attacks the Hale house.

Deaton doesn’t hear about it on the news the next morning, because this time, he’s there. He can’t stop them from taking Derek, but he watches as Scott escapes and runs into the woods, weakened by the poison coursing through his veins.

He catches up when Scott collapses, barely able to breathe, a smoking bullet wound in his side.

He doesn’t know what this is going to do to the balance, but if he’s completely honest with himself, he no longer cares. Scott is injured and desperately needs protecting, and for the first time in a long time, Deaton knows exactly what it is he needs to do.

He picks Scott up. Carries him to his car.

“You’re going to be all right.” ________________________

Six years ago, the world shattered, but it didn’t end.

For the longest time, he thought it was unfair that the world kept spinning without taking the time to put itself back together. It took him years to realize that he needed to put himself back together first.

After rescuing Scott and confronting the new Alpha, he knew it wouldn’t be long before word began to spread that his retirement was over. So he isn’t surprised when Marin pays him a visit.

He might not approve of her current affiliations, but it’s good to see her.

“After all these years,” she asks, “why now?”

He shrugs. “They needed my help.”

She fixes him with a look, and if they were still children he can’t help but think she would’ve rolled her eyes. “People always need help, Alan. That didn’t stop you before.”

He concedes the point with a nod, and gives her a small smile. “Maybe I just found something to believe in.”

#fictober20 #teen wolf #alan deaton #scott mccall #okay so like #i really really like the concept for this one #not fully sure if the execution lives up to it #my fic

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biaswreckermagnet · 3 years

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Fate: The Winx Saga - My Thoughts and Critique - Part 1: Characters

Be warned: The following post will be quite long as I have a lot to say. Please note that this is all my personal opinion and this is just the thoughts and critique of someone that has watched the original Winx Club several time and I have watched the new Winx Saga, and this is in no way a blind hatred based on only word of mouth and seeing half a trailer. Enjoy

I will be comparing this new series to the original 4Kids version, as this is the version I hold close to my heart and grew up watching. So if there are any plot differences I describe from the animation, it is probably due to the slight changes made in the Nick Dub, which some people will know best (example, in 4Kids dub, Aisha’s name is Layla, and Sparks is known as Domino in the Nick dub)

CHARACTERS

Well, I have a lot to say about the characters, just like anyone else. I’ll break down, the casting, compare the character to the animation, and their personality in the Netflix series.

Bloom

The actress chosen in my opinion was a good choice. The problem I have, is her personality. They got the determination and hot-head traits right, of course. But in the animation, Bloom is warm, friendly and bubbly. Easy-going and popular among her peers. I don’t know if they were trying to appeal to the oh-so-angsty teenagers that don’t want to go outside and have few friends. The typical “I’m not like other girls” trope. Tropes are popular, and as someone who has written stories in the past, I have used that trope once, but usually it’s a trope I like when it’s to show the character’s beauty compared to others who may be catty and selfish; not so beautiful on the inside. Here, to me, Bloom is just unlikable. She may be angsty and a rebellious teen, blah blah blah, but she was so rude to people like her Earth mother, and inconsiderate of her own actions and how it could affect those around her. Even if Aisha told her “That is a bad idea, you’re going to regret it” she runs along and does it anyway, and then she gets into a bad situation which also affects everyone, Even if she helps clean up the mess, damage is still done.

In Fate, Bloom’s relationship with her parents is not amazing. Yes, she’s an angsty, rebellious teen who almost kills them because she lost control of her power, but I found this cold, rude relationship so unnecessary. As a teen, sometimes it may seem like no one is listening nor can understand, parents just seem nosy and overbearing, but communication is key. That’s what I find so many shows are missing now: communication.

Looking at Bloom’s relationship with her parents in the animation, it’s not only simpler for them to know from the start that she has powers, but it makes the communication between both parties better. This strong relationship Bloom and her parents have is always present, but we see the beauty of it in Season 1, episode 13, “Meant to Be” when Mike and Vanessa sit her down and talk to her about how they realised she had magic before that fateful meeting with Stella.

There is none of that warmth and love now. Bloom curses at her mother, gives her attitude and is overall just a brat. Bloom may feel remorse towards herself for burning her mother, but then, why is the attitude towards her so ugly? I really don’t like it.

Aisha/Layla

Next is Aisha, who is the only character that was not whitewashed from the original. The only reason I think she wasn’t is because the creators of Winx Saga knew there would be a true uproar if they dared to replace her with someone non-black.

She is the general voice of reason in the group, and the babysitter of Bloom and company. She will support and be the shoulder for Bloom to lean on in a few cases, but generally she’s the only one calling Bloom out for being rash and insensible, but then she gets ignored or sneered at for it, despite rbeing the only one with awareness for consequences.

There isn’t much to compare to with her animated version except for her being athletic; made very obvious in episode one where she says “I swim twice a day, every day”. (Even though that is the only episode we see her following said routine.) Other than that, her backstory is not expanded upon like the animation, obviously due to the lack of screen time and actual length of the Netflix series, therefore for me, I didn’t really bond with her character like in the original.

Stella

The actress is pretty. Not too hard to cast a pretty blonde in a series. Moving on.

In the original Winx, I adore Stella. She’s bubbly, she’s fun, she’s bright. Literally the sunshine of the group. Yes, she has her snooty privileged princess moments, but she is a likable snooty, privileged princess. Why? She showed that she really does care for her friends. Stella can be self-centered and insecure, but she’s never afraid to say that she’s wrong when she realises her mistakes. This is shown several times, but right now I can speak of two instances: Season 1, Episode 8 “Spelled”. Technically, she was under a spell that made her moody and rude, but she still knew she had to set things right after upsetting Musa. Another memorable moment for me when she showed her caring side was during the girls’ stay at the no-magic resort in Season 2, episode 21 ““Trouble in Paradise”. She went after Aisha/ Layla to check if she was all right, they connected and Stella earned her Charmix. Overall, Stella in the animation has her flaws, but she is loved by all and she herself loves the people she’s close to.

However, Stella in Winx Saga, I detest. I was really disappointed with what they did to her character. Honestly, it would have made more sense if she was Diaspro (Sky’s ex-fiance from season 1 and 3) and not Stella. She’s a snob, rude and dismissive of others’ feelings. They did try to toss a sympathy card at our faces later when they eplained the reason why Winx Saga Stella is so - her toxic, overbearing and abusive mother - but honestly, maybe it was because it happened so fast because of the limited time, butI was not feeling any sympathy towards her. I felt like I should have, but I couldn’t. I hope her character changes in Season 2, if I even bother watching it, because I was enormously disappointed with Stella’s new persona for this first season. The Solaria ring was nice enough though.

Musa

Well, here we go. One of the infamous whitewashing cases. To tell the truth, I'm not surprised but disappointed that it acueallyhappened. You mean to tell me they couldn't find any capable Asian actresses for Musa? Yes, small production and low budget, but still. If you are going to make a live action for a cast that is well loved, respected and recognised for the diversity, you should keep it. It just feels like they do it on purpose at this point.

Winx Club Musa I like a lot. I love all the girls, but she's just so laid-back and cool, but she's not afraid to call someone out for being unfair or on their attitude (namely Stella most times). She cares for her friends and she cares for Riven. She's family oriented and she's so passionate about music.

In Winx Saga, she's a mind fairy who used to be a dancer and listens to music with headphones to block out the emotions of people around her when she gets overwhelmed. Interesting new concept and it comes in handy for the new show material. I wouldn't say she was completely unlikable in the WS series but there wasn't anything much besides her ability and that she and Sam (Terra's brother) had somehting more than a fling going on. They were a nice couple. Good chemistry in kisses. I don't know why they decided to not make Riven her man - who knows what the plan is. Riven was not hers in the beginning of the animation either, but we saw a great bond form later on. Their relationship had problems unlike the other Winx couples, but they still are a fan favourite. Let's see how this new match goes I guess?

Flora/Terra

Terra We all know she's supposed to be Flora, no matter how they try to spin it. Before anyone says she's a different character so it's not whitewashing, I have seen a video on Youtube where a girl explains that in actuality, it was supposed to be Flora because there are (now deleted) clips of characters talking to Flora, not Terra. And the adresses portfolio said she was to play Flora. They seemed to change it to avoid heating up the hot water they had already landed themselves into.

Therefore, I will be comparing Terra and Flora. I was extremely disappointed when I saw the trailer and realised Flora was clearly not there. I am not usually one to care whether or not someone looks like me in a show, but I do relate to Flora. I may not always be one that likes to get close to nature honestly, but everything else about her I relate to. I love pink a lot, I am a mixed race person so her looks are what I identify with the most, and our personalities are quite similar.

Terra, on the other hand, is obviously white. The love of plants is there and her sweet and gentle personality is there. Though, it doesn’t get much time to shine because whenever she speaks, she’s either cut off or ignored, unless she’s spouting information the others want to hear at the moment. They did make her quite chatty, and at times even I was a bit annoyed, not because she was chatty, but because that trait just seemed to be a gateway for the scriptwriters to hit you with details about Alfea and its history, and information about fairies without making much effort. Terra didn’t have much screen time, but whenever she was on screen, she was always the butt of a joke and treated poorly. When the situation became dire, she did have some moments of strength, but then the other characters still treated her the same so it seems meaningless.

One main reason Terra stands out to the audience is the fact that she’s the only plus-sized character. I’m all for representation, but I don’t like where they went with Terra. She’s shown to be insecure about her body (shown when she avoids her roommates to change alone). Yes, she’s supposed to be a teen who has heard non-directed comments about weight by other characters, but why couldn’t they make her a confident plus-sized girl? I have plenty of friends that are plus-sized and confident about themselves, older or younger. In media, it’s rare enough to see a plus-sized person, but also one that has confidence. This show is directed to teens, and those who may look and feel the same as Terra won’t have a good example set for themselves to be more confident. If you’re going to include a certain figure in your story, yes, everyone has insecurities and all, but if you have the power to shine light and empower, do it right!

Sky

One reason why I bothered watching the show. Danny Griffin. The man playing Sky. Iin the original Winx, I did not really care for Sky as I’m not really into the long blonde hair, I prefer shorter hair. So I was quite pleased to see this casting as it fits more into my personal type.

Anyways, let’s continue.

I found that the casting was done well for Sky. A hot blonde warrior that can wield weapons well? They nailed it. However, that’s kind of where it ended for me. Due to the plot, his character was pretty much ruined for me. Winx Saga Sky was sadly unremarkable personality-wise. The story didn’t allow for much expansion for him besides having the hots for Bloom and the whole boo-hoo story about his father. There was something of a nice relationship with his mentor, but I’ll get to that later.

Danny Griffin’s performance was quite good. My only issue was one part of his first appearance where his first few lines. . .sounded like lines. Not so much the result of bad acting, but it just was another case of sounding like lines written for a script than natural conversation. But I only really saw that in the first episode, and since everyone would have been getting into character at that time I can let it pass. Otherwise, he performed well as an actor.

Riven

Winx Club Riven does not have the best first impression. According to Musa, he’s “a little rough around the edges, but that’s kind of his charm”. He’s a troubled, moody guy who falls for the wrong girl. He has a very competitive side, especially with Sky, who always manages to beat him in combat. He is indeed often arrogant of his abilities, but he proved himself to not be just all talk during his escape from imprisonment in Cloud Tower during Season 1, and even Sky admitted to being impressed with his knowledge of survival and strategies, even going so far as to say he always thought Riven was the “Red Fountain Slacker”. Animated Riven also has a sweet side that was displayed in season 2 when he comforted Musa during the girls’ first mission to Shadowhaunt, and much more so after they started dating. He expressed how much he cared for Musa in shy but blunt ways. Flawed, but a character that developed throughout the series.

Winx Saga completely threw that out of the window. Riven is now just a clown that does bad boy things. He’s clearly still being portrayed as the “edgy” character with troubles and insecurities, but the rest of the show is so aggressively dark and edgy that he really has no way to stand out anymore. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with his characterr later on, but I really dislike what they did to him. The only thing done right is his competitive nature towards Sky. Side note, this is also my personal preference, but I must add that I am not feeling the minimal facial hair. I’d prefer a clean shaven face. The little spikes just looks messy. But then, facial hair always looks messy to me.

Faragonda

Faragonda. Or as she is known now, Farah Dowling. I’m not sure what to say for her. The actress did well, I can say that. The problem always lies with the characters themselves.

Faragonda is a beloved headmistress that always has an eye out for her students, whether she watches them through her magic mirror in her office or just personally. She gives them enough guidance so they can grow on their own and helps them when she sees the need to. However, she is also strict when needed and will not condone disobedience; this was seen in season 1 when the Winx were punished for breaking into Cloud Tower to get Stella’s ring from the Trix. She is a brave, just and kind woman, well suited for a principal position.

Farah Dowling does not have much besides her position. She’s very secretive and those secrets seem to be there to cause drama when it could have ben avoided. It could be an irrational thought process that humans have, but I’d expect that from someone who hasn’t experienced much in life. The type of past Farah has, she should know better than to keep secrets if she knows it can put the whole school in danger. Her lack of disciplinary action was evident, whether it was the scene of a villain making their move or Bloom blatantly disobeying orders and making choices that moved the plot forward a bit. It was odd to see that even if she knew this person went dilly-dallying in her office or broke a rule, ut wasn’t met with discipline unless something really bad happened. Whereas, we all know that in a school setting, small rule breaking is also punished. I did like the part in the last episode when she and Bloom finally had a warm interaction, I found it very sweet and it was nice to finally have her interact with Bloom without having to expect some impending doom to arise in the next scene.

Beatrix

We did not get the stylish trio we know and love for Winx Saga, but I must say, I was not disappointed by Sadie Soverall. She portrayed the character really well.

She’s a blending of the famous Trix. She’s cunning and does not let anyone get in her way, much like Icy. Seductive like Darcy and I’d say she has Stormy’s malicious nature. (I mean the Trix are all malicious but Stormy generally could let her viciousness rule her judgement). As well as the fact that her power kind of looks like electric bolts, like Stormy’s.

A manipulator that was being manipulated. She’s icy cold, cunning and she knows who she should attach herself to in order to reach her goals. Just a sub-villain I say, but I enjoyed the character. Minus the odd little plots her character was mixed into, which I will discuss later.

Rosalind

A new character who so far seems like the puppet master of all the characters - both good and evil sides. A master manipulator and charismatic. Very enjoyable to watch despite her short screen time. She was the one person that actually had me excited to know what was going to happen next. Very well performed in my opinion.

Mike

The only time I saw this actor truly in character was in the last episode when he was wearing this blue shirt. He really looked like Mike. It may always be necessary to dress a character exactly like the original, but some things are just subtle and yet iconic. Imagine Shaggy from Scooby-Doo without his green shirt and brown pants combo. It wouldn’t feel like him. Otherwise he’s quite a basic looking man so not too hard to cast. I do think this actor really matched Mike though - looks wise, at least.

With Mike, there are less interactions with Bloom besides having very basic “How are you doing?”conversations. There’s a lame joke here and there but nothing really worth commenting over.here now The focus when it came to mentioning the parents in Winx Saga was mostly to Vanessa.

Vanessa

Vanessa in the original series is warm, loving and a good mother. She and Bloom have a strong relationship and have great communication between them, and Bloom not only respects her but also goes to Vanessa when she needs advice and support. The ideal mother-daughter bond.

Date’s Vanessa is more. . .trying to be a good mother but not quite nailing it. As I mentioned during Bloom’s analysis, she’s met with hostility or downright rudeness if she even mentions going out and making friends to her daughter. There were a few moments when it could have been touching to see thieir interactions, but apart from the scene when Bloom was feeling homesick, it felt a bit rushed. Perhaps it was the acting, perhaps it was that the awkward interactions overruled the positive ones, but the Winx Saga relationship between Bloom and Vanessa didn’t feel as connected.

In conclusion, mot of the acting was well done. The issues I have were mostly due to the writing of the characters, not the ability of the actors.

Other minor characters will be analysed during the plot discussion.

#winx club #winx saga #fate winx club #bloom #sky #musa #flora #terra #aisha #layla #riven #4kids dub #netflix #2021 #winx alfea

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jerasphealth · 3 years

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15 Weeks Pregnant: Body Changes, What to Eat & More

15 weeks is around the second trimester of the whole gestation period.

Body changes in the expectant mother’s body.

Weight gain-this is completely normal as the baby is going a lot more than the first trimester. Measure your weight regularly and it should be about 0.5 kg a week on average.

Enlargement of the rib cage around 2 to 3 inches to accommodate the widening of the lungs to carry more oxygen to the baby since the capacity increases.

Body pains and aches- unless they are unbearable this is completely normal. The uncomfortable pain may be a result of the growing belly that put excess pressure on the muscles and skeleton. All this to accommodate the growing fetus accompanied by the weakening of abdominal walls and increasing strain of muscles. In addition to that, hormonal levels are heightened (especially relaxin hormone) causing stretching of joints and ligaments in the body and this change correlates with back pain.

Nipples become darker and bumpier; the hormones cause the skin cell to produce more pigment. there also is the secretion of oily substance so that the nipples can become oily and soft during breastfeeding the secretion of this oil substance is due to the gland called Montgomery tubercles that are only visible during pregnancy. they are found around the nipples on the areola, they re-raised white bumps around the areola(the dark area surrounding the nipple, just like goosebumps).

Numbing, tingling Hands and feet- you’ve ever slept on your arm for a long time or sit on your leg and had that tingling feeling? That is the body’s way of telling you a particular area is not getting enough blood or you are compressing a nerve. However, this is just temporary during the second trimester and very common in the last trimester caused by carpal tunnel syndrome.

Sexual arousal(increased libido)- estrogen whose level rises during the second-trimester causes an increase of blood flow in the vulva and vagina lubrication hence heightened arousal and pleasure. The genital blood flow makes the clitoris hypersensitive. there is no harm in enjoying sex in this period is advised until the very late stages of your pregnancy.

Sensitive teeth and gums-it may be accompanied by bleeding gums especially during brushing teeth, it’s the pregnancy hormones making your gums swell hence likely to bleed. these same hormones make your sinuses to clog. If the symptoms of sinusitis are brutal seek medical help to get relieved.

Nose bleed; same thing hormonal changes cause a nose bleeds and if you are not losing a lot of blood do not be terrified as this is completely normal.

The good news is by this time nausea and vomiting symptoms are fading, unlike the first trimester, so the expectant mother is likely to get her appetite back. this is not a privilege for all women some women experience hyperemesis gravidarum which is an intense morning sickness accompanied by extreme vomiting and may require hospitalization, this may lead to complications like premature detachment of the placenta from the uterus(womb), which causes deprivation of the nutrients and oxygen to the baby. So go see the doctor!

Changes of the baby during 15 weeks of pregnancy’

From the size of kiwi fruit in week fourteen to the size of an orange or apple fascinating right? It is about 4.5 inches a nd weighs about 144 grams.

The outer part of the baby ears can be recognizable through the inner year continues to develop, hearing though not yet it's happening and you can start singing or read to that baby.

The skin is still translucent and vessels and skeleton can be seen, some bones like collar bone have already the development process through the bones from the hands and feet harden and become stronger this week.

Baby hair might appear on the scalp and eyebrows.

By 15 weeks the bay can make whole-body movements, their arms legs, stretch and breathing motions, they can go as far as sucking thumbs. When very still, focused and attentive some women can feel their baby moves as early as 15 weeks, they aren’t as strong as the “it kicked” during the 20- 22 weeks. these are first fetal movements and are known as “fluttering” and they are very subtle that some mothers don’t feel them at all.

FOOD A PREGNANT MOTHER IS ADVISED TO EAT AT 15 WEEKS A pregnant mother should consume a balanced diet to avoid pregnancy difficulties like high blood pressure, premature birth, preeclampsia (rise of blood pressure, swelling of face, hands, and feet. Although a balanced diet should be some nutrients are very essential including

Protein- this is essential for the growth of the abyss brain and other tissues to grow, it also helps the growth of the mother's uterus and breasts. for every 1kg of a mother, she should aim to eat 1.52g of protein every day. So if the expectant mother is 65 kg she should eat 98.8g of protein daily. The protein foods include lean meat(low-fat content), nuts, eggs (not undercooked to avoid the risk of salmonella), fish, and beans.

Iron; supplies oxygen to the baby and voids anemia and complications such as premature birth and pots Partum depression (feeling down after giving birth) is a mental health condition. The foods containing iron are meat (lean), green vegetables, groundnuts, cashew nuts, bread, cereal foods. Iron from animal products is absorbed way faster than that from plants. For those who are vegans foods rich in vitamin c like oranges are highly advisable

Fluids- pregnant women need to stay hydrated at all times (8-12glasses a day). Water is essential for the formation of amniotic fluid, carries nutrients and wastes to and fro respectively, produces extra blood, lack of water can cause premature labor, neural tube defects reduced milk production, and low amniotic fluid. Stay hydrated queens!

Calcium &folic acid- calcium helps to strengthen a baby's bones and teeth and improves its circulatory system. Folic acid prevents neural tube defects (birth defects of brain, spine, or spinal cord including spina bifida which is the failure of the baby’s spinal cord to develop properly and anencephaly which is a baby born with brain or incomplete skull and normally becomes stillborn or dies few hours after being born), reduces risks of premature labour.No expectant mother wants any of that to happen to her baby. So take these calcium foods which include dairy, eggs, sardines, and salmon (with bones), fruit juices and greens, and foods containing folic acid include oranges, grains, green vegetables, cereals, and legumes. The folic acid increment is available as one may not get enough from foods.

Vitamin D and fatty acids – like calcium vitamin d in building the baby’s bones and teeth.it is not present in many foods but can be obtained from the morning sun even though the body generates it's own vitamin D. Cereal and milk, egg yolk, beef liver, cheese 9 just to mention a few the supplements can be obtained especially fr those who live in polar regions. Fatty acids support the heart, brain, and eyes, prevent premature labor, increase birth weight, and reduces the risk of the mother falling into depression. Vegetable oils, fruits, nuts animal fats, are some of the sources of fatty acids.

N.B

Alcohol in the first trimester can cause the baby to have abnormal facial features however alcohol deprives growth and cause harm to the central nervous system, refrain from it at all costs!

Do not smoke

! It causes baby defects like the sudden death of infant syndrome or cleft lip or cleft palate( this is an opening on the baby's lip or in the roof of her mouth. Of course, it can be treated but if you can avoid it you should.

Working out is good as it helps reduces aches, bloating and constipation helps a woman to sleep better. It also helps one to have a normal delivery, without unnecessary complications. Avoid being idle unless strictly advised by the doctor to have a bed rest. Almost there queens, a new life is about to join yours!.

#pregnancy #mother

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canttelliotte-blog · 3 years

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Incredibly long, overly detailed post I spent too much time on.

Tl:dr AITA for telling someone they were coming off as an ungrateful, privileged asshole who didn't seem to recognize or truly appreciate what they have? I blew up after a series of encounters, they seemed oblivious to their lifestyle and support and how truly different life could have turned out without it. I called them out after weeks of trying to be empathetic but couldn't take how helpless they were acting when I would kill for the kind the support they were complaining about and taking for granted.

I should use a throwaway because I know this person will probably see this but I don't have the energy. I'll try to keep this short (actually super long sorry) I feel like I already know I was sort of harsh and out of line. This whole thing has just been sticking with me and I feel really messed up about it.

Alright, so context, back story. I had a breakdown in February and tried to kill myself. By some miracle, I got a bed at one of the best mental hospitals on this side of the east coast. After a long history of chronic mental illness, being on disability for years with medicare, getting an opportunity like this was amazing. I had been on waiting lists for months before my attempt, but fate, acuity, and availability all lined up. A true miracle. Unless you have a family with money or amazing health insurance, getting a bed is just extremely difficult at this particular facility.

The reason being, they provide real treatment. Comprehensive, attentive, life-saving treatment. They actually provide real care with empathy, actual therapy, psychiatry, and groups, with educated staff, real food to eat, world-renowned providers, and treatment teams that listen and work with you to come up with effective long-term solutions/aftercare plans that set you up for long term success.

Out of pocket, this place is unfathomably expensive. The more exclusive programs on-campus are for the ultra-elite/ ultra-wealthy, taking celebrities like Selena Gomez. The institution itself is known for its education and research. It is not funded by the state like almost everywhere else. Most state-run facilities are atrocious. a disgusting holding cell, where you're stripped of your clothes, dignity, and rights, fed prison food, overmedicated, physically and chemically restrained, only to be thrown back on the street in 3-5 days with no aftercare, med refills, or plan. Been there, done that, many times, not the point. The point was, I got some really helpful expensive ass treatment by the luck of the draw.

While I was there, I met someone lovely. We instantly connected and expressed interest in one another. They seemed really cool, we talked at length about income inequality and how unfair it was that this kind of treatment wasn't the norm or easily accessible and how unfair that was. They seemed passionate and bright and we got along great. They were set to discharge only a few days after I got there, so we exchanged info before they left. We talked a bunch while I was still there (my discharge was a couple of weeks later) and decided to go on a few dates after I got out.

A few days after I got out, I unintendedly overdosed, confused about my meds, and was incoherent by the time I got to the ER. I was restrained and chemically sedated. I was confused and fought so was deemed severely acute, and got sent to a state-run facility similar to what I described above. It was all very traumatic and I shut down once I got home. I was lucky I made it out semi-okay, that they let me out at all.

I wasn't replying to anyone's messages but the person I had met kept reaching out wanting to hear from me and make sure I was okay. I was embarrassed but it was really sweet and soon we starting talking a lot again and really connecting.

As I got to know them, I definitely thought they were very cool, we seemed to have a lot in common, they made me laugh and we got along really well. I was really digging them and saw us potentially becoming a thing. After talking for some time, we decided to anxiously have our first date. It went okay but something was off.

I didn't really pick up on it at first but the more we talked, the more privileged they offhandedly revealed they were. I know it's judge-y and lame, but that kind of put me off. I've been poor my whole life and struggled hard for everything, it's a whole different world living in poverty, so it made me a bit uncomfortable. I still live in poverty, on disability, with food stamps, and can barely hold it together enough to have a part-time job, but I have no choice. It's rough. I've been homeless, lived in institutions, went through foster care, and have no familial support. I have one of the most serious debilitating mental illnesses. It's been very very hard.

I am biased but I haven't met anyone well off who gets it. Some people don't realize how hard things can be when you've really had nothing, and had to work hard for everything. Even simple things are taken for granted, not understood, or there are miscommunications or assumptions made due to the lack of understanding. That's just my personal experience, it's hard trying to explain things and it's invalidating sometimes, it can be hard to relate or connect due to the lack of understanding.

Honestly, though, it took me by surprise. We had both talked passionately about the struggles of being on disability, the importance of income inequality, how unfair the system is set up, the barriers against the poor receiving adequate mental health treatment. They explained how they advocated for social justice and regularly went to protests. I felt dumb because I did meet them at higher-end facility, but I assumed they ended up there by dumb luck as I did with how they presented and initially came across.

They made it seem like we were in the same boat, poor af, chronically mentally ill, and 4 ever struggling. It was just a surprise because that was very much was not the case.

They moved up here from Florida, (where admittedly their life was much harder and different), but since moving, they were being supported by their aunt and uncle, who were very, very well off. They had a very expensive private practice psychiatrist, multiple treatment providers, and an apartment in a very well-off area, that their aunt owned, so they paid no rent. Their car/insurance/phone everything was paid for.

They seemed to have money to burn, dancing around being well taken care of and not really having to worry. They were on disability though receiving payments and food stamps in addition, not reporting the assistance from their family. When I lightly inquired, they said their grandmother mostly controlled their finances and they didn't deal with bills etc. They spent freely, getting take out almost every night, etc. enjoying all the pleasure of life without a second thought.

I was uncomfortable with this like I said, but they did seem cool and understanding, we did get along and I wanted to give them a chance. I put my biased experience aside and tried to give it a go.

First example that really blew me away was their dog. They had several animals, including a cat and two dogs. Even for someone working, three animals is a huge expense. I only have one cat and while she's my world, it gets hard sometimes. The vet is expensive, litter, food, treats, it adds up. And she's only one animal!!! I provide for her and take care of her, but a $350 vet bill still packs a punch. Of course, I pay it, she's my baby, but it might mean only eating sandwiches for a few weeks. I love her, so I sacrifice, she is worth it in every way, but animals are expensive and a lot of work/responsibility.

When this person and I first started seriously talking, they mentioned the dog they were closest to was very sick with a rare condition. I don't know the full details, but I guess it took a while for the vet to figure out what was wrong, he was on a lot of medications, needed loads of tests and scans. There were weeks of extensive treatments/ blood transfusions, all in a long, painful, and strenuous attempt to save him. They tried for a long time in the hopes he would get better.

He, unfortunately, passed away a few weeks after we started talking. It was devastating to them and I tried my best to be supportive and help them grieve. They were understandably at a huge loss. Their mental health tanked. Their dog meant the world to them, I understand that completely. Pets are family.

A few weeks after he passed. They were talking a little about the course of treatment and how hard it had been and what a long, painful road it was. They kind of casually remarked that his treatment cost over $20,000.

I honestly thought I had misheard. I had to ask twice because I thought they meant $2,000. No. $20,000. $20,000.Holy shit.

I just...$20,000 is what I make in a year. A year. Dogs are family, I totally, totally get that. People will do anything to save their loved ones. A pet is like an uninsured child, even with pet insurance, it can be expensive. I get that. If you have that kind of money, you pay it, without a thought, no problem.

I just... wow. I still couldn't even wrap my mind around it. My cat is my world but it breaks my heart to say, if anything happened to her like that, it would kill me, but I would be forced to put her down. I just couldn't believe, $20,000. And they said it like, no big deal, of course, like anyone would/could afford that, it was obvious, a no-brainer. I just...wow.

Next, kicker. I  came over to hang out one night and watch movies. I had never been to their apartment before. They claimed it had been super messy and they made a big deal about how they had cleaned for me. Sweet, but unnecessary, I get mental illness is tough. It was two bedrooms, all to themselves, decent space and light, but definitely scattered and cluttered. They had a huge king-sized bed, a bidet in the bathroom, and a super nice living room set up. Big comfy couch, loads of nice blankets, and honestly the biggest tv I had ever seen. They joking bragged about having all the streaming options. No kidding. Hulu, Disney plus, Netflix, Amazon, HBO, Paramount, and at least half a dozen more I hadn't even heard of. It just seemed crazy and excessive paying for that many streaming services every month.  But to each their own I guess.

We were both huge fans of anime, and they sort of decided to venture to studio ghibli. They asked if I had seen a particular favorite of theirs. I hadn't. They searched and it was only available to rent. $17. I nearly had a heart attack. I was like no way, we could definitely find it streaming for free somewhere if we look, or watch something else, shortage of options. They were like no it's no biggie that's what I want to watch and clicked rent. Like no problem *sweats intensely* Anytime I spend money, I have a heart attack and second guess it, it takes me like 10 minutes to click buy and my heart always drops when I do. I overthink, whether I really need/deserve it/whether there's a cheaper option, or if it's truly necessary. I know that's a poverty thing. It's just like we could have easily found it somewhere for free with a little effort!

We go to order food, we both have celiac so finding takeout is a chore. They knew the area better so I was trusting them. They were very adamant about ordering expensive sushi. It was $36 for just one of the things they wanted. Not including delivery or tips or fees or anything else, which included appetizers and drinks, the whole nine. I wasn't feeling sushi. They were like fine, we'll order from two separate places then. Double the delivery fee, not something I ever do, it would be cheaper finding a place together, I could get something small and affordable but they wouldn't budge. I didn't really have money to order a big thing on my own, I wanted something small, but I felt pressured. I figured anything I got would be cheaper than having to split a big sushi order I didn't want. I was like okay fine.

They kind of seemed annoyed that I didn't just give in and get sushi. They were a little short with me, didn't give me many options of other places, and were weirdly controlling, not letting me look at their phone to find something. I kind of gave up and said like just a burger is fine. I figured it would be cheap and filling, probably $20 max. I didn't take into consideration that they live in an extremely expensive area. It ended up being almost $30, plus tip. For a burger. I almost wanted to cry. I would have picked somewhere else cheaper given the option. They didn't even tell me the price until after they ordered it. I was like oh how much like $15 and they were so casual like oh no, $30 with tip. When it arrived, it was cold and disgusting, really inedible. I picked at the fries, which gave me a stomach ache as they were not gluten-free friendly and had been cross-contaminated in the fryer. I assumed they picked a place that they knew was safe.

When I wasn't eating, they asked if it was bad. I said yeah and they were like oh well just order something else. Like no, I can't afford anything else, it doesn't work like that. I was like no it's fine I'm not really that hungry. I wanted to say, I trusted you, and you kinda fucked me. I guess they picked that place because there was a gluten-free brownie sundae (prepackaged and not cross-contaminated) on the menu that they really wanted. Obviously more important.

My stomach ached all night. They ate their food happily. No big deal to them, $30 wasted on food I didn't really want, that I couldn't end up eating and got me sick. If it were them, they would have just ordered something else. No big deal to them. It was more important they got their brownie sundae and expensive sushi than making sure I was able to get something edible. Didn't matter that was half my grocery money for the week. Bologna sandwiches it'll have to be then. Awesome.

We spent the night talking, I didn't let on to how sick I was or that I was upset about not being able to choose food. They picked all the movies. I wanted to go home, but it just got later and later, one more movie I just *needed* to see. I asked them several times as the clock was ticking if it was getting too late to drive me home. No, no they were fine. Let's just watch another one. Then casually, they went to their room and brought out their night meds, threw 'em back, and settled into the couch. I started to panic. I asked again, you're taking me home, right? I guess they decided they weren't. I was miles away from home, no public transit running or close by. They were like oh I'm so tired, it got so late. Just order a car. I pulled up uber, $25. That would definitely overdraft my account.

Thankfully, after they saw me sweating and looking panicked, they were like, oh, I feel so bad, I'll order the uber for you. (If they hadn’t, I would have had to explain like, getting home on my own wasn't the plan nor was staying the night. If they thought I would be cool with just staying, they should have said something, if they wanted me to stay, it should have been a discussion, not a surprise.)

I just felt really disrespected. I was simultaneously hungry and sick from dinner, broke and unprepared to stay over with no prior discussion. I didn't have meds, my cat didn't have food out, I was blindsided and essentially stranded/put in an awkward position. They didn't consider that it might be stressful or beyond my limitations to get home. Being able to just roll with punches isn't financially feasible for everyone. It just felt like they were self-centered and inconsiderate. The whole night was what they wanted, what they wanted to eat, where they wanted to order from, what they wanted to watch, changing plans to what was convenient for them without any regard toward how it might impact me. Just inconsiderate and self-centered behavior.

We did keep talking though, I just sort of chalked it up to miscommunication and sort of beat myself up for not speaking up. It was weird though, kept just casually mentioning shit that was so privileged and complaining about shit that made them sound so ungrateful. I don't think they realized how it came across, just completely oblivious to their access to resources and not appreciating their position or supports.

They started talking about starting ketamine treatments to combat their ongoing depression. They had received them in the past and went on about how life-changing and helpful it was, and that everyone should try it. Now, being on disability (and even with most insurances) the treatments are not covered. The clinics that administer them are all out of pocket, bougie as fuck, and extremely expensive.

They talked about having several rounds in the past like it was nothing. It's easily $250-400 a pop and they were going 1-2x a week for a long time. They kept talking about all their options like what a painstaking burden. Should they start with lozenges and work up to IV clinic or ask for patches, and start that way. They wanted to work up to twice a week again but their family was giving pushback. They wanted me to agree with them, saying it was so unfair and lame and unreasonable/closeminded of their family for not immediately agreeing. The same family that would be footing the bill. No, not unfair or unreasonable at all. You sound privileged as fuck.

I was super bothered they were endlessly going on about it and complaining about pushback and asking me to agree with them. My treatment-resistant depression hasn't responded to anything, I've been on every waiting list for MDMA-assisted treatment whenever they pop up but never been selected due to demand and availability. Even ECT is too expensive and not covered. I'd kill for an opportunity like that! And it wasn't even like their family was saying no, they were discussing it in family therapy and seriously considering it.

They talked about it so nonchalantly and kept going on and on about how amazing it was. Like great, tell me all about something else I'll never be able to afford. I'm sure Paris is great, and backpacking across Europe is awesome, like please do tell me more.

I finally mentioned like okay that sounds great, will never able to afford it, glad it's so helpful They told me that I could just buy it off the street. That's what they used to do occasionally. It's only a couple hundred dollars and you get way more. Like oh okay. Let me just not pay a third of my rent in the hopes that this jam band kids ketamine isn't fentanyl or some shit and maybe have a shot at not wanting to kill myself for a week, you know on the off chance it works. Sounds great, super safe, much more affordable. And like as ridiculous as it was to offer that as an alternative, that still wouldn't be something I could afford! They just came off so clueless and privileged and oblivious.

What really got me was how they eventually talked about their family. They did weekly family therapy with their aunt and uncle and occasionally their dad since moving up here. They stayed with their aunt and uncle (lived down the street) more often than not so they weren't alone. This was encouraged/appreciated/welcomed. They did activities together regularly to help with depression and loneliness/ managing symptoms. They had their grandma and brother, whom they saw often and cherished greatly. They portrayed the relationships as really solid and important. I thought wow, truly wholesome and wonderful. They seemed so loved, close, connected, cared for, and supported. Across the board, they had support.

But then tables would turn. They complained often their family was too close, too conservative, and not understanding. They didn't want them so involved in their life, their treatment, decision-making, and recovery process. They resented the support, complained they weren't a kid and were capable/in sound mind to make decisions/have control of their life. I tried to listen and be understanding but I didn't get it. They came off almost like a spoiled, ungrateful teenager.

You're getting help, love, and support all around, everyone wants to support you and see you do well and will give whatever that takes. Like legitimately whatever ?!? You don't have to work, pay for anything, and it is made sure you don't have to struggle for anything. Anything you need, you've got.

I get the concept that having family so close/involved could be crippling or invasive or just downright unproductive. But it was such a slap in the face they would complain to me of all people about having that kind of support.

Family/support is such a foreign concept to me personally. Like I said, I grew up in foster care. I've never had family involved, healthy relationships, or any sort of support like that. The concept of calling your aunt when you're sad and she offers kind words, support, and tells you to come over to do something fun? Like, can't relate. I could only take so much of them complaining about being taken care of.

Living with extreme mental illness, not being able to work for periods of time, living solely on disability paychecks and food stamps is damn is impossible to survive, especially where we live. Without the help they were being given, they wouldn't be able to survive. The cost of living is out of control, you can't even rent a room with a single disability payment. I know, I'm doing it. It takes everything for me to keep a part-time job, barely making enough to make ends meet. But if I don't. I'm homeless again. No matter what, no matter how bad symptoms get. And I have one of the hardest, most debilitating mental illnesses. I don't have any other choice.

Their aunt would pay for them to go to school or learn a trade or anything they wanted. They have a world-renowned private practice doctor that prescribes them literally anything they could want or need to help and they have a great bond/ working relationship. I have a psych who can barely remember my name and sees me for 5-15 minutes maybe once or twice a month. I was asking for medications recently to get through a hard time, nothing serious, but my state-assigned psych does not prescribe benzos. Period. Neither does my PCP. It's state rehab or psych facility for me or bust. Another thing they take for granted. They almost bragged to me about immediately getting two heavy-duty benzos and another maintenance medication, just by saying their panic attacks were slighting increasing. Meanwhile. I was at risk for DT's after relapsing and begging for basic Librium to maybe not die and was denied.

The real reality of being on disability is the bare minimum or bad treatment. My psychologist is thankfully amazing but it took 10 years and hitting absolute rock bottom and being homeless to find her. She's a diamond in the rough but only works with the sickest of the sick. I would be in a state institution right now if it weren't for her and I avoided it by the skin of my teeth.

So here's where I'm probably the asshole. After weeks, I broke. We were texting as usual and they started to sort of mope and complain. They were venting about having a hard time again and how symptoms were bad and there was just nothing they could do and it was so hard. They started going on about how helpless they were and how there was no opportunity to get better and everything was just super hard and impossible for them and how rough they had it. Their family was checking in on them too much and they were annoyed at them for being concerned and that they had no options and no chance and everything was just so hard and impossible.

I understand, that's depression. I'm pretty empathetic and understanding and have been up to this point but it just felt like the rich person complaining to the homeless guy sleeping on the street, how awful it was they forgot their umbrella that day, and how unfortunate it was to be getting wet. I just wanted to scream. If you're anxious take your benzos, take your other meds! Call your aunt. Text your on call therapist. Call your fancy psych who answers night and day. Utilize any of the resources you have and all the support you are given!

I was just tired of it. Things in my life have been super difficult, especially lately, and I have to figure it out alone. The voices were getting loud again which lead to a bad relapse that went off the rails, which I had to pull out of completely unassisted. I am in between jobs, my housing isn't stable, my bank accounts are low, my mental health is chronic and very severe, my treatment team was threatening to section me if I didn't reel it in. Things were bad. But I deal with it, alone.

I know it was wrong of me, but I couldn't take it. They have everything to help themselves!!! They could go to a fancy hospital, they could ask all their supports for help! They would receive the best care. All the medicines, the best treatment. Anything.

I basically kind of spelled it out for them. You have privilege, you have support, you have money, resources, a great treatment team, family, everything... please for the love of God, USE IT! You wouldn't have to worry about losing your job going into treatment, you wouldn't lose your housing. You wouldn't have to worry about falling behind on bills. You'd be fine.

How can you not see or appreciate all you have and or see how oblivious and privileged you come across and how hurtful that is? You're complaining to the wrong person.

I went on a bit too long. I was definitely coming from a place of hurt, mental illness, and jealousy. I wasn't trying to make them feel bad, I just wanted them to understand. That kind of support would make all the difference for so many that are struggling. They are sitting with gallons of water around them, complaining to be inconsolably parched and that don't know what to do, all while sort of offhandedly bragging about how much water they have and how they can easily get more. I've been carefully conserving a 16 oz Poland spring bottle, rationing for weeks not knowing if/when I will be able to refill. They aren't alone, expected to make it on just disability. They weren't recognizing their position, how they were coming across, how hurtful that was. I didn't get anyone to catch me, love me, support me. This is the real reality of living with extreme mental illness on disability looks like without that opportunity or support. This is hard fucking work. We are not the same. You got lucky. Now do something with it.

They ended up calling me a dick, saying I didn't understand, that I was being cruel and mean for no reason. We haven't talked since. I do feel bad, I just couldn't take it anymore.

So if you made it this far, lay it on me, AITA?

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philocake · 4 years

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Yep, you guessed it, more HTTYD Homecoming salt

I am feeling extra salty today after rewatching the thing and reading the comment sections of the clips shown on Youtube. Today, I’m going to complain about worldbuilding. And some other stuff, cause every second of this short is wrong.

Alright, let me remind myself how rushed this thing is before I get into tearing it apart. It’s not even funny. All the dialogue feels forced and out of character like half of the time, and the pacing is just really strange. Yes, yes, it’s a short, it has lower budget, blah, blah, blah... Not a valid excuse. One, they made the same mistake they made in HTTYD3: too much plot for too little screentime. Two, Gift of the Night Fury had several things to say and yet the pacing was not awkward at all. It really felt like part of the first movie instead of something with less budget thrown into it.

Gift of the Night Fury was nice and heartwarming, and every single character and all they said and did stayed true to the film’s canon. They actually show us how the characters have been doing and give us a little bit of development, and every funny and cute moment is perfectly balanced. Homecoming has none of that. It tries to be charming and its attempts come across as desperate and weird, and man, don’t get me started on how much they clung to comedy - yet again, same mistake with HTTYD3. The jokes and funny comments are just so out of character, so unnecessary, so sudden, so repetitive and so half-hearted that I can’t even force a smile and give the writers any pity for trying.

I’m sorry, but the “and then it hit me” joke was only funny the first time. When a 20 minute short starts milking jokes, you know they have no idea what they’re doing and just want to make you laugh so you can ignore their fatal flaws.

Anyway, let me talk about character development and worldbuilding, because man Homecoming completely smashed these two very important concepts that Gift of the Night Fury treated with impeccable respect.

The characters have been destroyed. The whole play thing was a mess and no one should’ve acted they way they did. Why is Hiccup okay with that disaster? He’s the chief, he should have a little more saying in what they do and don’t do. Yes, he’s Hiccup, he’s gonna be goofy and all... but being goofy does not equal to being a helpless idiot. Actually, HTTYD3 and Homecoming both seem to have deemed it a good idea to turn perfectly good, stable characters into idiots for the sake of comedy. Take Tuffnut, for example. Yes, we all know the twins. We all know how they are. We also know that Tuffnut is not that big of a moron. And omfg, don’t even get me started on Gobber. I’ve always liked his character, but in Homecoming... I don’t even have the words. He’s awful. He’s annoying. He’s stupid. He’s not Gobber. I didn’t think you could destroy a character this badly after HTTYD3, but here we are. I don’t even want to talk more about what he does in detail because it pisses me off so much. That person is just not Gobber. Nothing else to say.

Speaking of characters... Where the absolute hell is Valka. They destroyed her enough in HTTYD3 (physically, too) and now they just throw her out of the picture and offer no explanations? Not a single mention? The yak-nog got a cameo and she didn’t? Fantastic! I want to think she did the most sensible thing and ran off to live with the dragons, somehow. Would be better than the freakshow Berk is. I would do the same if I lived surrounded by 1-dimensional morons, Val.

More problems on Berk, let’s see... Why don’t the kids know about Stoick and are allowed to trash his statue without being called out? Shouldn’t he be talked about like he’s the stuff of legends (which he is) to every kid? Hiccup was told countless stories about him when he was little. Yes, he’s his son, but that shouldn’t give only him the privilege of listening to stories. And speaking of telling kids things, why have Hiccup and Astrid not told their kids about the dragons sooner? You’d think these two, of all people, would be so excited to educate their little ones about the marvels of those creatures. They look like they’re at least 6+ both, they should have already known about Berk’s history with dragons. But of course, Homecoming couldn’t afford that. Gotta have some sort of plot going on!

Now, to the Hidden World... I’ll be honest with you, I found that scene with Toothless drawing Hiccup to be absolutely depressing. Not because he’s longing his best friend (which he shouldn’t, because the damn director stated he forgot about him), but because he should feel miserable trapped in that place. He and his kids should feel miserable. For one, the Light Fury is literally a controlling ass. Did you see how offended she looked when Toothless dared to remember his past life with the human that changed his life? Oh, how dare he! His life must only be centered around her and her numb skull! After all, she’s this random dragon he fell in love with in 3 seconds! Gotta love how she acted all bitchy until he was forced to comfort her. My headcanon is that she’s literally controlling him with pheromones. The real Toothless is too smart to stay with such a plain, useless, unaccepting dragon for the rest of his life.

As for his kids, yes I did say they should be unhappy. The only thing they can do is wrestle each other and play with whatever those floating orb thingies are supposed to be. Wow, how fun... They’re little baby dragons, trying to enjoy their early years of life! In the outside world, they would have been able to see the sky, interact with the environment, discover all the animals that surround them, travel back and forth with their parents... but they’re stuck on that pretty cage, bored out of their lives. The Hidden World is literally captivity.

Look at it, this poor thing is so miserable... No wonder it was so desperate to look for adventures, so much that even a drawing of a creature it has never seen gave it the magical abilities to find New Berk.

Which brings me to another point, how did the Night Lights find New Berk? How did they know they were supposeed to find something outside the Hidden World only via a drawing? And how were they able to fly for so long? And how did Toothless and the Light Fury know exactly where to find them? Also, earlier on, why did the Light Fury even light up that glowing rock thingie when they were in the Hidden World? She’s that awful, controlling of a dragon that she can’t even let her kids sleep in peace. And she huffed out green fire? What is happening?

The plot of Homecoming is just forced, and it’s really stinkin’ obvious this thing was done for money and nothing more. You’ve got cute little Toothless babies (I find the Night Lights to be rather hideous, but that’s just me) and you’ve got cute little Hiccstrid kids. Obviously you want to make money off of that, because more than half the fandom won’t give a shit if they make sense or not.

These people just went right ahead and trashed the third movie’s canon to make this cashgrab. Let’s ignore the fact that the director explicitly stated that Toothless had forgotten about Hiccup for a second and focus on what happens on the short. Toothless immediately recognizes Hiccup while he’s in a suit just by his scent and voice, but in the third movie he just has to wait till the hand trick comes up to recgonize him. Toothless was also totally cool with people, and that smug look he gave his family after letting Gobber touch him just proves he was there to make them see how great humans are. And yet he acts like he will murder a few unarmed humans that came slightly close to his home, with no way in? Suuuure.

Actually, let me vent a little here about what I said earlier - HTTYD3 and Homecoming both just destroyed the hand touch thing and I will never forgive them for that. It was supposed to be a unique moment, a special and unforgettable action that started it all, but now they’ve gotta milk it for the feels. The reverse hand touch in HTTYD3 was so forced I actually sighed, and then they just kept forcing it throughout. Shame on y’all.

I could go on for days tearing this thing apart... but I don’t want to give this thing more of my time than it deserves.

#httyd #httyd 3 #httyd homecoming #httyd criticism #the hidden world #homecoming spoilers

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big-bad-ulf · 4 years

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The Prodigal Wolf Returns || Ulfric & Winn

Timing: Midday, Thursday 4th of June Parties: @packsbeforesnacks, @big-bad-ulf Summary: Ulfric meets with Winn to discuss what drove him out of town, and consider their next moves. Warnings: Mentions of assisted suicide, depression, and grief.

The clearing in the woods was quiet, remote, and neutral. Somewhere they could both feel at home, but that neither could claim ownership of. Hearing footsteps approaching, Ulfric dropped the cigarette stub between his fingers, stamping it out into the leaf litter below to conceal most of the evidence of the bad habit he’d picked up again after Celeste’s passing, though the smoke still lingered accusingly. “I suppose thanks are in order, for coming all the way out here,” he greeted Winn stoically, before finally turning to face the returned wolf. “As you’re aware, I’m not the one who you need to explain your actions to.” He hoped it was apparent he meant Layla and Ariana, but the young man didn’t have the best track record thinking things through to their logical conclusion. “But I’d like one, because as it stands I can’t imagine a scenario in which ‘sparring’ with a tiny human girl while in wolf form was necessary? Nor was fleeing town when you knew others of your kind were in danger.” The older werewolf’s tone was tired, weighed down by the collective suffering of White Crest’s pack over the last few weeks, but an anger borne of disappointment simmered beneath the weariness.

Winn had been dreadin’ this conversation since he’d figured out everyone thought he’d skipped town. Ulfric was… intimidating, to say the absolute least. Winn could handle teenagers. He could handle folks in his own (relative) age group. And Simon was, well, kind, in a way that he wasn’t sure Ulfric was. But part of the problem was that he didn’t know Ulfric. Didn’t know most of the wolves, really, all friendliness aside. So, worst-case scenario, Ulfirc hated him. Best case scenario, Ulfric thought he was an idiot. As he entered the clearing, smoke tickled his nose. The Full Moon was on them and Winn was pretty sure he’d have smelled it even if Ulfric hadn’t just been smoking, but he stowed the frown. It wasn’t his place to judge someone’s habits; he’d had bad habits of his own. Still had some. “I appreciate it,” Winn said, “but it’s unnecessary. I should thank you, for bein’ willing to hear me out.” He leaned against a tree, scrubbing at his eyes. Reconciling with his father and (part of) his former pack hadn’t helped his sleep, much as he wanted it to and, with Natalia out of town, he was running low on aram. “Talked to both of them. Only one left that knew, I think, is you.”

He weighed what he knew about Blanche in his mind, what he knew about Ulfric, and his newfound fondness for the truth. “Blanche is… like a sister, to me. She’s a trouble magnet. If there’s supernatural nonsense goin’ on in White Crest, I head her way. ‘Cause chances are, if she isn’t already involved, she will be in, like, an hour. I know it was stupid, thought I had better control than I did. After I got a hold of myself, I dipped, for just a few minutes. Came back, told Blanche that I was leavin’ to take care of some things, left a note somewhere I thought she’d find it. Phone had been dead before that, and I figured if she told folks I was gone, they’d know that I’d be back soon and couldn’t really make a twelve-hour drive shorter.” Winn sighed. “That’s usually the part of the story where folks have questions, so hit me. Oh, right. Social media. A shirtless photo of mine got flagged and, since I didn’t have my phone, I couldn’t contest the deactivation. That one was just coincidence. Lady Luck wasn’t in my favor.”

“It was stupid,” Ulfric confirmed when Winn was through with his explanation. He crossed his arms and paced in a tight, restless pattern as he weighed the other wolf’s actions, to decide what needed asking. It wasn’t like he could pass any judgment in an official sense, it would be up to Layla and Ariana and any of the other wolves who felt slighted to decide for themselves how they felt and how they wanted to interact with him on a personal level. But as a more experienced wolf, he felt obligated to address the aspects of Winn’s behavior that had the potential to harm the entire pack, or even their entire species. “I understand this girl means something to you, but we don’t need to be teaching more humans how to fight us.” Not that it was likely a human of average strength would stand much of a chance, even with whatever ‘mind powers’ Blanche supposedly possessed, but that was beside the point, their weaknesses were meant to stay between them. “Learning that would only help her against our kind, and if you’re worried any one of us is a threat to her that’s something that can be dealt with internally… It’s the fact you don’t seem to know your limits that troubles me most, though.”

Ulfric stopped and stood his ground as he came to that conclusion, looking over Winn appraisingly as he remembered the young wolf bragging about having killed a hunter. He’d chalked it up to mostly harmless arrogance at the time, but when he later explained he hadn’t done it on purpose that should’ve raised more red flags than it had. “You don’t seem like you’re that new to this. You should have a better grasp of how much control you do or don’t have. So, I suppose my questions are, do you know what pushed you over the edge? What do you plan to do to ensure this doesn’t happen again?”

Winn tried not to bristle at the half-accusation, pushing himself off the tree and walking towards Ulfric as, hopefully, non-threateningly as possible. “With all due respect, I never said that I was trainin’ her to take out wolves,” he said. And he hadn’t been! Werewolves were just big and so were, what, half of the things B would run into? “She only knows the bare minimum, assumin’ she hasn’t talked to Kaden ‘bout his other job. Ain’t hard for a human to try silver, given only every story about us tends to revolve ‘round that fact.” He took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. “But we can argue ‘bout Blanche later, it’s not like I’ll be sparrin’ with her in wolf form again.”

“It worries me, too. ‘Cause I’ve…” he paused, looking up into the canopy to choose his words carefully. “Let me backtrack. You don’t know much about me, and it might be… helpful. Since you’re the wolf ‘round here with the most experience…” Now, Winn was pacing. “I was turned almost eight years ago. The only turned wolf in a pack of, uh, werewolf fraternity brothers, down south. They guided me through my first dozen shifts, taught me how to be calm. So, believe me when I say: I have plenty of control, ‘specially for not havin’ been a wolf all my life. And don’t get your britches in a bunch, I know that sounds like bullshit, right now.” Winn ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable with the conclusions he was beginning to draw about his time ‘changed.’ “I said I accidentally killed a Hunter… well, that was half-true. The accident was my own — I was sleepin’ with a Hunter, didn’t know he was a Hunter. The killing was on purpose. Self-defense, when he abused my trust, tried to go after my pack.

“After that, I was in… a dark place. That would’a been late 2015. Next thing I remember, I was in Europe, staggering in my human form out of the woods in early 2018. Thought, until recently, I’d spent a year or two in and out of my wolf form… but, I’m startin’ to question that. Couple theories’ve been tossed around, maybe it isn’t true. But when I… attacked B, it felt different. On a Moon, when I let the wolf come to the forefront… even when I was tryin’ to keep us separate, I still knew what was goin’ on. But with B, I don’t remember anything between getting thrown into a tree and pullin’ myself back from the brink. It was, well, dissociative is maybe the closest way to say it. I was there, and then I wasn’t. I’ve never lost control like that. Not even, y’know, when I was still new at this. It’s… it’s like hittin’ that tree pulled something out of me, something from under my conscious. I— Have you ever heard of anything like that? Where a wolf just… wasn’t himself, or even his wolf self? Even if it had been, say, Ariana, I don’t think it would’ve changed it. I still think that… part of me would want to attack everything.”

“There’s no need for that if you’re not going to do it again.” Ulfric agreed with Winn’s statement about Blanche. Truthfully, he did not want to be having this argument in the first place. A good old-fashioned brawl could be cathartic but having to play the role of stern lecturer just made feel weary, worn-out, and old. Running wild together, celebrating a successful hunt, sharing tales of old legends and recent exploits, those were the things he’d looked forward to about being a part of a pack again. Having to step up and confront things that put them in jeopardy was a responsibility that came with that privilege, but not one he enjoyed or hoped to have to take up often.

The older werewolf couldn’t contain a small grimace of disgust upon hearing Winn’s story. The chance that they might be a hunter was one of the many reasons it was a bad idea to get involved that way with humans, but he didn’t bother to voice his opinion on that. The man was an adult capable of making his own choices and he’d also spent a lot of his life as a human, so it was easy to see where that mistake had come from. Besides, it seemed he’d more than learned his lesson on that front.

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to come back from a betrayal like that.” Ulfric replied at last, because the tale was tragic, if difficult for him to relate to on a personal level. “I haven’t heard of wolves entering an abnormal state like that,” Of course, his own ‘wolf self’ was similar in some ways to what Winn had described, an entirely animalistic being, but even then it retained the animal instinct not to attack its own kind without severe provocation and the risk of that side of himself emerging outside of a full moon was very low. “It seems the answers may lie in what happened in those lost years. What are the theories?” Staying transformed for the better part of years… Was such a thing truly possible? Ulfric could’ve almost been jealous of Winn for having that freedom from morals and responsibilities of the human world for so long, if the suffering it was causing him now wasn’t so apparent.

“Have you tried… it could be possible, or so I’ve heard, to bring some memories back through mystical means.” He suggested hesitantly. “I don’t like getting involved with such things, but you can’t just… go on the way you are, not without having to isolate yourself.” And that was the last thing he wanted for any of his kind, regardless of whether he held them in high regard or not. “If something were to bring on this feral state in front of a crowd that would mean disaster for all of us. And I’m sure you know that,” He leveled the younger wolf with a hard-nosed look. “Even if some of your actions suggest a distinct lack of judgment of the more mundane variety.”

“I— Thanks.” Winn frowned, stopping his pacing as Ulfric spoke. “I have a… friend, who looked into some, uh, wolf causes. Didn’t find much, some reports of wolves stayin’ transformed who went… feral, who couldn’t change back into their human form.” What Rio had told him had scared him, but it hadn’t felt, well… correct. It seemed like even those wolves had the sense to not attack other wolves, that they retained some of their humanity, even if they became more animal than human. ‘Course, many of them didn’t live to tell their tale, and the records that Rio had found could only tell them so much. Some had been written by Hunters, others written by a wolf who had to put one of his own down. But Winn had come back, which seemed to be the wrinkle. No Hunter had ever tried to bring a wolf back to themselves, but not even a packmate could. So, if Winn had been transformed, how could he have come back?

“Given I’m back, though, my friend and I ruled that out. ‘Specially for a bitten wolf to come back from bein’ feral? Seemed unlikely. Not when there was another explanation. Which is, um…” Alright, okay. He could admit this aloud. “My dad is a huxian. He thinks it might be mystical, yeah. Somethin’ taken from me, or somethin’ I gave up.”

He swallowed, mouth dry. “I’m still tryin’ other avenues. R— My friend is lookin’ into… side-effects of wolfsbane. What shit street wolfsbane might get spiked with. I—” Winn scratched at his arms, almost wishin’ that he was wearin’ a shirt. “I took wolfsbane for months, after I killed that Hunter. Blamed myself for what happened to the pack. And I guess I… stopped.” He looked up into the canopy. “But you’re right. I need to figure out my shit, so I don’t put us all at risk. And, short of goin’ back on the wolfsbane — which I’m not gonna do — we really don’t have any leads. If there’s… a part of me, that’s missin’, then I don’t want to go on like this. I can’t. Even if…” Well, there was always this part. Winn looked back down at Ulfric, mouth set in a hard line. “Don’t… I don’t want your pity. This isn’t y’all’s problem, but there’s… well, if I’m missin’ two years, there’s a chance that…” He coughed.

“There’s this Hunter I know. Luke mentioned him at the meeting. He… If I did somethin’ bad, hurt an innocent life, he’s the one I trust to… put an end to me. But I don’t want him knowin’ about what happened with B, and— I don’t know what could happen, if I get those memories back. No one I’ve talked to so far does. But if he’s… if I’m different, if I try to hurt someone, I need y’all to be willin’ to stop me. If that happens… As the person I am now, I want you… to take me down. If you can’t kill me, let me rot. If I can’t control myself, I am… I am not more important than all of you.” His voice was hoarse, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t remember crying this much in a very long time, but he needed to be firm. “Promise me. Please. I’m sorry, so sorry, to put that burden on you.” He held out his hand, for the other wolf to take, to seal the pact. “But it has to be done.”

As Winn’s explanation continued, it became more and more clear to Ulfric that his actions couldn’t be explained away by stupidity or cowardice. That was a shame really, both of those causes would’ve been much easier to deal with than this mystery of missing memory. Everything Winn said seemed to introduce a new piece to the puzzle (Huxians, wolfsbane, and of course, the seemingly inescapable interference of hunters), but it was unclear how they whole fit together or how much of a threat would be revealed when the big picture came together. When the young wolf came to the end of his speech and what he was asking him to do sunk in, Ulfric’s blood ran cold. Protecting the pack was paramount, but the thought of killing another wolf was profane, it would be the ultimate sacrilege towards the gift his ancestors had bestowed upon him.

“I’m not going to sit idly by and let you harm other members of the pack, of that you can be certain,” he answered carefully, considering his options. If Winn were to slip into a permanent state of mindless, unbridled aggression, the usual ‘last resort’ of exile would do little to keep him from returning and causing havoc in their territory. Caging was another possibility, but he knew if their circumstances were reversed, he’d prefer a quick death over a life spent in chains, and it seemed the young man would as well. And finally, allowing hunters to deal with him in that state would only further inflame their hatred towards his kind, along with being plain undignified. “If your continued existence poses a threat to their survival, I promise you, I’ll do what needs to be done.” Ulfric accepted after a long moment’s deliberation, giving Winn’s hand a firm, resolute shake, though the clamminess of his palm betrayed his instinctual, visceral reaction against the plan. “Let’s not let it come to that though,” He added, more of an instruction than a hope. “I’ve had my fill of death for the time being.”

““Thank you,” Winn said, quietly. “But… Agreed. Don’t want it to come to that.” It wasn’t that Winn hadn’t considered his death before. Hell, after what had happened with his old pack, there had been times where he’d… well, where he’d really considered dying. Winn liked to think he was better, now. If not totally well-adjusted, at least pretty solid on the ‘me dying wouldn’t fix the issue’ mantra. Counseling helped that, and learning about counseling only reinforced it. Which is part of why he knew: “I need those memories back, though. Even if it hurts, or if there’s… a reason I buried them. Now that I know they might not be there, it’s like… it’s like I can feel the space where they used to be. They’re a blindspot, sure, but more than that they’re… part of me. I can’t…” He sighed, sitting down on the forest floor and breathing in the woods for a moment before continuing. “As I am now, I can’t imagine what reason I could have had to bury them or… take them? I don’t know anybody who’d have the answers. Plus, there’s all the shit with Luke, and what happened with Ari, and… Fuck, man, I haven’t even asked you how you’re doing. I… I mean, I didn’t know Celeste, but I talked to Ari some, and… I know it’s a cheap question, but are you okay, Ulfric?”

“I think I can understand that. Why you’d want them back.” Ulfric assured him. He was familiar with having gaps in his memory, though he’d never had much choice in the matter. Berserkers had lost the ability to remember most of their actions while transformed centuries ago, and their intentions behind that, if there were any, were shrouded in mystery and myth. He did have a choice, though, between taking the easy way out and walking away from the carnage he’d caused while in wolf form and reconstructing what happened during that time as best he could. Ever since his ill-thought-out vengeance against the hunters who took his younger siblings, he’d chosen to do the latter. Chosen to look at the carnage and accept why it had happened, and that it was a part of him.

“What we do is what we are,” he pondered aloud, before directing his attention back on Winn more fully. “I respect your choice and wish you luck. You can count on me for… whatever it is you think I can provide.” Which wasn’t much, given his lack of expertise in the realm of the magical. He couldn’t even truthfully say he’d provide friendly support, because he was still too wary of the young wolf and the potential danger he posed to the pack as a whole to consider him a friend. An alliance was clearly in both their best interests though, so Ulfric refrained from repeating his earlier comments about not wanting any help from him when he asked how he was. “I’ll survive, so will you,” he stated simply and firmly instead, almost ordering the fates to make it so. “Any other option doesn’t bear thinking about.” The older wolf turned briskly and took off into the trees. Action was required of both of them, if the White Crest pack was ever going to be able to consider itself safe. They could spare no more time for conjecture and contemplation.

#chatzy #winn #the prodigal wolf returns #wickedswriting #suicide tw

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casualkoalafart · 3 years

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Life These Days.

Disabilities are associated with weakness. The biggest disability is living in an unhealthy mindset, and getting trapped in it. Perspective(s), and the ability to control your perspective, is strength. It gives you power, rather than feed your deterioration. Strength and success are different for everyone and do not have and specific unit of measurement, despite what society depicts. Everyone is different, and is seen different. The idea that you have to look and act a certain way that is unreachable to 99% of us is mental abuse. No matter your race or religion, we are all equal in the eyes of the natural world, although it is a sad, unnecessary, and certainly outdated fight that too many still face today within our human world. The only things that truly matter come from within, and often require some searching through trial and error. I am certainly not perfect, I have made more mistakes and bad choices in my life than I can count, and I want to learn from them. I cannot change the past, but I can change the future. My past does not define me. The person you are within your family, your friends, your workplace, your neighbourhood, and your society are all strangers to each other in one way or another. They are aware that each of them exists, but a different thought process prepares you for the presented environments.

One person’s strength is someone else’s weakness. Winning the lottery could save so many lives if put into the right places, however it could also be the death of you if you are overcome by addiction, greed, or any other toxicities. The ability to put yourself into someone else’s shoes is a mindset that many of us as humans lack, whether we like it or not. After all, how are we supposed to relate to someone who is starving if we don’t know what it is like to be truly hungry? How do we understand what an abused child sees in the world if our brains were developed in a safe and healthy environment? These are uncomfortable thoughts that often lead to the sad path of “ignorance is bliss.” For others, it may have a lasting impact of giving them their purpose in life. Like becoming a detective, a therapist, or a positive role model to whatever cause speaks to them.

Everyone has the right to speak, but not to be heard. Some people are heard by too many and get overwhelmed, and begin a filtering process that should not exist toward their feelings and emotions. Some people are getting heard by too many and are abusing their power through brainwashing impressionable people too scared to think for themselves. Some people are getting heard by the wrong people, inevitably feeling judged and out of place in the world. Humans have great instincts, but often do not have the confidence to follow them. Finding someone like-minded is refreshing, just as finding someone that believes in something that you do not can feel offensive and cause you to become defensive. These lessons that present themselves to us in the form of challenges make us who we are. Everyone expresses themselves differently, and that is what makes the world so beautiful. Art, music, literature, traditions, food, drink, and each unique personality makes life worth living. For those who have yet to find a way to express themselves, the opportunities to deal with their thoughts while also feeling safe and understood (despite whether the view or perspective is the same as the listener), are everything. The right to speak gives you the right to be judged, something that many find out the hard way. It can be discouraging, and that feeling of failure sticks with you more prominently than any win, especially to yourself.

Every mind is its own universe, and the energy that comes from it we feel is seen by who (or what) we call god. We strive to be heard and felt, because after all we can only truly feel our own feelings, and we want to share those feelings with others. Listening and hearing others in the way they express themselves through whichever outlet best suits them brings power, empathy, and unity. The sense of being alone in the world is a feeling that has unfortunately impacted everyone. As unique and different that we all are, we are the same in that sense. I feel my energy is felt through the earth, and I find comfort in and with those who share my perspective. I feel I am most understood and heard by animals, my family, and my best friends. I am really attracted to the energy from animals because I have yet to find my way in the world, my true outlet for my feelings and expressions, or something that I feel is my purpose. With animals not being able to communicate with language, and since I cannot always seem to put things into words for others to understand me, I feel a true connection through the brainwaves, the loving and healing energy we make and willingly give to one another, specially made for each being. I do not want my energy that I create to come from animals, because I do not want to take from them. They already willingly give so much, but we continue to take and take and take until there is ultimately nothing left.

Right now, the world is speaking to us with the undeniable statistics through every outlet and source possible. Unfortunately, we do not listen, and the next warning I fear will be fatal. Global warming, fires, floods, plagues, are begging for us to acknowledge that we are killing our Mother Earth, and we are not listening. Hatred, inequality, and the sensation that we cannot make a difference in these challenging times is going to undoubtedly be our last fight, and we must keep fighting. With lockdown forcing all of us to reflect in this time, our biggest strength would be to come together while we are apart. Many of us feel our weakest, and as strange as it sounds, we could use that to our advantage. Turning weakness into strength is not only achievable, it is necessary. Humans are so incredible, we are inventors and have made a way to connect all of us, in the idea that by doing so, no one is alone. This creates a broader sense of loneliness, being surrounded by the internet world but still not being seen for who you are. So, we are back at the beginning again it seems. Some people go to extreme lengths to be heard or remembered. The idea of being alone is a powerful feeling that can lead to either good or evil, or in tragic (but not rare) cases, suicide. We need to understand that the rising of mental sickness is another form in which our planet is letting us know that we are literally killing ourselves. Too many are unable to deal with stress, guilt, pressure, loss, and so on. Drug addictions, accidental or purposeful overdoses, and self-harm are all fatal hand-me-down outlets to deal with man-made problems that we should never have had to deal with in the first place. These man-made problems are not made up or any less real than a hurricane. They create new emotions, ones that we are not equip to handle, forcing our bodies to call for any response to these ever-evolving threats, and are often fatal solutions. Depression and anxiety should not be a mental illness, they are simply emotions that come with the good of life. Nobody is happy all the time, and the idea that life should always be happy is sad in itself. When there is life, there is death. Where there is good, there is bad. Where there is love, there is hate. Instead of teaching each other how to handle the yin and the yang, we prescribe drugs like opioids, while also trying to convey the image that drugs are bad and drug addicts are failures. So many poor people are brainwashed into thinking that marijuana is bad, but for some reason popping pills to manipulate your body to function is normal. Writing this makes my heart race, and I cannot describe the feeling because it is a cocktail that is mixed with emotions that do not belong together. We do not know how to deal with so many things because to put it bluntly, they are not natural and they evolve every day and are designed to break us.

Our relationships with each other is everything, and our compassion and ability to hear others is power. Emotions, and being able to talk about and express them, is a gift and a privilege. We have been given the false connotation that feelings are weakness, that the idea of healthy options and outlets of expression for them are also weakening. Someone who takes anti-depressants to cope with feelings, drinks excessively to not have to feel, and take drugs may have the sensation that they are being stronger than someone who goes to therapy. This is backwards, and we as a society need to understand this together. Our strength of our ability to exchange knowledge is getting the best of us with the media not passing on the right messages. The government favouring the majority and purposefully challenging the minority is poisoning all of us, because we are all the same. It can give a person too much power, the corrupt idea that you are somehow better than a person who is not on social media, planting trees for a living. It will give people who do not have a platform a feeling that they cannot make a change to the world, since they are just one person. Evilness derives from this false and discouraging perspective. It will not give the right people anything, it will eventually take from them everything that matters.

There is strength in getting up in the morning, brushing your teeth, creating a healthy routine. Don’t cut yourself short. You’re doing great. It’s not supposed to be easy.

I did not filter myself writing this, and I hope I did not offend anyone who took the time to read my thoughts. We are all just trying to find our place in the world. In the perspective from our planet, no person is above or below another. Society, a man-made revolution, needs to help spread the right messages. We are all part of society. You are society.

The idea of posting this to the world gives me anxiety, however I am doing it because I know I am not the only one who feels this way, and I want anyone who can relate to this message at all to know that they are not alone. I am also posting this to let ANYONE know that if they want to talk about something, I am happy to listen and to hear them. I hope this message can inspire you to feel comfortable in your mind, your body, and to not be embarrassed or feel shame to share yourself with the world through your personally suited outlet. I would love to see your art, hear your music, read your words, or learn other forms of expression from you.

In writing this, I have escaped in a sense. I have allowed so many overwhelming thoughts and emotions to form words, and with this vulnerability comes a sense of relief that I hope everyone feels they have access to.

I am so overwhelmed and overcome with emotions all of a sudden, and then they go away as if they were just thoughts passing by in a train, just making a quick stop to drop off some passengers and pick up others on their way to an unknown destination. I wish that I could control the waves in which I feel so helpless, heavy, weak, and overcome. I wish I could pace myself. I know a quick way out would be to inebriate myself, a desire of what seems like freedom is powerful and can become uncontrollable in seconds.

I really hope I am confident enough to share this one day. My goal is to organize my thoughts and feelings into words that I can be proud to own, unapologetically.

Thank goodness for computers. I love the idea of having a beautiful mind and expressing words through pen and paper. Making my words beautiful through calligraphy and ink created with my own specific muscle movements. I have a strange admiration for penmanship. However that is not the case, as my mind is a mess with thoughts that come and go at what seems like the speed of light. I am grateful for the ability to edit my words efficiently through text. But, with the sense that I am feeding into the “everything is instant” perspective/generation of society, I am also disappointed in myself for not being able to slow down my mind enough to hand write most of what I choose to put into words to remind my future self. Or my present self.

I feel like after starting this page, I have opened a vault. One that should never have been a vault to begin with, but a welcoming and open-minded space. Instead of numbing and silencing my mind, I would like to have the strength to escape my escape, get my bearings back in a healthy way by reading other people’s escapes, appreciating their art, or listening to stories. Grounding myself back into reality. That I am actually okay. That I am just another person. A somebody, or a nobody, depending on my perspective.

I feel like I have experienced so many emotions today, that my body was overtaken by my mind because it was trapped. I can’t even remember writing some of it, which is curious. Hopefully that is where dying comes in, to release your trapped mind. Not now of course, but that is a nice and comforting thought for me, to think that in facing your worst fear you achieve real freedom.

I am glad I wrote it down, to reflect on later.

Everything written above was written on February 5th, 2021. It was snowy today. I had a lot of butterflies feeling my mind race so fast on so many deep levels. It is now 21:22, and although I still don’t quite know how I’m feeling, I feel like I have said what I needed to for the day. I also did not drink any alcohol today, which I am proud of after doing so much self-reflection. I am going to cuddle with Sammy, play games, and try to feel at peace with where I am in the world and in my mind.

Goodnight.

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