#the imminent chaos it encompasses | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elysiumania · 10 months

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title: carve it to the end pairing(s): blade, reader characters: blade, reader, kafka, silver wolf word count: 9.8k+ synopsis: blade is familiar with the profound sin that encompasses his entire existence, yet he never anticipated that a whirlwind of emotions for you would also ensnare him.

In the midst of your daring mission, you and Blade find yourselves separated from Kafka and Silver Wolf, who have been entrusted with the crucial task of retrieving the coveted stellaron from the clutches of the world's sovereign. This scenario is all too familiar, as Elio, your mysterious leader, often assigns you such missions to procure the stellaron from different worlds.

The urgency of the situation is palpable, as Elio's command weighs heavily on your shoulders. Time is of the essence, and the success of your mission depends on each member's unwavering focus and commitment.

The world you find yourselves entrenched in is a labyrinth of mysteries and dangers. Its atmosphere crackles with an otherworldly energy, its landscapes a juxtaposition of ethereal beauty and imminent peril. Shadows dance along the twisted paths, hinting at lurking threats that could emerge at any moment.

In the heart of the battlefield, you and Blade move with an elegant synchrony, your every action an evidence to the rigorous training and discipline that you both possess. Your movements are precise, your coordination seamless, as if you were two halves of a single entity, united by a common purpose.

Every movement is deliberate, calculated, as you swiftly evade the oncoming strikes and launch devastating counterattacks. The air is charged with a palpable tension, your senses heightened to their fullest extent.

Time seems to slow down. Your world narrows to the immediate threat before you, the rest of the battlefield fading into the periphery. The only sound you hear is the clash of steel, the rhythmic pounding of your heart, and the rhythmic breaths you take in tandem with each movement. There is a singular purpose that drives you forward – the complete annihilation of your enemies.

In a swift turn of your body, you witness Blade parry the bullets fired to him.

Blade's presence on the battlefield is truly formidable, exuding an aura of power and confidence that commands respect. Every swing of his blade is executed with calculated precision, a dance of lethal elegance. His movements are fluid and swift, as if he were an extension of his weapon, effortlessly cutting through adversaries with a deadly efficiency.

There is a raw intensity to his fighting style, a controlled ferocity that sends shivers down your spine. He is like a force of nature, untamed and relentless, his strikes landing with devastating impact. It is a sight to behold, the embodiment of a warrior at the peak of his skill and strength.

However, amidst the chaos and violence, you can discern a meticulousness in Blade's approach. His attacks are not haphazard or reckless, but rather purposeful and strategic. He anticipates his opponents' moves, parrying and countering with calculated precision. His reflexes are honed to a razor's edge, allowing him to seamlessly transition from defense to offense, leaving little room for his enemies to counterattack.

You, too, are a force to be reckoned with. Your reflexes are honed to perfection, your aim unerring as you unleash a hail of bullets, each shot finding its mark with lethal precision. Your training and experience have molded you into a formidable combatant, a force that strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies. Your focus is steady, your concentration laser-sharp as you analyze every opponent, calculating their weaknesses and exploiting them with ruthless efficiency.

As the battle wears on, a sense of fatigue begins to creep into your limbs. The adrenaline that fueled your movements earlier starts to wane, and you feel the weight of exhaustion settle upon you. Your breath becomes labored, each inhale a struggle as you try to replenish the oxygen needed to sustain your efforts.

The once effortless movements now require a conscious effort, each swing of your weapon feeling heavier than before. Your muscles ache, protesting the relentless strain placed upon them. But you push through the discomfort, your determination overriding the physical toll on your body.

With every passing moment, your stamina diminishes further. The pace of your strikes and evasions slows, each action requiring a greater expenditure of energy. Your once precise and fluid movements become more sluggish, the gaps in your defenses more apparent. But you refuse to yield, knowing that the moment you falter could spell disaster.

Your breaths become audible, each exhalation a visible cloud in the cold air. Beads of sweat drip down your brow, stinging your eyes as you struggle to maintain focus. The weight of exhaustion settles, threatening to drag you down. Yet, you find solace in the knowledge that you are not alone in this battle.

Despite the weariness that seeps into your bones, your pride and determination refuse to waver. You cannot bear the thought of leaving the burden solely to Blade, for that would make you vulnerable at a crucial moment. You know that victory in this battle depends on your firm presence and contribution.

As the enemy forces thin, a surge of determination courses through your veins. You can taste victory within reach, a tantalizing prospect that fuels your resolve. With renewed focus, you rally your remaining energy, striking back with a newfound ferocity. Each blow is a testament to your unyielding spirit, a defiance against the constraints of your weariness.

And finally, as the last enemy falls to the ground, a moment of stillness descends upon the battlefield. The air is heavy with the scent of blood and sweat, mingled with the unmistakable aura of victory. You stand amidst the fallen, your breaths coming in heaves, your body weary and battered. But within the exhaustion, there is a sense of triumph, an indomitable spirit that refuses to be defeated.

Every breath you took came with labor, as if each inhale and exhale required a monumental effort. Weary and fatigued, you turned your body to face Blade, whose face remained unblemished, betraying no signs of exhaustion or weariness. It was as if he had not engaged in the grueling battle that had left you drained and depleted.

Amazement and admiration swirled within you, mingling to form a chuckle that escaped your lips. You marveled at the strength embodied by your steadfast co-hunter, a strength that defied mortal limitations. The question lingered in your mind: Was this unwavering perseverance an inherent gift of his immortality?

Envy welled within you, a gnawing ache that intensified with each passing moment. It stemmed from Blade's indomitable will, his resolute determination that propelled him forward in the treacherous landscape of the battlefield. Yet, you couldn't help but be acutely aware that this very essence of strength—the enduring spirit that coursed through his veins—was also the source of his burden, one he carried with stoic grace.

Blade's eyes, intense and piercing, locked onto yours, their gaze penetrating through the facade of nonchalance he wore. A subtle furrow appeared between his brows. With each measured step, he closed the distance between you.

Your vision blurred, and the world around you transformed into a swirling haze, dissolving the boundaries between Blade and the backdrop. Amidst this kaleidoscope of colors, it was Blade's familiar hues that remained distinct, serving as a steadfast anchor amidst the chaotic whirlwind.

"(Name)," his voice called out, urgency lacing his tone, but you found yourself incapable of responding. Your focus shifted inward, drawn to the state of your own well-being. Fatigue clawed at your limbs, a relentless heaviness weighing down every movement, while a disorienting fuzziness clouded your thoughts.

Your body swayed, a mere puppet succumbing to the invisible forces tugging at your senses. Before comprehending the full extent of your unraveling consciousness, strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace. The hold was both protective and firm, a lifeline anchoring you as you teetered on the precipice of unconsciousness.

With a final shuddering breath, the world around you faded into an all-encompassing darkness, your awareness slipping away like sand through your fingertips.

Blade's intense gaze remained fixed upon you, his eyes bearing witness to the toll that your relentless battles had taken on your weary form. He understood the limits that you, his trusted comrade, bore as a fellow hunter. Countless enemies had tested your stamina, their sheer numbers depleting your reserves as you confronted them head-on, side by side.

The signs of exhaustion were evident in the lousiness of your movements, your shoulders rising and falling in an irregular manner. Each breath became a heavy burden, weighing upon your chest. Your once fluid motions had begun to falter, slowing as weariness claimed its hold. Yet, even in the face of these challenges, you stood resolute, confronting the onslaught with dedication.

Finally, the last of your adversaries had been vanquished, leaving only stillness in their wake. Blade, ever vigilant, turned his attention towards you without delay. His piercing gaze met your weary countenance, observing a vulnerability that was unfamiliar to him. The customary smile that you often flashed at him, one that had grated his nerves in the past, was now replaced by a weariness he had not witnessed before—a new encounter, a glimpse of your fragility.

He approached you, his strides purposeful and deliberate, calling out your name to capture your attention. Yet, you remained lost in your own thoughts, your gaze fixated upon the ground as if oblivious to his voice. Sensing your imminent collapse, Blade's instincts kicked in, honed from years of battles fought side by side.

With remarkable swiftness, Blade extended his arm, snaking it around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest. The impact of his swift action halted your impending fall, providing a secure anchor within the shelter of his embrace.

An irritated expression twisted Blade's features, his countenance marred by displeasure as he clicked his tongue in disapproval upon witnessing the vulnerability you now displayed. A flicker of annoyance danced within him, tugging at the corners of his being, yet an inexplicable flutter of something else lingered momentarily, a fleeting sensation that he swiftly dismissed.

He listened intently, attuned to the barely audible sound of your breathing, attesting to the rise and fall of your chest. Blade was certain that your slumber was merely a consequence of the relentless fatigue that accompanied the arduous battle you had endured. Letting out a sigh, he adjusted his stance, shifting his weight to better support you and ensure your comfort.

In the stillness, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Blade turned his gaze over his shoulder, catching sight of Kafka and Silver Wolf making their way toward him. A mischievous smirk adorned Kafka's face as her eyes fixated upon the curious and unusual scene unfolding before her.

"What happened to (Name)?" Silver Wolf inquired, her tone tinged with curiosity as she observed Blade and the slumbering figure in his arms.

"Fatigue," Blade responded curtly, his voice devoid of any elaboration.

"Oh? Did you encounter a formidable number of enemies then?" Kafka interjected with amusement. "It has been quite some time since I've seen (Name) exhausted to this extent. She usually dispatches her adversaries with impressive swiftness."

Blade chose not to respond to Kafka's remark, his gaze drifting down to your peaceful form nestled against his chest. The lines of fatigue that etched your face seemed to soften, revealing a vulnerability that was rarely witnessed. It was a sight that both intrigued and unsettled him, stirring emotions he struggled to comprehend.

"However, this scene is undoubtedly worth witnessing and quite rare.”

Blade's irritation grew as Kafka's words rang in his ears, emphasizing the rarity and significance of the scene unfolding before them. He groaned audibly, sensing the intrusion of his co-hunters into this trivial moment.

However, his annoyance escalated to exasperation as the sound of a shutter reached his ears, followed by the realization that Silver Wolf had captured a photograph of you both in your vulnerable state.

"I will send this photo to (Name)," the hacker announced, her fingers swiftly tapping on her phone to carry out her plan.

His head snapped towards his co-hunters, a glare burning in his eyes as he observed Silver Wolf holding her phone aloft, a mischievous and amused grin etched upon Kafka's face as she stood beside her, hand confidently placed on her hips.

A deep groan escaped Blade's lips, a resounding protest against the audacity of their endeavor. The boundaries of privacy seemed to blur in their presence, and he found himself grappling with the precarious balance between camaraderie and personal space.

Unperturbed by Blade's disapproval, Silver Wolf announced her intention to send the captured photo to you, her fingers tapping on her phone to execute the plan. Kafka's amusement was evident in her voice, reveling in the presumed surprise that awaited you upon awakening to a barrage of messages.

"She will be bombarded with this photo as soon as she awakens," Kafka chuckled, relishing the anticipation she held within her mischievous gaze. Her words danced with a mixture of presumption and amusement, an implicit belief that the outcome would be nothing short of entertaining.

As Silver Wolf scrutinized the sent photo, her sharp eyes honed in on a particular detail that caught her attention. With a sense of urgency, she zoomed in on the image, focusing on your arm. A splotch of crimson stood out, a telltale sign of blood trickling down your skin. Instantly, she relayed the concerning discovery to her companions.

"I believe it's imperative that we return to headquarters and bring (Name) to the healer without delay," Silver Wolf suggested, her tone laced with genuine concern. As she faced the perplexed expressions of her companions, she clarified her reasoning. "I noticed blood on her arm in the photo. It's possible she sustained a wound during the battle."

Blade's gaze snapped towards you, his attention immediately drawn to the area where the hacker had spotted the alarming sight. His eyes scanned your slumbering form, searching for any evidence of injury. And there, peeking out from the side of your arm, he spotted the crimson stain, smearing his own sleeves with your blood. A huff of frustration escaped his lips, mingled with a tinge of exasperation.

He couldn't help but ruminate on the recklessness that often coursed through you, the audacity with which you faced danger.

Indignation surged within Blade, rising like a tempest within his chest as he contemplated the dire consequences of your actions. While he grudgingly acknowledged his own tendency for recklessness, a belief that his immortal nature would allow him to withstand wounds and slashes with ease, he recognized the stark contrast in your vulnerability. You did not possess the gift-like-curse of immortality, and the wounds you sustained held the potential for far graver repercussions.

Devising meticulous plans, carefully assessing the movements and intentions of your enemies, had always been the cornerstone of Blade's approach to victory. It was a calculated dance, a strategic ballet that he had honed over time.

Yet, what gnawed at Blade's core, sparking the ember of irritation within him, was the unsettling realization that he was irked by your recklessness. It should not concern him if you were to meet your demise on the battlefield. After all, death had been his elusive pursuit, an ever-present companion lurking in the recesses of his existence, a catchphrase that easily rolled off his tongue. It was a facet of his other self, one he had sought to embrace yet had never fully attained.

And yet, the bitter taste that lingered on the tip of his tongue, the annoyance that prickled beneath his skin, betrayed a profound unease at the thought of your death. It was an incongruity that bewildered him, challenging his steadfast commitment to detachment. How could you, someone he had never truly regarded beyond the confines of a fellow hunter, stir within him such distaste for the inevitability of death?

Blade grappled with the paradox, his irritation growing in intensity. The disconcerting reality of his emotions cast a veil of unease upon his otherwise steadfast resolve. The boundaries that he had carefully constructed, separating himself from the lives of others, seemed to blur in your presence.

It was an annoyance that Blade struggled to comprehend, an unwelcome intrusion upon his carefully cultivated existence.

"We must hurry, for there may be more adversaries in our path," Kafka suggested, her voice grained with urgency.

In response, Blade swiftly and effortlessly scooped you up, cradling you in his arms with practiced ease—his hands supporting your knees and shoulders—before the trio embarked towards the waiting ship.

Their hurried footsteps resonated in unison. With every stride, Blade's focus remained fixed upon the precious cargo he carried, ensuring your safety as they made their way to the ship that would transport them to their destination.

Upon reaching their destination, Blade carefully set you down upon the bed in the clinic, relinquishing his hold as the healer swiftly took charge. His piercing gaze lingered upon you for a fleeting moment before he pivoted on his heel, preparing to depart the room.

“You’re leaving?”

Kafka's sudden question halted Blade in his tracks, prompting him to turn his gaze toward her. A hint of curiosity flickered in his eyes, awaiting her explanation.

"There's no need for me to linger here," he stated matter-of-factly.

"You're not going to look after (Name)?"

The inquiry caused his eyebrow to arch in mild confusion. "And why should I do that?"

"You already know that yourself, Bladie," she stated with a playful tone and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Blade's frown deepened, his irritation bubbling to the surface.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he retorted, a note of finality in his voice. "And I have no interest in delving into whatever it is."

With that, Blade turned away, cutting off any further discussion. His steps carried him away from the room, leaving behind the enigmatic conversation. But, even as he walked away, the lingering words and insinuations gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, an unwelcome intrusion into his otherwise focused mind.

Blade found himself genuinely perplexed by Kafka's implications, unable to grasp the underlying meaning of her words. However, he couldn't deny the undeniable truth that it irritated him when it pertained to you. From the very beginning, since the moment you had invaded his mind, you had become a persistent presence, governing his thoughts and actions through your infuriating actions.

Within the recesses of his being, a tempestuous whirlwind raged, its origins elusive, its nature enigmatic. It swept through his soul, stirring up a maelstrom of emotions that clashed and clashed like thunderous waves against rugged cliffs. It was as if a churning vortex had taken residence within him, disrupting the tranquility he had come to know.

This enigmatic sensation, like a riddle without a solution, perplexed him, refusing to be neatly categorized or defined. It twisted and turned, defying his attempts to grasp its essence, teasing him with fleeting glimpses of comprehension before slipping away like smoke through his fingertips. It was a phantom, taunting him with its complex nature.

This inexplicable connection with you contradicted his stoic nature, defying the boundaries he had meticulously established to safeguard his emotions. The turbulence it caused within him was an unwelcome disruption, disturbing the delicate equilibrium he had carefully maintained for so long. Yet, despite his disdain for this unfamiliar sentiment, he couldn't escape its hold.

For now, Blade chose to bury those uncertainties, channeling his focus back to the tasks at hand. The path of a hunter was one fraught with danger and uncertainty, and he couldn't allow himself to be swayed by unexplained sentiments. With a steady stride, he continued his journey, suppressing the whisper of concern that followed in his wake.

“We have a new member in our team,” Kafka announced, looking at her side where a woman stood. “This is (Name). She will join as soon as Elio instructs us.”

As Kafka made the announcement, introducing you as the newest member of their team, your presence drew the attention of the group. All eyes turned towards you, including Blade's, who observed the exchange with a stoic expression.

Silver Wolf, brimming with an air of confidence, rose from her seat and approached you and Kafka. She introduced herself with a cool demeanor, extending her hand for a formal handshake. You reciprocate the gesture, a warm smile gracing your lips as you accept her greeting.

"(Name). I am pleased to meet you," you replied, your tone reflecting sincerity and openness.

Beside her, Kafka took it upon herself to introduce Blade, her words tinged with a hint of playful warning.

"And this is Blade. He's got a few quirks, but he's a pretty decent guy. Just make sure you don't rub him the wrong way. But please beware around him," Kafka introduces him on his behalf, with a casual tone.

She conveyed his complexities, acknowledging the challenges that might arise when interacting with him. Blade simply nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze steady as he absorbed the introductions.

Taking the initiative, you extended your hand towards Blade, your gesture mirroring the earlier exchange between Silver Wolf and yourself. With a gentle smile, you spoke, voicing your hope to maintain a positive rapport.

"Blade, it's a pleasure to meet you too. I hope I can avoid getting on your bad side," you said with genuine sincerity, the sparkle in your eyes hinting at your lightheartedness.

Rather than accepting your extended hand, Blade's reaction was one of dismissiveness and disdain. He emitted a snort of irritation before abruptly turning his back to you, retreating to his designated place. It was a deliberate gesture, a clear message that he had no intention of entertaining any further interaction or connection with you.

From that moment onward, a peculiar dynamic unfolded between you and Blade. The intensity of your gaze, your unwavering attention directed towards him, became a persistent source of irritation and anger. It was as if your eyes bore into his very being, their weight an ever-present reminder of your presence.

Whether in the midst of missions or within the confines of the headquarters, your stares persisted, unabated and noticeable. It was a lack of discretion that only heightened his vexation, making it impossible for him to ignore the density of your steady focus.

Initially, Blade had chosen to overlook your behavior, granting you the benefit of the doubt and assuming that it would soon wane or change. He had granted you his patience and considered it a passing phase, a temporary inconvenience. However, as the days wore on and your behavior remained unchanged, frustration welled within him, igniting a simmering anger that threatened to boil over.

He had expected the glue-like hold you seemed to have on him to loosen, to fade away. Yet, to his dismay, it clung to him with unrelenting persistence, defying his attempts to shake it off. The irritation stirred within him, his patience waning, as the boundary of tolerance grew thinner with each passing moment.

The sudden aggression in Blade's actions shattered the fragile calm that had previously enveloped the hallway. The forceful slam against the wall resonated through the confined space, echoing with a resounding intensity. His arms flanked your head, his piercing gaze meeting your bewildered self with an unsettling mix of intensity and rage.

Caught off guard, you found yourself pinned against the unyielding surface, your movement restricted by the sheer force of Blade's hold. The abrupt halt in your path to your room left you suspended in a moment of uncertainty, as you struggled to comprehend the reason behind his unexpected and aggressive actions.

“What is your scheme, huh?”

His voice, husky yet dangerous, sliced through the air like a blade. His inquiry demanded answers, seeking to unravel the motivations behind your actions, or perhaps to assert dominance over the situation. The solemnity of his words filled the space, leaving little room for evasion or half-truths.

As Blade's intense gaze bore into your own, his indignation smoldered beneath the surface. The innocence reflected in your eyes, an aspect he vehemently abhorred, only served to further stoke the flames of his anger. It was a stark contrast to his own nature, an antithesis that rankled against his very being.

You responded, your voice steady yet laced with a hint of composure.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you declared, your words echoing in the tense atmosphere.

Blade's growl reverberated through the air, a primal display of dominance and power. The impact of his hands against the wall echoed his warning, a reminder of what he was capable of should he be further provoked. But, despite his fearsome actions, you remained steadfast, your unwavering gaze fixed upon him, as if seeking to untangle the enigma that resided within his soul.

His voice, dripping with darkness and cruelty, lashed out at you, laying bare his frustrations. The intensity of his stare pierced through you, the weight of his words bearing down upon your shoulders. He acknowledged the patience he had shown thus far, acknowledging the restraint he had exercised in the face of your relentless scrutiny.

"You have persistently fixed your gaze upon me, which has been rather vexing. Consider yourself fortunate that, despite my reputation for impatience, I have displayed remarkable restraint and refrained from terminating your existence due to your incessant and intrusive stares."

In response to his threat, you remained resolute, your voice steady as you spoke. "Then, I am thankful that you haven't taken my life yet.”

“Tell me a plausible reason to refrain myself from ending you.”

"I want to know more about you," you admitted, your voice holding a mixture of curiosity and determination. It was a risky statement, one that defied his expectations and pushed the boundaries of his guarded existence.

His piercing gaze bore into you, intensifying with disbelief and a hint of warning. The depths of his glare seemed to echo a sense of cruelty and danger, as if he dared you to challenge his skepticism.

"Don't test me," he scowled, his voice laced with an edge of threat.

"I beg to differ," you retort. "You remain an enigma to me, a puzzle that has piqued my curiosity. It was relatively effortless for me to become acquainted with Kafka and the others, but you, on the other hand, prove to be a unique challenge. Perhaps it is your distant and aloof nature that sets you apart, or perhaps there are deeper underlying factors at play."

"You previously mentioned your desire to avoid antagonizing me, yet it appears that you have now succeeded in doing so."

Blade's words dripped with venom, his threat drifting through the charged atmosphere. The darkness that shrouded him threatened to consume the space between you, leaving little room for leniency or understanding. It was clear that he believed you had crossed a line, evoking the wrath of his ire.

With a heavy sigh, you faced him without fear.

Blade's disbelief was palpable, his features contorted in a mix of incredulity and frustration. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, and his clenched jaw revealed the inner turmoil as he fought to rein in his rising anger. With one final glare, he abruptly withdrew his body, releasing you from the oppressive presence he had imposed upon you.

"Your reasons for joining the Stellaron hunters are not my concern," he declared, his voice laced with an undeniable edge of irritation. "Keep your intrusive curiosity to yourself and refrain from bothering others. I have no interest in knowing anything about anyone, including you."

The finality in his words echoed through the space, underscoring his disinterest in delving into matters beyond the immediate scope of their shared mission. It was a clear message, signaling that further attempts to breach the walls he had erected would be met with resistance and hostility.

With that, Blade turned away, leaving you to absorb the weight of his rejection and the boundaries he had firmly established. The tension between you hung in the air, an unspoken barrier that seemed insurmountable.

As he strode off, a cold and distant aura enveloped him, shielding him from the intrusions of curiosity and connection that you had attempted to breach.

The surreptitious glances you cast in Blade's direction did not escape notice, despite his prior warnings and threat. Nonetheless, he begrudgingly acknowledged that the frequency of those glances had diminished compared to earlier encounters. When accompanying other hunters on missions, it granted Blade a fleeting respite, a temporary reprieve from the occasional scrutinizing gazes that seemed to dissect him from afar.

Yet, upon your return, you would invariably greet him with an amiable smile and a friendly wave, seemingly oblivious to his prior admonitions. Blade, resolute in maintaining his distance, opted for complete disregard, refusing to acknowledge your presence or partake in any form of interaction.

However, when circumstances dictated that the two of you found yourselves on the same mission, the task became increasingly burdensome for Blade. Not due to any perceived deficiency on your part, but rather because of the unyielding intensity of your penetrating stares. They bore into him, as if endeavoring to unravel the enigmatic cloak that enveloped his very essence.

In response, Blade's glare would intensify, a lethal warning etched within his gaze. It stood as a silent plea for you to desist in your unyielding observation, a plea that fell upon deaf ears. Despite his explicit caution, you persisted in your pursuit, undeterred by his unspoken signals.

There arrived a moment when Blade's anger and irritation reached a boiling point, overpowering his self-restraint. In an uncontrollable surge of rage, he found himself unsheathing his sword, employing it as a tangible manifestation of his pent-up emotions. It was a perilous act, a palpable reflection of his internal struggle, as he fought to regain dominion over himself in the face of your relentless actions.

However, even in light of his aggression, you remained undeterred, unflinching in the face of the menace he presented. The clash between the two of you transformed into a battle of wills, an unyielding pursuit on your part juxtaposed with his unwavering resistance. The tension between you surged, leaving behind a trail of disquietude and exasperation in its wake.

Intrigued by Kafka's insatiable curiosity, she felt compelled to confront Blade about his abrupt outburst. Approaching him with a mixture of fascination and concern, her voice held a subtle undertone of intrigue, as she sought to crack the reason behind his aggressive actions.

"Why did you resort to such measures, Bladie?" she inquired, her tone infused with genuine curiosity.

The embers of Blade's anger still smoldered within him, evident in the acerbic manner in which he delivered his words.

"That woman certainly knows how to stoke the fires of my fury," he growled, bitterness dripping from his voice.

Kafka's eyes narrowed, fixating on Blade intently. She meticulously assessed the situation, scouring for any visible signs of harm inflicted upon him, only to find none. There had to be a catalyst, a trigger that had prompted such an instinctive and volatile response from him.

Based on her astute observations, Kafka deduced that your actions had not warranted such an aggressive reaction. Puzzlement tinged her words as she probed deeper, yearning for clarity.

"From what I witnessed, (Name) did nothing to incite your anger. Or am I missing something?"

Blade's head snapped towards Kafka, his forehead furrowing with a blend of frustration and defensiveness.

"She persisted with those vexing stares, despite my explicit warning," he retorted.

A playful spark flickered within Kafka's eyes as she observed Blade, a subtle amusement tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Ah, I comprehend now," she replied, a trace of understanding seeping into her voice. "So, that is the crux of the matter."

Blade huffed, his frustration unabated. "If she refuses to desist, I shall not hesitate to end her myself," he declared, his words carrying an icy finality.

Kafka's amusement only intensified, her expression transforming into one of playful intrigue. She appeared to find the entire situation rather entertaining, studying Blade with a blend of fascination and amusement. It was evident that she had gleaned something deeper from the intricate dynamics between you and Blade, something that transcended mere annoyance.

With the threat hanging palpably in the air, the tension between you and Blade reached an unprecedented apex, the consequences of your unyielding stares teetering on treacherous ground. The ball now rested in your court, presenting you with a pivotal choice – either relent and abandon this perilous path or persist with an unwavering determination, willing to face the consequences that lay in wait.

The passage of time transformed weeks into months, and yet, there remained no trace of your return from the mission undertaken alongside Kafka. Blade found himself ensnared in an unfamiliar state of tranquility, relishing in the absence of your persistent stares. Initially expecting your reappearance after a mere week, he had braced himself for the resumption of your penetrating gaze. However, the passing months painted a contrasting picture, shrouding your whereabouts in mystery.

Inquiries gnawed at the fringes of Blade's consciousness. Could the mission truly detain you for such an extensive duration? It seemed implausible that you and Kafka, both formidable in your own right, would succumb to failure or meet your demise at the hands of adversaries. Blade intimately understood the strength and cunning of his comrades. Furthermore, the absence of any official proclamations from Elio only heightened his conviction that your mission endured.

Despite his profound antipathy towards you, Blade could not dismiss your capabilities. He was not petty enough to overlook or disregard the skills of another, even if he harbored personal disdain. Reluctantly, he acknowledged your competence, recognizing that you were not to be underestimated.

Yet, amidst the tranquil days, thoughts of you infiltrated Blade's mind akin to an unyielding anchor rooted deep within the ocean floor. Rare was the occasion when he allowed himself to be consumed by thoughts of another, especially one who irked him to the core. The frustration and anger that simmered within him escalated with each passing day, a constant reminder of the enigma you had become in his existence.

Blade grappled with reconciling these conflicting emotions, struggling to comprehend why you had managed to etch yourself so indelibly in his thoughts. He battled against his own resistance, resenting the intrusion of your presence monopolizing his mind. It was a vexing state of affairs, leaving him wrestling with an amalgamation of sentiments he had long sought to suppress.

As the months gradually wore on, Blade found himself increasingly exasperated by the lingering presence of your memory within his thoughts. The weight of your existence persisted like an anchor, impeding the tranquility of his mind. It posed an enigma that defied resolution, a puzzle that exasperated him to no end.

Blade's ruminations incessantly revolved around the void created by your absence, compelling him to ponder over the intricacies of your mission and the current state of affairs. Despite having access to the contact information of all the Stellaron hunters, he deliberately abstained from possessing any trace of your details. The contempt he nurtured towards your presence rendered any form of direct communication superfluous in his discerning eyes.

His inclinations inclined towards solitude and seclusion, seldom initiating contact with his fellow hunters unless exigencies dictated such action. He refrained from extending his reach to others or responding to their messages unless they pertain directly to the ongoing missions at hand. Blade discerned no necessity for casual conversations or trivial exchanges that deviated from the intended purpose.

"I am aware that your perpetual annoyance and anger are constants, but on this occasion, they seem to possess a heightened potency compared to prior instances, even in the absence of any discernible source of provocation," Silver Wolf remarked, her voice resounding within their customary resting room. Engrossed in her gaming pursuits, she paused momentarily after completing a round.

Blade cast a sidelong glance at her, his irritation apparent. However, he chose to remain silent, maintaining his comfortable position on the couch as his gaze reverted to fixating upon the aquarium wall situated before him.

"Even in your current relaxed state, I can sense the presence of your simmering irritation permeating the room, you're aware of that, aren't you?"

Silver Wolf let out a sigh of resignation, her shoulders slumping in response to Blade's unresponsive demeanor. But just as the air left her lungs, a familiar sound filled the air, slicing through the silence—her phone's ringing tone. It was Kafka on the line, and without hesitation, she swiftly accepted the call.

"Hey."

"Hello, Silver Wolf! I'm out shopping today since it's our well-deserved rest day for both (Name) and I."

Silver Wolf caught a movement from the corner of her eye, prompting her to turn her head and meet Blade's gaze. He had straightened his posture on the couch from his relaxed position, his attention now fixated on her. A shift in his demeanor was apparent; he seemed alert and engaged as he observed Kafka's video call.

"When will you be back?" the hacker inquired.

"I'm still waiting for Elio's instructions. He mentioned that we should remain here for a while longer, as there's an upcoming mission on the horizon."

"And where's (Name)?"

A soft rustling sound reached Silver Wolf's ears once more, drawing her attention. Her gaze shifted to Blade, noting the subtle change in his posture. He now leaned forward, his upper body hunched over with elbows resting on his knees, his hands intertwined together. His focused stance mirrored his intent, as if he hung onto every word exchanged during the conversation.

"(Name) is currently recuperating in a small hospital. She sustained an injury during our mission, though thankfully, it isn't too severe.”

"Tell her to rest well.”

"Of course.”

With the call concluded, she pocketed her phone and shifted her gaze towards Blade, her eyes searching for any trace of empathy or understanding. Yet, his response was a mere scoff, accompanied by a dismissive comment.

"Weak," he uttered, his tone laced with disdain and Silver Wolf only released a defeated sigh.

With the homecoming of weary hunters, an air of relief and delight enveloped the headquarters. Genuine smiles adorned the faces of Silver Wolf and their comrades, manifesting their sincere joy as they warmly welcomed your return from the arduous mission. The unity and camaraderie among the team were palpable, tangible evidence of the bonds forged through shared trials and tribulations.

Blade trailed behind Silver Wolf, observing the scene with a detached interest. His gaze fleetingly brushed over the joyful countenances and animated conversations, until it settled upon you—the very source of his vexation. There you stood, radiant with an effusive grin, your hand extended in a friendly wave.

In that moment, an unfamiliar warmth stirred within Blade, threatening to breach the fortress he had meticulously erected around his emotions. It was a sensation alien and disconcerting, a stark departure from his accustomed state of detached coldness. Its presence vexed him to no end, this inexplicable emergence of nascent sentiments that simmered just beneath the surface.

He endeavored to quell the burgeoning warmth, dismissing it as a transient aberration in his otherwise composed and chaotic existence. Yet, with each subsequent encounter, every instance where your firm gaze locked onto him, the intensity of this sensation surged, chipping away at his steely resolve. Frustration surged within him, further aggravating the already tempestuous storm of his emotions.

Blade fought against the onslaught of these unfamiliar sentiments, unwilling to succumb to their influence. He clung to the familiarity of his annoyance, his irritation serving as a shield against the disconcerting stirrings within his heart. But deep down, he knew that ignoring these feelings would only fuel their fire, intensifying the turmoil he sought so desperately to quell.

As the days unfolded and your presence remained a constant in his life, Blade found himself increasingly entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The war between his irritation and the burgeoning warmth waged on, leaving him with a sense of frustration and a growing awareness of the enigma you had become to him.

In the midst of the chaotic battlefield, where danger lurked at every turn, a pivotal moment unfolded that would test the depths of your connection. As the clash of weapons echoed around you, a swift and unexpected strike found its mark, piercing Blade's chest with a searing pain.

In that instant, your instinctual response kicked in, overriding any fear or hesitation that threatened to consume you. With unwavering determination, you raced towards Blade, your steps propelled by a surge of panic and concern. The gravity of the situation urged you to act swiftly, to protect him from further harm.

Despite the formidable adversaries that interposed themselves along your path, your singular focus remained unwaveringly fixed upon your wounded comrade. Each opponent that dared to obstruct your passage fell swiftly and decisively to your calculated strikes. Guided by a relentless sense of urgency, you traversed the battlefield with unwavering resolve, your purpose anchored in reaching Blade's side and attending to his injuries.

Finally arriving at his side, your hands descended upon his wounded chest with an unyielding grip. Worry danced upon your countenance, etching a crease upon your brow and compelling your teeth to gnaw on your lip. Clutching a tightly held handkerchief, you applied firm pressure to his wound, striving to staunch the torrent of blood that threatened to steal his vitality.

Blade, despite his internal resistance to your ministrations, could not help but perceive the genuine concern etched across your visage. The furrowed brows, the resolve that emanated from your eyes, and the sheer intensity of your actions conveyed volumes, surpassing the need for any spoken words in that critical juncture.

"Blade, we must attend to this injury quickly!"

Your voice quivered with genuine concern and panic, causing Blade to momentarily recoil, caught off guard by the sincerity emanating from your words. The urgency in your voice and the unmistakable tremor in your tone pierced through his defenses, reaching a dormant place within him that had long remained untouched.

Perplexity enveloped him as he struggled to comprehend the depth of your distress over a mere wound, particularly considering his own immortal nature. Yet, as his gaze remained fixed upon your countenance, a subtle yet undeniable transformation transpired within him. A tingling sensation rippled from the pit of his stomach, coursing through his chest—a foreign and unfamiliar sensation that evoked curiosity rather than repulsion.

Blade caught a glimpse of something he had long denied himself—the touch of genuine concern and the presence of someone who genuinely cared. It served as a stark contrast to the scorn and condemnation he had grown accustomed to receiving from others. For the first time in centuries, there was someone in close proximity, tending to his well-being without reservation.

A tumultuous dichotomy of irritation and acceptance rose within him, engendering a tangled tapestry of conflicting emotions. The familiar irritation that had once consumed him began to dissipate, gradually replaced by a growing appreciation for your presence and the concern you exhibited.

Though the intricacies of his shifting emotions eluded full comprehension, Blade acknowledged the faint stirrings of comfort that arose in your proximity.

"What happened?" Kafka's voice interjected, causing you to whip your head in her direction. The perplexed look on her face mirrored your own surprise, as she observed the perturbation etched on your features.

"Blade... he got stabbed! We need to hurry and bring him to the healer!" Panic laced your words, urgency driving you to take swift action.

Kafka's eyes followed your hand, which was placed on Blade's chest, the rise and fall of his breath now a matter of concern. Slowly, her gaze ascended to his face, a mixture of irritation and nonchalance evident in his features. Then, her attention refocused on your frantic self.

A few moments passed, during which Kafka's gaze seemed to penetrate the situation, processing the scene before her. Suddenly, a burst of laughter erupted from her chest, echoing through the tense atmosphere.

"Why are you laughing? This is not a laughing matter, Kafka!" you exclaimed, your frustration palpable as you glared at the wine-haired beauty.

Blade let out a low groan, vigorously slapping your hand away from his chest. His unexpected display of aggression surprised you, especially considering the wound he had sustained. It was as if the act of being stabbed was nothing more than an ordinary occurrence for him, leaving you even more baffled. Was that the reason behind Kafka's laughter?

Your confusion deepened, and you couldn't make sense of the situation.

"Oh, (Name). I thought you knew," Kafka chuckled, her laughter now laced with a sense of amusement at your bewilderment.

"About what?"

With a brief glance at Blade, who was sheathing his sword with his back turned to them, Kafka's words carried a hint of knowing.

"Bladie is no stranger to mere wounds or injuries. That particular wound is insignificant to him. He is impervious to any harm inflicted upon his physical form. In fact, he transcends the limitations of us human beings; he is immortal, my dear (Name)."

WIth Kafka’s revelation your treatment of him immensely changed. As well as Blade found himself caught in a flurry of contradictions, torn between the desire for your absence and the inexplicable irritation when you complied with his wishes. Your change in treatment, while seemingly what he had wanted, now left him more unsettled and furious than ever before.

He couldn't understand why he was feeling this way, and it frustrated him to no end. The inexplicable emotions that welled up within him whenever you were around were foreign and unwelcome. It was as if the walls he had erected around his heart were slowly crumbling, revealing a vulnerability he had long suppressed.

The sight of you flashing smiles at others, tending to their wounds with genuine concern, ignited an unfamiliar sensation within him. He detested the repulsive sensation that surged through him, the possessive instinct that flared up whenever he saw you caring for someone else. He loathed the fact that you had this effect on him, making him question his own emotions and reactions.

Blade couldn't fathom why he cared, why he was bothered by your interactions with others. He was the immortal, the one who had long shut himself off from emotional attachments. And yet, here you were, weaving your way into his thoughts and emotions, stirring up a turmoil he couldn't escape.

With each passing day, the irritation only intensified, creating a storm of clashing emotions within him. He was more furious with himself for feeling this way, for allowing you to affect him in ways he had never experienced before.

Kafka, with her keen and perceptive eyes, couldn't help but remark upon Blade's discernibly heightened irritation—an observation that had not eluded her astute perception. Driven by her insatiable curiosity, she promptly broached the subject, seeking to unravel the enigma of his unusual demeanor. Yet, true to his character, Blade responded with his customary dismissiveness, casually brushing aside her concerns without proffering any elucidation. With an air of nonchalance, he redirected his attention to the task at hand, leaving the mystery of his behavior to linger in the air, unresolved.

Time seemed to elude Blade as he stood in his room. Lost in a labyrinth of thoughts concerning you, he found himself unaware of the passing hours, each moment consumed by you. A soft groan of frustration escaped his lips, acknowledging his own inability to pull away from his thoughts of you.

Feeling the weight of his restless mind, Blade resolved to take a moment for himself, to release some pent-up tension and clear his head. With purposeful steps, he made his way towards the nearby shower, where he could let off some steam. As the water continued to cascade over his form, Blade attempted to center his attention on the sensation of droplets caressing his skin, hoping it might serve as a distraction from the turmoil that roiled within his mind. Allowing the warmth to envelop him, he sought to ease the tension in his muscles, striving to liberate himself from the grip of his incessant thoughts.

Shaking his head, he endeavored to clear his mind of these unwelcome musings.

"What is wrong with me?" he muttered to himself, perturbed by the uncharacteristic surge of emotions that enveloped him. He had prided himself on being an unyielding and emotionless immortal, impervious to the influences of the world around him. Yet, there he stood, beleaguered by persistent thoughts concerning a mere mortal such as yourself.

With a resigned sigh, he turned off the shower and stepped out, enveloping his form with a towel. Gazing at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror, his crimson eyes reflected a blend of irritation and confusion. The unanticipated unraveling of his self-control by your presence bewildered him, leaving him grappling with emotions he could not completely understand.

Clasping his fists, he felt a surge of anger stirring within him. He could not afford to be ensnared by distractions, especially with perilous missions on the horizon. He must reclaim his focus and staunchly set aside these unwelcome and perplexing emotions.

Blade was clad in nothing but a short pajama, a towel casually draped over his shoulders to catch the lingering droplets of water. As he moved towards his bed, the resounding knock on his door demanded his attention. Curious and somewhat irritated by the intrusion, he opened the door, only to be taken aback by the sight before him—you standing there, an unexpected presence in this hour.

His surprise was evident in the slight widening of his eyes and the subtle raising of his brows. He couldn't fathom how you managed to leave the infirmary, where you were supposed to be resting. He silently calculated the time since their arrival, and the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning—five hours had passed.

"Hello," you greeted timidly. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"What brings you here?" he asked, irritated.

"I just wanted to express my gratitude for carrying me back to headquarters... and, well, apologize for any inconvenience."

"There was no other option. Kafka and Silver Wolf couldn't have taken you to the infirmary, could they? So, there's no need for thanks or apologies."

His blunt words briefly caught you off guard, causing you to blink before mustering a small smile.

"Oh." You blinked, mustering a small smile. "You're right. In that case, I'll take my leave now."

With a respectful bow, you turned on your heels, preparing to depart from his presence.

Blade's unwavering gaze remained fixated on you as you turned to depart, yet his eyes were subtly drawn to the exposed nape of your neck, igniting an inexplicable and unfamiliar sensation within him. The sight stirred something indescribable, a strange blend of emotions that only added to his growing frustration.

A maelstrom of confusion engulfed his thoughts as he questioned what was happening to him. Was he losing control, his once-steadfast sanity slipping through his grasp like elusive sand? The enigmatic emotions that besieged him intensified, leaving him grappling with a turbulent turmoil that defied understanding.

Just as the sound of heels clicking heralded your departure, Blade's trance was abruptly shattered. A primal force took hold of him, compelling him to act instinctively. In a moment beyond conscious contemplation, he seized your wrist, pulling you into his room with an abrupt force that elicited a surprised yelp from you. The door slammed shut behind you, sealing the two of you within its confines.

With an aggressive demeanor, Blade pinned you against the wall, his imposing figure rendering you feeling confined and vulnerable. His arms effectively caged you on either side of your head, while his intense gaze bore into you menacingly.

“W-What?”

Evident confusion colored your countenance as you cautiously questioned Blade, uncertain if your presence had once again provoked his irritation. His crimson eyes bore into you menacingly, wordlessly refusing to offer any response, leaving you to draw in a sharp breath, attempting to steady yourself. The charged atmosphere weighed heavily, prompting contemplation on whether a hasty escape was prudent. Yet, deep down, you recognized the futility of such an endeavor, as Blade's unmatched speed and strength would swiftly thwart any such attempt.

Summoning your courage, you made another attempt to prompt him, your words quivering slightly as they escaped your lips.

"Is there something you wish to say to me?" Despite the trepidation that tugged at your composure, you endeavored to maintain a composed facade, resolute in concealing your vulnerability.

Blade's response came with a visible grimace, his frustration unmistakable in his words, "You have persistently become annoying."

As he dipped his head, intensifying his scrutiny upon you, you valiantly struggled to keep your expression relaxed, even as your trembling hands betrayed the true depth of your emotions. The fearless front you displayed appeared only to further kindle his anger, intensifying the storm of emotions that swirled within him.

You are maddening.

"What did I even do?" Your voice took on a challenging tone, akin to that of a young cub ready to fight and growl. Intensely, you locked eyes with Blade, seeking an explanation for his behavior and his cryptic words.

"I should be the one saying that," he responded, his baritone voice carrying an edge of frustration. His answer only deepened your bewilderment, leaving you more perplexed than before.

"Huh? I don't understand—" you began to speak, but Blade's growl cut you off, silencing your words.

“What did you even do to me? Do you have another ability that can control emotions without our knowledge?”

His sudden accusation threw you off balance, as he insinuated that you possessed an ability to control emotions unbeknownst to anyone.

Your eyebrow arched in surprise and disbelief at the preposterous notion. You couldn't fathom what had gotten into Blade to make such an accusation, but you knew you needed to explain yourself, to set the record straight.

"Blade, I must admit I'm quite baffled by your accusation, as I genuinely don't know what you're referring to. I assure you, I haven't been doing anything to intentionally irritate you," you calmly explained with unfaltering eyes. "In fact, I've been following the caution you advised me about. So, I'm at a loss as to why you're upset with me once again."

Blade was right. Your compliance with his previous warning seemed to be the catalyst for your altered treatment of him. But what baffled him even more was why this change had only manifested recently, not from the very day he initially cautioned you.

Moreover, why is he justifying himself and becoming frustrated yet again? The question rings within him, echoing like an elusive whisper in the depths of his mind. He yearned to understand the source of his inner turmoil, to unravel the feelings that are sprouting in him.

The air was charged with an unmistakable sense of unease, and you could feel the weight of his emotions, veiled behind his crimson eyes. The conflict within him seemed to mirror the battle within your own heart, yearning to bridge the gap between you and find a common ground.

As you continued to gaze at him, a sliver of vulnerability flashed across Blade's hardened facade. It was fleeting, like a flickering flame, but enough to hint at the complex emotions that churned beneath his stoic exterior. His frustration seemed to be rooted in something deeper, something he struggled to put into words.

"You're well aware that I could wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze out that life of yours, aren't you?" he murmured, his lips hovering just above your ear, causing a shiver to course down your spine.

“Y-You’re crazy…”

He retracted his head slightly, fixing you with a sharp and penetrating gaze. The subtle quivering of your lips did not escape his notice, and a silent challenge passed between you both. His eyes traced a path from your intense gaze, skimming over your nose before finally lingering on your lips—a peculiar fixation, as if he had stumbled upon something mesmerizing and peculiar. An unusual urge seemed to flicker in his mind, an impulse to sink his teeth into your soft flesh until it bled.

Blade's tongue darted out, leaving a glistening trail across his lips as he raised his gaze to meet yours once more. The crimson hue of his eyes gleamed with a dangerous allure, veiled by a haze of emotions not easily discernible. Your jaw involuntarily dropped, unable to contain the wild pounding of your heart. The tension crackled with intensity, enveloping you both in its all-encompassing grip.

Every fiber of your being urged you to step back, to flee from the enigmatic danger that lurked in his captivating gaze. Yet, an inexplicable magnetism held you firmly in place, as if some invisible force bound you together.

The air hung heavy with anticipation, each passing second stretching into what felt like an eternal moment. Words seemed superfluous, for the unspoken language between your intertwined gazes conveyed more than mere sentences ever could. The space between you two became charged with a palpable energy, akin to the approach of an electrifying storm—impossible to ignore, as it enveloped you both in its relentless and tantalizing embrace.

"B-Blade—"

In an unforeseen twist of events, Blade's lips collided onto yours with a fervor that left you wide-eyed and breathless. The abruptness of the action rendered you momentarily frozen, unable to process the torrent of emotions and sensations that surged through your body.

Far from tender, the kiss bore a fierce and almost desperate intensity, as though it carried the weight of his very existence. It seemed as if he sought to carve himself upon you, as if this act of intimacy represented the last defiant stroke in a battle he waged within himself.

A sharp whimper involuntarily escaped your lips as he bit down with force, the metallic tang of your blood mingling with the taste of his kiss. The stinging sensation jolted you, yet you found yourself unable to push him away, as his strength overwhelmed any feeble attempts to resist. Instead, instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, seeking to anchor yourself amidst the swirling chaos.

When he eventually withdrew, your breaths intertwined within the tensed air enveloping you both. His crimson eyes bore into yours, a tumultuous mix of emotions reflecting in their depths. Words eluded you as your mind grappled with the tangled array of feelings that engulfed you.

All was a blur, your heart pounding in your chest, mirroring the adrenaline-fueled rush of your thoughts. You felt like an unwitting participant in a dance of fate, entangled within a complex web of emotions that seemed to defy all rationality.

Blade's actions left you dazed and vulnerable, your thoughts in disarray. However, beneath the veil of aggression, you couldn't help but sense a raw vulnerability in him, a vulnerability that mirrored the turmoil of your own feelings.

His intense gaze bore into you, searing into your very soul, as he uttered those few words that carried a world of meaning.

"You make me go crazy."

#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #blade x reader #hsr x reader #hsr blade x reader #blade x y/n #hsr blade #star rail

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rickie-the-storyteller · 10 months

Text

Smoke & Fire

(Creative piece based on this song:)

Our love was like... running. Running into a burning building.

In the beginning, our love blazed with an intensity that rivalled the most searing inferno. It was a reckless, all-consuming passion that left no room for caution.

You and I were two souls entwined, sprinting headlong into the heart of a burning building. Flames danced around us, their fierce embrace a testament to our fervour. We laughed in the face of danger, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through our veins. Every kiss was a spark, every touch a flame, igniting a conflagration of desire that seemed unstoppable.

I felt as though no one else on earth could connect with me the way you did. Others didn't get it, though. At least, that's how I felt at the time.

The world around us watched in shock, awe, fear, and disbelief as I recklessly put everything on the line and ran into the fire with you. Friends and family tried to pull us back, warning us of the imminent danger, but we paid them no mind. We were invincible, or so we thought, intoxicated by the ecstasy of our so-called "love". The crackling of the flames almost had a rhythm to it... it felt like a symphony, a haunting melody that underscored our audacity. It perfectly accompanied the hard pounding of my heart like a funeral drum.

But as all things must, the fire of our love began to wane.

The cracks began to show. The damage, that perhaps had always kind of been there, was finally visible. And the longer we tried to avoid it, the harder it was to ignore it. The flames that once burned so brightly began to flicker, their brilliance giving way to a cold and eerie glow. The fire had consumed everything in its path, leaving behind only smouldering ruins and the bitter taste of heartache and regret.

My folks still make comments and remarks about it. How they're surprised that we even lasted as long as we did. How we were always doomed to fail. How you're probably seeing someone else now. Rumours and whispers everywhere I turn.

And as the embers of our love continue to fade into nothing, I find myself slowly growing colder. The thrill of running into fire with the person I love has been replaced by a hollow, unshakable aching... a feeling of longing for something I'll probably never experience again.

I miss you. I miss what we had.

It's weird. Almost ironic, really. After all the pain you put me through, how bad things got in our relationship... I never thought I'd miss being with you. At least, not this much.

I never thought I would miss that feeling—the feeling of running headlong into danger, of defying all odds, of embracing the chaos and uncertainty. But now that it's over, I find myself yearning for the rush, for the adrenaline, for the all-encompassing passion that once consumed us. The memories of our fiery love haunt me like a ghost, a constant reminder of what once was and what can never be again.

I mean... it's for the best. I know that.

I can't help but look back. I can't help but wonder if the price we paid for that fleeting moment of ecstasy was worth the inevitable aftermath. Our love was like running into a burning building—dangerous, exhilarating, and ultimately destructive. And now, all I have left is the bittersweet memory of a love that once blazed brighter than the sun.

I've been listening to Sabrina Carpenter a lot more lately... I've been loving this song in particular. Very nostalgic. Inspired me to write this little piece real quick. Let me know if you want me to do this for other songs!

#rickie-the-storyteller #writing #creative writing #my music #sabrina carpenter #smoke and fire #Spotify

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corsair-princess-nenime · 10 months

Text

PROLOGUE

By the Steward Sulime Arenan, with notes by the Lady Y'pollea.

Before spring comes the longest night of winter.

It began in tragedy. Nenime had returned from wild space and taken a commanding role beside our mother, Matriarch Yavannie [1]. Their first expedition took them and a mighty force of a hundred and nine warriors to what had seemed like a miracle.

Beforehand, the Crone-Council of Iybraesil had been battered by visions of a wonder born from the elder days, a time when the newborn aeldari race had fought against the devourer gods of the Necrontyr. Some called it a shrine to lost powers. Others, an altar of martial resurrection. A few understood it as a workshop to engineer an empire. It was a jewel in the skeins. It came to be called the Nexus of Fate [2].

Such had been the potency and headiness of those visions that Matriarch Yavannie was persuaded to gather her forces in haste. An influential autarch along the southern habitats of Iybraesil, Matriarch Yavannie did not wait for further reinforcements. So it was that a reclamation force composed of aspect warriors and militia sworn to the House of Arenan was readied to traverse the most treacherous spars of the webway.

Only Nenime spoke out against the expedition.

The Crone-Council was emminently wise, Nenime argued, but the treasures of the past were seldom so benign [3]. She knew as much. Great treasures often came at a great cost. Turn away, this promised wonder, she said, was simply another weapon. Our Fall had damned our foreseeable fate, but so too had it cursed the remnants of our past.

Slowly, strangely, the council began speaking of the imminent restoration of the grand Aeldari Dominion.

They had become fixed and intolerant of dissent. To speak of tools of war was one thing, but to take it a step further... Nenime called it delusional. Foolish. Evil.

First, Nenime tried to charm. Then she begged. Finally, she threatened. It was only when the Council suggested that Matriarch Yavannie would be sent into the impossible labyrinth without her youngest daughter that Nenime seemed to relent. It was Nenime who led Iybraesil's forces through the webway, making use of all the skills she had developed as a Voidscarred. What Matriarch Yavannie thought of Nenime's disquiet, we do not know. Mother and daughter keep their secrets. What is known is that the expedition continued without further delay; the reclamation force arrived at the Nexus of Fate, and all went wrong [4].

It was like a dark diamond, feeding parasitically on the star it orbited. Further words fail to encompass what Matriarch Yavannie's force discovered, but it can be said that the Nexus was not unlike a vault. Charged aether-crystal assemblies lay in darkness, starsteel forges lay silent. There were armaments, precursors to high aeldari art, and towering constructs armed with the same. That was not all. There were other, stranger weapons, clearly meant for different beings. The wonder could not have lasted long. For a moment, the hopes of the Crone-Council seemed realized, but as the force delved deeper and scattered throughout the vault, not all was as it seemed. The Nexus would be no birthplace of glory. Honor would never be drawn from that place. The Dominion would never rise again.

The Great Enemy, Chaos, nested at the heart of the Nexus.

Whatever polarity wards had shielded the Nexus from the energies it fed upon had been shattered, inverted by the psychic backlash of the Fall. Matriarch Yavannie's arrival had at long last awoken the ancient evil slumbering at its heart. Nenime had been right, alas. Yet even she could not have imagined the extent of the horror.

More predators loomed in the shadows of the Nexus.

Led by the haruspicy of Dark City Heg-Crones and the tortured visions of psychic medusae, a substantial party of kabalite trueborn and incubi sworn to the Kabal of the Dying Sun had lingered in the shadowed hull of the Nexus, awaiting the glory and terror that came from hunting their own kin. The Dracon at their head had promised his followers ample opportunity to sate their inherent murder-lust. Above all, he offered his starveling killers the chance to claim waystones from those they felled, for a shattered waystone is a vaunted status symbol among the warrior cults of Commorragh.

Their intent was not to claim the Nexus, but to use it as a hunting ground. The Drukhari either did not know, or did not care for the weapons within. They waited in the shadows, eager for the moment in which they could strike the most dolorous blow.

It is impossible to say how or when the attack began. We know the constructs shivered to life, revealing a corruption that had lain dormant and concealed but a moment before. Pale creations, maliciously possessed by the archenemy, fell upon the reclamation force with mighty weapons of old, horn, and claw. Six herald daemonettes screamed light into the dark in rapturous revelry. Daemonic trills and the cloying scent of ancient doom filled the air as the true master of the Nexus stepped forth from the vault's warp-tainted heart: The hymns of lamentation refer to this entity as the Sorrowsister, servant of Sai'lanthresh, the exalted Keeper of Secrets, Ni'nui. Her daemonic legion had infested the Nexus eons before and fate had at last delivered playthings onto her cruel playground.

It was as Matriarch Yavannie's forces reeled, and surely sought to extricate themselves from the unfolding disaster, that the Drukhari revealed themselves. The ambush had been well planned; null-slaves had been placed throughout the nearest webway accesses as to prevent the withdrawal of their Asuryani prey. Incubi prowled with with klaives as preening kabalites roamed in packs, all intent on the foulest murder [5]. A vicious three-way battle ensued.

It can only be said with certainty that the mother sought to keep the forces of the archenemy at bay whilst the daughter sought an exit through the Drukhari, or some way, any way, to get her sisters in arms out. In time, Nenime came across her counterpart, the Dracon of the Dying Sun [6]. There was no glory in this encounter. The raiders had lingered less than a fortnight, but that had been enough for their Dracon to fall victim to a particular kind of madness. The Dracon, it seems, had become obsessed with the dominance the Nexus held over its star. So apparent had been his deterioration that, as the Iybraesil strike-force arrived, his warlords had wrested command of the ambush and abandoned their master to his own obsessions.

As the ambush began, the Dracon looked upon the emaciated star from some chamber, heatshields lowered, visual filters drawn. He had even removed his armor, to feel the heat upon his flesh. The Nexus was so close to its star that the light within was blinding, the heat blistering. That was when Nenime faced the Dracon.

Unbeknownst to all, as the atrocity raged, the mad Dracon had set the Nexus on a plummeting dive into its star, so that all might be consumed in dying, solar glory. Nenime slew him, and took from his remains a remote that would detonate the collars of the scattered null-slaves. At last, the survivors could attempt an escape.

Trapped in its headlong plunge, the Nexus could not be saved.

By now, breaking apart and suffused with unbearable heat and brilliance, it had become apparent that the farce was at an end. The Drukhari were sated; their warlords gathered what forces they cared to save and slinked away to safety. Even the heralds of the Sorrowsister fled with their own favorites. Nenime rallied what forces she could, saving what waystones she could, and found Matriarch Yavannie locked in mortal combat against the Sorrowsister.

Matriarch Yavannie, head of the House of Arenan, Mother to three, had already been wounded half a dozen times. The Matriarch plunged her blade through the creature's heart even as she was speared through her side.

Accounts fail us. Nenime added her own blade to her mother's and the Sorrowsister was banished for a thousand years, until the seasons wheeled and the creature once again brought sorrow to Iybraesil [7].

The disaster was complete. Nenime returned home with ten other survivors and our mother's remains [8].

All of Iybraesil mourned. Our father decided Nenime would be the first to walk the path of grief, followed by her elder sisters. House and craftworld came together to celebrate the life of Yavannie Arenan, faithful and dauntless, but Nenime remained as a woman in a nightmare.

What shades lay in her heart then none could say. Many believed that it was the longest night of winter in her soul. Doubtless it was so, but when Nenime looked out into the night she wondered at a deeper darkness. What was her fate, if not to stand beside our mother? So too did she yearn for justice. The Sorrowsister's heralds were still out there; the Drukhari warlords were still at large.

An age had come to and end. Neniwe, the Springsong, yet remained in silence and ruin.

Telling no one, Nenime strayed from the sorrow-path and set plans into motion. For even after the longest night comes morning, when shadows grow long.

~🧿~

[1]: Thankfully, Nenime's first forays into corsairhood lie beyond the purview of this account. Suffice it to say, she made the right friends and sucked up to the right people. You gotta give it to her. She's got guts and a killer form with sword and pistol. Nenime had risen respectably high among the corsairs of Math'lannor when she got homesick and decided it was time to go home.

[2]: Nenime rarely speaks of it, but when she does, she calls it a farce.

[3] This has to be the nicest thing Nenime has ever said about those old hags, plainly.

[4]: How did Nenime foresee that particular calamity? Most kinda guess that it was her corsair's instinct, the one she had earned during her service to Princess Math'elenna. Nenime had indeed walked on many Croneworlds and fetched her fair share of soulstones. But that's just caution. Too simple. When I imagine Nenime before Iybraesil's mummified council, I sense a certain omniscient horror in her voice as she speaks. They drag her out and she cries, 'You don't know what you're doing!'. Maybe that's just me. Something was screaming in her, right? Perhaps she felt the touch of Ynnead even then.

[5]: Nenime thrice reached out to the raiding party's six warlords, sybarites and hierarchs both, with entreaties once it became apparent doom would envelop them all. Her offers were rudely rejected.

[6]: His name goes unrecorded. Nenime claims she genuinely can't remember.

[7]: The archenemy attacked Iybraesil as the Dathedain tore the galaxy a new one. Nenime’s role during this - can’t we talk about that instead? (S: No. Please adhere to the standards discussed) Whatever.

[8]: Would you believe it? They follow her to this day.

#nenime #neniwriting

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limerental · 3 years

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My first Geraskefer Wolfbarge bingo @geraskeferbingo is my 69th fic posted on ao3 and thus harkens back to my very first fic posted on ao3 back in 2017, the fic I made my ao3 to post.... a loki omo/piss fic. Therefore, this fic contains similar.... thematic elements. There's pee.

for waters shall burst forth

pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

rating: E

content warning for omorashi (desperation to pee and wetting) featuring the usual bodily fluids, plus a handjob and inappropriate arousal.

read below or on ao3

"Right. So," said Jaskier, wiggling more earnestly in the cramped space. "This isn't wholly my fault."

"You wandered off to relieve yourself despite strict instructions not to, activated a mechanism that opened a trapdoor, and confined you and I together in uncomfortably close quarters in a cell lined with dimeritium," said Yennefer. "By what metric is this not your fault?"

It had been Yennefer's hope that Geralt's bard would be left behind while she and the Witcher infiltrated the abandoned, wraith-infested stronghold once occupied by a powerful mage of ill repute. No such luck. The colorful irritation of a man had tagged along, griping about the stench and the dark and the mold spores he was surely inhaling all the while, and before Yennefer knew it, they were trapped together in a narrow space with nothing but blank stone wall at their backs. No doubt there was another mechanism to open the trap somewhere, and Geralt had called out that he would find it, leaving leaving alone.

"And," said Jaskier with increasing plaintiveness, "I still really have to pee."

"You're insufferable," said Yennefer.

"No, I don't feel that you understand the ah-- gravity of the situation," said Jaskier. "Or rather that gravity is acting rather urgently on my--"

"That's enough of that."

"See, welll, that's the thing. Soon er-- I'm afraid that sooner rather than later, nothing will be enough to-- um." The little bastard squirmed in exaggerated discomfort.

"Just hold it, bard. Are you an infant?"

"I'm a very well-hydrated individual! I'm trying. " Whined Jaskier. "Trust me, I would really rather literally be doing anything else in the entire universe than… well than.."

"Than wetting yourself."

"In front of Yennefer of Vengerberg of all people," he squeaked. "No offense."

"Offense taken."

"I mean you're so--" He gestured. "And I'm--" Another gesture.

"Weren't you mant to be a man of words?"

"I'm a little distracted! Oh, but it hurts."

To her horror, tears began to escape from.the corners of his eyes. He gritted his teeth as they spilled down his bright-red cheeks and wobbled at his jaw.

He was terrified, she realized. The narrow chamber they were trapped in suppressed her ability to read his mind, but the bard's frayed mental state appeared clearly on his face and the lines of his body. Terrified and deeply humiliated.

And truly about to wet himself.

In close quarters.

He squirmed, flushed pink and whimpering, and something about the sight was more pleasing than expected. Yennefer would never say anything approaching such a thing out loud but he wasn't horrible to look at as far as men went. It wasn't a hardship to watch him. And she had always taken more than the usual interest in the sight of men squirming before her, usually in more pleasant and consensual circumstances.

If she had full access to her command of Chaos, she may have considered any number of remedies to his situation. She could vanish his waters elsewhere or transfigure the bladder walls to expand more and thus alleviate the pressure. And if she was feeling particularly vindictive and cross with the bard for trapping them like this, she could not bother to relieve said pressure but command his body not to release except at her word.

Though the latter idea sent a small thrill of arousal through her, Yennefer was not so cruel, and even so, it did not matter. She was helpless to do anything but wait for Geralt to find a way to free them.

Yennefer did not prefer feeling helpless.

As a sorceress and a woman, base bodily functions did not hold much influence over her life. She had never understand the male desire to discuss bowel movements at length or engage in literal pissing contests. One did not live as long as she did and move in the circles that she did without encountering certain erotic proclivities surrounding bodily liquids, but she had never had any interest in sex involving more fluids than the usual, often of the mind that there should be less.

Jaskier whimpered, interrupting her thoughts. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed or how much more would pass before they could be freed.

Yennefer felt a pang of sympathy. This was not simple inconvenience. The man was clearly in pain.

Droplets of sweat appeared on his creased brow and the meat of his palms dug into his thighs, hands opening and closing uselessly. She knew he must be resisting the urge to grab at himself like a child in front of her. Some part of Yennefer wanted to tell him that he could, that she did not mind, but another part knew it was a matter of his pride. Another, more sordid and previously unexamined part found herself darkly fascinated. Would he truly lose control and wet himself before her? It had been a very very long time ago that the thought of needing to urinate badly had last occupied her thoughts. Normally, she handled her bodies needs with magic at the slightest urge.

Seeing him struggle in increasing distress, she found herself newly grateful for forgoing that particular aspect of humanity

And that was the crux of it.

Jaskier was human. Constrained to the limits of his own body. Bound by bodily discomforts and pain and inconveniences. Worst of all, Yennefer was ordinarily above awareness of such things and now the little idiot was forcing her to confront their reality with increasing urgency.

She startled when Jaskier whined low in his throat, an involuntary noise that he promptly went pink over. He clearly was attempting to limit the shift of his hips, rubbing his palms with firmness down the length of both thighs as though that could possibly offer any relief.

"Oh, quit being noble," said Yennefer. "Will holding yourself help?"

"Holding my-- n-no!"

"No, it won't or no you're too stupid to do it?"

"I'm not going to… debase myself in front ot--"

"Oh please," said Yennefer with a roll of her eyes and pressed her hand between his legs. Another whine escaped him, and he pressed himself flat back against the stone wall of the trap. His hips shifted miserably. His penis was soft beneath her palm and the fabric of his pants, small and vulnerable. This close she could feel his body shaking.

She could not say by his whimpering and trembling whether it helped or made things worse, so she shifted her grip to more firmly encompass him, unsure how tight was too tight. Despite her reputation, she did not often put men's genitals in a stranglehold.

"Just… just like old times," Jaskier managed to squeak, and Yennefer blinked at him. "You ah--" he gestured at her hand cupping his junk "--in Rinde."

"Oh," said Yennefer, remembering. "I don't remember."

"You know, it helps if-- Well its harder to... to piss if-- if one is--" he floundered, staring dumbly where she pressed her hand against the front of his pants. Yennefer sighed.

"If you have an erection, you mean."

"Yes."

"Are you requesting that I service you with my hands?"

"N-no, I would never ask such a--" He winced and seemed to be enduring an increase in pain, his hands tightening to fists at his sides. "Yes! Yes. That's what I'm asking you. Please, Yennefer, I know you completely loathe me, but can you--"

"What's in it for me?" Yennefer asked, eyebrow cocked.

The pink flush of his cheeks and wobble of his chin, the little pants and whines he could not hold back, the shivering tension of his lean body. Control over his body's urges, holding all of him in the palm of her hand. All of it warmed her with guilty arousal. There was plenty in it for her, though the pitiful man could not be allowed to know it.

"Um, isn't it motivation enough that I don't… you know… on your hand?"

She considered this.

"Fine."

"It might… take some effort frankly. You are very scary. Defense mechanism."

"Don't lie," says Yennefer, adjusting her hold. Already, she can feel the slight pulses of his body attempting to get hard. "That wasn't an issue in Rinde."

"You said you didn't remember."

"Mmmmhmmm."

Yennefer had not attempted something as quaint as pleasuring a man with her hands in many years. She remembered engaging in such things with Istredd. Her small glow of pride the first time he had shuddered and spent at the touch of her hand alone.

Nodding in acquiescence to the task at hand, Yennefer began to undo his laces with her free hand. To her great alarm, the idiot began to squirm more fiercely, the urge seeming to increase in a conditioned response to the imminent release signaled by the opening of his trousers.

"Oh, Yen don't-- oh. Help."

A small bloom of wetness appeared on the light blue fabric.

Yennefer quickly made work of his lacings and shoved her hand inside his brains, gripping the bare skin in a pinching hold that felt far too merciless but seemed to offer immediate relief as Jaskier groaned. The sensitive skin beneath her fingers felt velvety soft and only a little damp.

On impulse, she swiped her thumb along the flared round of the head, and Jaskier shuddered through his whole body.

It was a queer thing to feel the twitch and swell of the organ as his softness abated, the rabbiting heartbeat where her fingers held. She did not shift the pressure of her hold, but it grew tighter all the same as he hardened, until she was certain he must be in pain, the solid firmness of his growing erection flexing beneath the curl of her unyielding fingers.

"Does that hurt?" She asked, truly curious.

"No," said Jaskier. " Yes "

He seemed not to be able to help but buck into the tightness of her hand, now seeking pleasure as much as control. Experimentally, she lightened her grip and teased her fingers along the head of his cock, and he cried out and curled down, his forehead along against her shoulder. He breathed unsteadily in her ear.

"Oh quiet, you can hold it."

"I can't, Yennefer. I can't. I can't."

A warm trickle of wetness ran down the back of her hand. She looked down to see that a single dark streak had appeared on his powder blue shirt.

"Ah," said Yennefer and firmed her grip once more, moving in broad strokes. But that small leak seemed to have worsened the pain and effort considerably, Jaskier silent but for his ragged breaths as he curled against her. The occasional whimper and bodily clench was not quite enough to hold back fine droplets of escaping fluid. Not a flood, certainly, but enough for Yennefer to understand the desperation of the situation. The inevitability.

"Yennefer, I'm going to-- I have to--"

"Don't, you little idiot," she said, surprised by the breathless pant of her own voice. "I'll kill you if I do all of this and you still piddle on my shoes."

His orgasm seemed to catch him off guard, grunting as he spilled across her fist and his own shirt.

"Idiot," said Yennefer. In the immediate aftermath, he groaned aloud as his softening erection but his other need to the forefront. His hands leapt to join hers at his crotch.

"No, no, no," he whined in increasing panic, clenching his fists.

"Hands off," said Yennefer. "You'll hurt yourself."

"Yen-- since when do you-- care about--" He lost the thread of his thoughts as a longer leak of piss wet their hands. He managed to stop the flow but only just. She knew it was only a matter of moments.

"I don't," she said crossly.

"Yen--, I-- I can't--" He quivered against her with withheld tears and bodily restraint.

"That's alright," she said, one hand soothing down the plane of his back. "It's ok."

Her words seemed to be all the permission his body needed to release in earnest, the sound of rushing liquid loud in the confined space. Yennefer dropped her hand to spare herself any more indignity and politely patted the bard's shoulder as she held herself away. Yennefer's heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she could not deny the heat of arousal between her legs.

Jaskier's body trembled, and he let out shallow groans of relief against her shoulder as he continued to wet himself. It seemed to go on and on until at last petering out, leaving the two of them in an uncomfortable silence in a trap that reeked of piss.

The silence broke suddenly with a grind of gears and stone as the back wall of the trap fell away, dropping Jaskier backwards into an open chamber. Geralt looked down at him, grimacing.

"Again, Jaskier?" Geralt grunted, eyeing his wet clothes.

Jaskier groaned on the ground, making no effort to stand.

"I am a very well-hydrated man, Witcher!"

"Yeah, yeah, let's get out of here before something nasty is attracted to the stench."

Yennefer strode out of the trap with as much dignity as one could muster when she too reeked faintly of piss, endeavoring to put the whole miserable affair behind her. Unfortunately, as she watched Jaskier scramble to his feet, remembering his urgent cries beneath her hand, something told her that nothing would be that simple.

#my fic #wolfbarge bingo #anyway theres that #omorashi #yennskier

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thegirlwhohasnochill · 3 years

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The Disease of Addiction

Euphoria Special Episode Part 1: Rue (Recap & Review)

Before I begin my official review of this episode, I would like to preface my thoughts with a bit of a primer about spoilers and trigger warnings. The show covers a range of topics from addiction to mental health. Still, I specifically want to warn anyone reading that I explicitly talk about and mention the topic of suicide in my review. If this is triggering for you in any way, please, don’t read ahead and take care of yourself! Okay, that’s it; I hope you enjoy my thoughts, and please let me know if you have any feedback or comments for my review and things I can change or fix in the future.

Where to begin with such a loaded episode...we knew the format and style of the episode would be simplistic based on the current realities of filming amidst a pandemic and what we saw to be a scene from Season 2 that the creator Sam Levinson expanded upon. Zendaya herself let us know that the episode's storytelling method would be vastly different from what we’ve already seen on the show. The format and simplicity of the episode, in contrast to the loaded dialogue and content of the scenes, are perfect. The camera takes you right into the middle of these conversations with Rue and Ali. But before we can even dive into what they talk about, we have to address the elephant in the room that is Rules. The episode begins with what is probably one of the most gut-wrenching sequences I have seen on the show. Because we know the reality and truth of their current predicament, Rue’s peppered kisses across Jules’ body and her tight squeezes and hugs from behind Jules evoke a strong sense of loss and pain for the viewer. The sheer intensity of the physicality of Rue’s affection for Jules is so overpowering and overwhelmingly present, we can almost feel the imbalance in their relationship through the screen. There is something to be said for the harsh reality of Rue’s dependence on Jules being reflected even in such a non-objective dream-like sequence. And yet, even in Rue’s wildest dreams and happiest stupor, she does not imagine the sobriety of her future. To me, that is indeed the crux of her character and the essence of this episode. Ali himself says, “The point is your sobriety.” And while it may feel like a focal point of discussion, the conversation flows in a way that seems to bounce back and forth between the two like a simple tennis match. It is easy to follow between Ali’s most potent clearest convictions about how the world works and Rue’s drug-addled hazy perception. The inherent contrast between their mental states and the different points of life in which they are both standing hit the viewer at alternate moments.

But we know Rue is not sober even as she lies to Ali and stumbles out of the bathroom, the shaky camerawork conveying her recent use. She is wearing the same shirt from the dream but has her signature hoodie on, her messy curly locks running down her back and glassy eyes staring straight ahead. The scene moves from her imagination of life with Jules to her lies about use. Her eventual admittance to being a high-functioning user happens as quickly as the conversation moves from sobriety to faith.

So I might be biased and hence don’t think I am incorrect in admitting that Zendaya has never given us a bad performance in her life. Even as she lies to Ali’s face and he is quick to call out her apparent contradictions, the faint slurring of her voice and her glazed eyes tell all. As striking as the conversation is, it feels even stranger for me to admit I felt comforted by Rue’s confession to thoughts of ending her life. And even as she admits to the darkest moments in her mind, Ali’s face and reaction are an even better neutralizer for what would generally be such an alarming thing to say to someone you barely know. As they continue to discuss her eventual relapse and all the reasons behind it (including racing thoughts encompassing “all the things I remember and all the things I wish I didn’t”), the viewer can envision the sequence of events that was shown to us in the finale - her fights with her mother and sister, her first time using when her father was fast asleep, her father’s death, her sister finding her after her overdose.

As much as I would like to quote the entire episode, I have to say Ali’s monologue about the idea that none of us are born evil and that society views mental illness and addiction as a personal moral failure rather than an overarching system many of us are incapable of overcoming, to be one of, if not the most decisive moments of the entire show. The line about coming out of the womb with “a few wires crossed” but still a beautiful baby girl eventually messing her way up through life struck a chord in me. I didn’t ask to be born this way. I don’t feel in control of my mind or the way it ever seems to work. And I’m always going to be a bad person. The disease of addiction and mental illness lets you - no, it makes you - view everything you have ever done in your life as not a consequence of the way your mind works, but as an active choice, you have consistently made, as you screwed up everything you’ve ever loved, and let down everyone you have ever cared about. The disease is not you as a person or even the way you think, and yet it is powerful enough to feel that way. Almost like the rapid cycling between mania and depression, the disease flips between, making you feel like the most powerful, invincible person alive and the absolute scum of the earth. There is nothing in between.

Ali’s backstory and his monologues about his change in faith from Christianity (when he was previously known as Martin) to Islam and the world's revolutions were fascinating. Side note: I did think the line about women converting to Islam was unnecessary, but I digress.

Rue’s understanding of the Narcotics Anonymous program's steps was the perfect way to bring in the conversation of faith. As she mentions her difficulty in coming to terms with the idea that there is greater power in charge of her behaviour and the way she surrenders herself to drugs, Ali chimes in with, “You don’t believe there is a power on Earth greater than Rue.” She disagrees and continues quoting and citing different sources she believes to be omniscient and great. And I absolutely agree with her. To me, there is no greater power than the source of art, the music that keeps me going, that feels like it’s the only thing keeping me from stopping the blood pumping through my veins. I understand Rue. But I also understand Ali. And yet, when Rue goes on to talk about the inexplicable workings of the world, my heart stops. There is no reason. There is no reason for the absolute pain and loss and suffering I’ve experienced, for the trauma I’ve witnessed and endured. For the absolutely horrifying things, the people closest to me have lived through. It is merely chaos. There is no reason I wake up every single day, regretting the fact that I did indeed wake up and that I am alive and breathing. So I Understand Rue. But Ali’s monologue about the moral arc of the universe and the unfathomable ways in which life and history line themselves up, to open our very eyes to the realizations we come to daily, is overwhelming. And yet, while he is waxing poetic about the intricacies of the world, we can see Rue’s exhausted eyes glaze over further, still unimpressed. “Maybe I’ll start a revolution like Malcolm X or something”, she quips back. But Ali is quick to counter; revolutions are no longer revolutionary.

Life as we know it is hypocrisy and foolish symbolism, only emphasizing his point about the universe's ridiculousness. Does any of it have meaning? Or is the meaningless void just another puzzle piece in a picture we will never get to see? There is also something to be said about Rue’s facial expressions as Ali continues his train of thought about her “generation”. As we often do when we hear our elders dismissively brush off our many concerns, she almost rolls her eyes. But he is listening, and he knows. “You think you’re out here fighting a revolution, and Bank of America is on your side? Give me a fucking break.” He’s not wrong. His speech reminds me of the masses of teens on TikTok creating video content specifically catered to an audience with an aesthetic that glamorizes the image of a revolutionary teen hero. But instead of a blazing bow and arrow, it is the common cell phone and a punchy soundtrack filtered through digitized audio. What would typically come across as preachy in any show catered to teens is, in fact, poignant. It also reminds me of how self-aware Euphoria is, knowing it’s guilty of falling into the same trap it accuses the viewer of doing.

You have to commit to bettering yourself, Ali essentially tells Rue. And to me, that is the most inherently human struggle we will ever face in our lifetimes. As long as we exist, we have to face the idea that each day is, in fact, not going to be easier than the last. And when he tells her that he believes in her and that the hope of her success (that may one day come) should be greater than the failure of her current demise holding her back, I want to cry. I keep thinking about that edit of Rue to this is me trying by Taylor Swift.

The music of the song that Jules has texted to Rue swells, and it is easy to get caught up in the angst of the moment. It accompanies the words, “I miss you.” And if it wasn’t for Ali’s conversation with his daughter as background noise, one would simply soak in the gut-wrenching pain of their separation. The juxtaposition of Ali trying his absolute best to cling to his family as Rue continues to isolate herself from her loved ones and push herself further into the abyss makes my heart physically hurt.

Ms. Marsha’s spell-binding words of wisdom about sobriety and relationships compared to Rue’s tired exhaustion imminently displayed on her face make the viewer a little wary of what comes next. Her misunderstanding of a juvenile relationship with Jules is made clear when Ali confronts her about the fact that the two of them never had a real conversation about their feelings for one another. Rue’s distrust in the idea that things will eventually work themselves out stems from the fact that she feels disappointed by how her loved ones have left her so far. She eventually spirals into this negatively destructive way of thinking. She cognitively recognizes and justifies getting left behind because she thinks and believes she deserves terrible things in life. She lists examples of past deeds to further cement her argument. But Ali counters back with the simple statement that “Drugs change who you are as a person.” Regardless of her actions, he believes she is still a genuinely good individual while she argues that she is absolutely not. My favourite part of this whole conversation and the entire episode is the manner in which Ali questions Rue’s negative cognitive patterns. Her brain and mind essentially excuse bad behaviour by convincing her that she will never be a good person. Hence she can never forgive herself, and thus, she will continue to remain in this cyclical pattern. Our actions may be inexcusable, but they do not line up with our intentions. The inevitable human struggle is not whether we are fundamentally good or bad, evil, flawed or perfect, but if we are (and again, not to quote my other favourite show, The Good Place) trying to be a better person than we previously were. If we recognize that our actions are wrong and we are capable of experiencing remorse and regret for said actions, who's to say we are entirely incapable of change. This reductive polarizing, and dismissive way of thinking is characteristic of the brains of most people living with a mental illness. Our outside influences, such as drugs, can all be contributing external factors to how we conduct ourselves through life. Ali’s short bit about redemption and human beings deeming actions unforgivable forever can easily be paralleled to direct conversations we have online about “cancel culture”. The phenomenon of dismissing and reducing someone to their mistakes instead of allowing them to grow from them is a nice sentiment. Still, if we do not truly take accountability into action and witness no real changes or remorse, we can quickly get stuck in that cycle. Even if our beliefs do not line up with our actions, drugs can eventually change that. The belief system we hold so dearly, the convictions we strongly feel, can all be washed away by the simple use of drugs, Ali explains as he tells Rue about his family background. His experiences with abuse and his eventual hypocrisy as he plays the role he always feared in his family leave the viewer speechless. As we watch him tell his tale of regret, there is no woe or sorrow in admitting he is or isn’t a fundamentally good or bad person, just the thought of his attempt to change his ways that impacts the viewer.

As the viewer waits with bated breath to see what comes out of Rue’s mouth next, it is not a surprise (to me personally). Rue has no intention of staying sober because she has no intention of staying alive much longer. Ali asks her why she feels that way. She responds with her sentiments about the cruelty of the world. Ali understands. We truly are living in dark times, witnessing truly horrific events, and the fact that we even have the capacity to care any longer is indicative of our will to stay alive. It doesn’t make much sense when you think about it, but when you are so sad, so grief-stricken by the news, by the world’s turn of events, by the mere thought of witnessing more tragedy that you cannot bear to be alive any longer, it means that you are deeply invested. Invested in the way things will turn out even if you do not personally believe you want to participate or even be privy to being complicit in a system that does nothing but churn out pain, anger, and hatred. When I was at the lowest point in my life and attempted to end my own life, I was overwhelmed by the goings-on of the world. As emotionally drained as Rue is, a part of her still cares. She wants her sister and mother to know that she really tried. Just as I wanted and still want my parents and friends to be okay without me when I do eventually leave this earth. Of course, I care about what happens to them. The idea that suicide or suicidal ideation is inherently selfish is so contradictory to the reality of how suicidal individuals genuinely feel. It is the opposite. We care more than most, and we care to the point that it hurts to extend another moment of kindness to ourselves amid all the chaos and madness of the world. But still, we try. We do our best. Ali believes in Rue. He has faith in her.

The entire episode ends on a melancholy note as Rue and Ali depart the diner with Rue wistfully staring out the window as he drives her home. Ali loves his conversations with Rue and vice-versa. The fact that two people can be sitting at a diner alone on Christmas Eve talking about the beauty and cruelty of the world and everything ranging from politics to addiction to suicide to love to family and anything in between goes to show us that humans will always find a way. The fact that two people struggling and suffering from addiction can find their own way about and amidst the chaos of the world and still have these meaningful conversations about life and existence tells us that ultimately, Trouble Don’t Last Always.

#euphoria #zendaya #sam levinson #colman domingo #rue bennett #jules vaughn #rules #hbo #recap #review #nanwrites #rue #jules #zendaya coleman

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ultimaa · 5 years

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TRUTH

Eren & Mikasa / 1992 words / Canonverse.

Truth is always simple, but we usually get there by the most complicated path.

George Sand.

Shigansina was chaos, a rumble, the first victim of the apocalypse. Eren Jaeger had sworn to end the world, and in his words there was as much anger as determination.

"That bastard has condemned us," were Jean's words.

They had taken cover, but the noise was such that they barely got to hear each other. The walls had fallen and the colossals walked the earth, like a walking chaos, like death incarnate.

"It's worse than that day," Mikasa thought, and she put a discreet hand on her head. Armin looked at her sideways, worried, but he said nothing.

"We'll talk to Eren," Arlet decided.

"Are you crazy, Armin? That dude no longer attends to reasons," Connie seemed to have abandoned her hope. Maybe he lost it with Sasha. He simply dropped to the ground, downcast. "It's the end. Commander Hanji and Captain Levi aren’t here. Everything is lost. How could we think... that everything would end well, that we would achieve peace? We are destined to die. Since Bertolt and Reiner appeared ten years ago, from that moment, I had to imagine that it was only a matter of time," And the tears gathered in his eyes. "Sasha's death was useless."

Armin wanted to tell him something, encourage him, slap him gently on the back and assure him everything would work out. However, hope was beginning to fade from his blue eyes. Eren was on their side, he was the protector of Paradise Island, but what was the price? If Eren devastated everything beyond the sea, they would become the devils that the world repudiated. No man could stand up to a situation like this, so Armin simply clenched his fists and thought of the old Eren, his good friend, and he wondered where that child was, that impetuous young man, but excellent in friendship.

To everyone's surprise, Jean Kirstein's face was tinged with an inexplicable anger. He approached Connie and lifted him, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders.

"What the hell are you doing! How can you say that!" the man relaxed a little, but remained serious. "You're a soldier, Connie, damn it! We can not give up. We know that suicide bastard and, in addition, it turns out that he has now gone mad and unpredictable. He has gotten into my head, the moron. Every time he got into trouble, we had to save his ass. We are used to it. We've done it before and we'll do it now, because that bastard…” He looked at Armin, and then stared at Mikasa," he has many things to say."

"What do you want us to do?" Connie sipped her nose. "Approaching him is very dangerous and we don't know if he wants to talk. God, Jean, the last time he spoke with Mikasa and Armin he behaved like a bastard, with his lifelong friends! What makes you think that now it will be different?"

"Mikasa," Jean called, "what did Eren tell you?"

The woman squeezed her lips.

"He hates me... he hates me since we were children. He has always hated me. I am nothing but a slave, my Ackerman blood chained me to him."

Kirstein let out a sardonic laugh and released Connie.

"I'm gonna have to talk to him about women's hearts, who would say it," then he turned to Armin. "Let's do it. Armin, you and Mikasa will approach him while Connie and I distract the Titans. We will clear the way. Make him right, hit him if necessary. You know him more than we do, I'm sure he will listen to you."

Jean drew his swords. Connie, after wiping the tears away from his face, did the same. Both men stared at each other, as those who will face the last and toughest battle.

"Are we gonna die, Jean?"

"I don't know, nobody knows. I have spent all these years fearing my body ended up burning in a pyre, like Marco. That's why I should have joined the Police, but I didn't. Eren convinced me not to. If I had, I would probably have finished drinking the poisoned wine, becoming a titan like all those miserables. That would be unfortunate. I joined Legion and I’m proud. If I have to die today... at least it will be fighting," he smiled slyly. "And if we die today, Connie, lots of women will mourn our death, the death of two heroes."

Mikasa put a hand on Kirstein's shoulder. He tensed for a moment.

"Don't die, Jean," the woman asked. "You neither, Connie."

And then they threw themselves into the jaws of chaos. The Marleyans fled in terror. As Mikasa moved forward, her mind was lost in the past, on that trip to Marley, and it was as if a lightning struck her. What am I to you? Why hadn't she been honest? She was not even with herself. No…

"Mikasa!" Armin shouted.

When she left her thoughts, a large hand hovered over her body. Mikasa dodged it, but she rushed into the desolate streets of the city which saw her grow. When she came to realize, she was getting up from the paving, stunned by the blow. A giant was approaching her, slow, smiling, as it was five years ago, in Trost. Why did she keep fighting? Why Eren? What part of Eren had she seen? Was it his true face, or just an illusion? She tilted the head and saw Louise lying across the street. The young girl was dead. She approached her with slow steps, feeling the presence of the criature on her back, and removed the red scarf from the neck of Louise, who was a girl so many years ago. She fell to her knees, the garment in her lap, and touched her cold face.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I could not save you."

Then, like lightning, Jean cut the hams of the titan that stalked her. Again, she was saved from imminent death.

"Come on, Mikasa!" Jean cried.

The woman, making a cyclopean effort, stood up and put the scarf around her neck. She rose again, like a wounded bird, and headed like an arrow towards that hulk of bones that Eren had created, that monstrosity which encompassed wherever the sight would go. Armin watched the scene from a roof, speechless.

"Where is Eren?"

Smoke and dust did not allow to see clearly. Mikasa, without thinking too much, went into that maelstrom. Surprised, Armin went after her. The woman discerned a loud roar between the screams and followed it. There were heavy blows, and a new growl, more pitiful than the last. Mikasa could barely discern the silhouette of Reiner’s titan being subjected to something much larger, a much taller and more bulky titan, but easily recognizable to her. It was Eren. That huge creature crushed Reiner without any difficulty. Braun fell so as not to rise again. Mikasa moved on, ignoring Armin's voice, and stood before Eren. The recognition shone in his eyes.

"Eren!"

Armin confronted him.

"Stop this, things don't have to be that way! Eren, listen to me!"

But Eren did not listen, so Mikasa fired her hooks and climbed him up to hang on his mop of hair. The big green eyes looked at her furiously.

"Eren, please..."

Don’t do this to yourself.

In a deliberate act, the titan shook and Mikasa held on tight, trying not to fall. She wouldn't let him go until they achieved their goal. Jean and Connie were giving their lives for it. For this man, whose good part seemed to have disappeared, lost in chaos, subjugated by the cruelty of the world. From the beginning, it was always the world. What had it turned them into? Mikasa knew: there was still some of the Eren she knew, the real Eren. The immense creature shook its neck again and roared, and did not stop until it got rid of Mikasa, throwing her with an unusual force. She heard Armin's stark scream, but she still hadn't given up. So she clenched her teeth, wielded her swords and, with burning tears running down her face, she responded with a shout from the depths of her guts.

Fight! You have to fight! If you don't win, you will die! You can't win if you don't fight! Fight!

My head is going to explode.

She descended like divine justice and laid a kilometer slash on the titan's back. The blades barely sliced the skin and Armin's thunder spears didn't inflict great damage either. The blond gave up and considered the possibility of transforming, but Mikasa continued in her private dance against Eren, who simply dodged her and regenerated the few wounds she made in a matter of seconds. The power of the Founder ran through his veins; He was invincible, Mikasa knew it, but she didn't want to beat him. She wanted to talk.

"Eren, I know you can listen to me! You have to stop all this! Remember when we went to Marley! There are innocent people all over the world, we can't blame them all... for the evil of a few!"

For the first time in a long time, Mikasa Ackerman was filled with an animal fury because of Eren's indifference. The screams, the gigantic steps that moved away in the distance, Armin's voice, Jean's words, Sasha's death, Reiner's fall. All that surpassed her, and in her movements was engraved an agility that exceeded human capacity, something that had only been seen in the missing Levi Ackerman. It was hard for Eren to dodge her, and, finally, Mikasa gave him an accurate cut in the right eye. The pulsations of her heart touched a dangerous limit; every muscle in her body burned and howled in pain, but she had perfect coordination. Move on. Up and down. Attack, protect. However, it was a matter of time before that state was over. Fatigue, like her strength, was monstrous.

"Mikasa," Armin shouted. "Take cover, I will transform!"

I can not anymore.

The woman hung on Eren's hair, at the nape. The shattered blades fell to a vacuum of more than twenty-five meters. Mikasa stood there, hanging, feeling her hand slide slowly due to sweat. She was soaked in blood, in dust and dirt. She was the vivid image of who had already given all of herself. Only the word remained; even if they were the words of a slave, Eren would have to listen to them. He would have to listen to them while he captained the catastrophe. Inside the titan, in the entrails, he took refuge, calm, with the look of a man whose life has become an unhappy existence. A man who had condemned his soul.

"I understand you don't want to hear someone you hate," she began, dragging each syllable heavily. "It's fine. I've always... been selfish. I wanted to be by your side, protect you, but I wasn’t able to... I wasn’t able to see what was happening to you. You were suffering, and you still do. I wish I had realized before because I would have tried anything, I would have done whatever it took to avoid all this, I would have given everything for you to stay with us, with me."

Mikasa remembered the good times before the invasion of Marley, the parties with the guys. She could die with that in mind.

“You gave me a family when I lost mine, you reminded me that the world is not only a cold and hostile place, but it can also be beautiful. It was thanks to you. Thanks for showing it to me. This world is cruel, but undoubtedly beautiful," she closed her eyes and her consciousness fade little by little. "I am a liar; I couldn’t be honest even with me. You... aren’t my family. My family died a long time ago, but... I would like to start my own family with you, because the truth is I... have always loved you."

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moongrazing · 6 years

Text

★ █ MARISA KNOWS WHAT TO DO.

She might have been separated -- accidentally, mind you, she'd never have intentionally abandoned Rinnosuke or their new teammate -- from her team, but it's them who will have to worry and make do without her, not the other way around. Not that she'll stop looking for them, but in the meantime, she can take care of herself. And all these monsters that keep cropping up everywhere she turns. She's fine with it, though.

It's business as usual, after all, and she's ready to rush right into the heart of whatever it is causing this mess. If only she knew what was causing it all. The people in charge of this particular disaster were saying this or that over a loudspeaker or something, but she didn't catch most of it. Might not have been listening to most of it, in fact. It matters little now that she's flying up about five hundred feet or so (give or take) in the air above the wreckage and chaos below. Her broom is a safe vantage point from which to observe what's going on and where to go next and -- should she luck out and spot him from on high -- maybe reunite with the others if the opportunity arises.

For the moment at least, she zips off toward the horizon (careful to avoid the natural boundaries of the island, given the odd rumors she's heard), hunched low over the handle of her broom, eyes scanning the distance. The sights below aren't much different here and there; flashes of light and the clanging of weaponry and various other bangs and booms of pitched combat. So far nobody seems to be in trouble, from what she can tell. Humans and other human-like beings aren't stupid, when it comes down to the wire. They're good at saving their own lives and helping others in the process too, sometimes.

She'd like to be the hero too for somebody else, but she did promise Rinnosuke she wouldn't leave him alone for very long if things got dangerous (or something like that), so she suppresses that urge and keeps on puttering through the sky, going slower than probably necessary if only to keep a steady eye on the ground below for that familiar blue.

Nowhere to be found, it seems. She's not worried though, not yet. Until that split-second realization that she's no longer flying and instead falling, hurtling through the sky. In theory she'd be wondering about what happened and why, but all that passes through her mind is intense, heart-pounding, mind-racing panic that encompasses and envelops all other coherent thoughts. She should try to do something, anything, to stop this fatal descent, but all Marisa can think is how horrifically awful it would be to hit the ground below and go splat like a rice pancake because she somehow forgot how to fly.

Then suddenly, like remembering an old spell card she's made, she's not falling, pulling out of her free fall with about fifty feet -- probably less, but she would like not to think about what could have been her imminent death -- to spare and the world comes back into focus. She's clutching her chest and breathing like she's just run a mile, but she's alive.

Maybe she'll just keep looking for Rinnosuke on foot.

#event: overlay (2)#drabble (tbt)#falling cw #heights cw #i've been off in my writing for reasons i left on twitter and would prefer not to get into here but. at least there #at least there's this for me to post.#seeing as it said powers could give out on you...

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rapchimble · 6 years

Text

Swimmer JK AU

Loud cheers broke out behind him.

His hair stuck to his face, wet from his shower.

If he closed his eyes at that very moment, he wondered, would he even hear the beat of his own heart?

Jungkook felt cold in his speedos, torso bare to the biting ice of the air. The stadium had an open roof for reasons he did not know. His teammates waited for him to receive his individual trophies - freestyle and butterfly - and join their after match pizza party in celebration of them winning the team relay event.

There were people all around him: mothers of younger swimmers fussing with infants on the pavilion, street goers admiring the lean bodies as they passed the stadium, the losing team that were still glaring at him with unmasked envy, girls who had come to cheer for him.

His heart thudded from the anxiety. Their gazes pierced into his back. He felt them on the knobs of his spine, sticking to him like gnats he could not swat away. Was he happy? He did not know.

The smell of chlorine encompassed him. The pools always smelt clean. It was the people, the mix of talc, food and frenzy that put him off. Despite being the star of the event, he knew he was but a sub-priority. Jeon Jungkook, swimming protege, body indecipherable to the water that pulled him, knew of what he was expected to accomplish. Sometimes he wished he did not know so much, but the truth, although cruel, was blatantly obvious.

People wanted him to win at something they found him incapable of losing at. Even more troubling were the shining eyes, the relief his parents had with yet another manifestation of a private school sports scholarship held secure. He hated the way he was a part of someone’s trivial checklist- Jeon Jungkook won for the team again, get pizza, encourage son to be like Jeon Jungkook.

He should be honoured, but he was just uncomfortable.

Jungkook was only seventeen. Why did he have to be so important to so many people?

He opened his eyes and shook his head as the host announced his name.

Hoseok hunched over his microphone like a pop singer, head almost reaching his thighs, yelling, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Jeon Jungkook!”

A gold medal, hollow and chill against the skin of his chest, shone on Jungkook’s chest as he descended from the stage. His hands clutched a bouquet of flowers.

It was scary how a piece of metal was all it took to fill so many people with bliss.

“Ready?” His favourite Senior, Min Yoongi, called from his place beside on the pool’s freshly mopped floor.

His Hyung was barefoot, a camera perched on his right hand and Jungkook’s digital wrist watch fisted in his left.

They were making sure he was on par with his average timing. Winter break had made them slightly lazy, which had sent Jungkook’s mother into throes of distress. It had only been a week’s rest, but his family could not afford his losing the scholarship.

“Yup.”

Jungkook was not nervous. He was always perfect. The mere fact that he had to be up to pace with himself, instead of a rival, said a lot.

Staring at the end of the pool, he waited for the Yoongi’s signal with bated breath. It was still early in the morning. Yoongi wanted a picture of Jungkook in the water for the school newspaper- as he always did- but Jungkook was too fast for the job to be very easy. They would have to settle for a few deliberately slow laps after their field run.

It had been a surprise to find Yoongi complacent to his wishes. Usually, Yoongi would balk at the idea of being outside at four am- as anyone rightly should.

Their circumstances called for him to take an exception. The nights hours were booked for the membership services the pool held and every other moment of the day was subject to scrutiny from casual bystanders.

Jeon Jungkook and Min Yoongi were both averse to the concept of casual bystanders, so they settled for the freezing hours of the morning.

A loud raspy “Go!” sounded and Jungkook fell into the water with one smooth swoop.

His body folded, his head falling past his knees to level with his toes. The pool’s lighting caught the curves of his spine, subtle hints of toned muscle dancing beneath his skin. A deep languorous breath of draughty morning air and then came the tingle, the press of the water against the ridges of his body, tracing its hollows.

Yoongi whistled from his spot on the floor, eyes wide at the talent.

Jungkook glided under the water as if he were a dancer.

He was a body of raw, pulsing talent, sharpened to a product of finesse, the embodiment of a machine, his muscles remembering how to whisper against the cold kiss of the water. An exemplar he was- unrivalled, thriving.

There was a rhythm to movement, to moving underwater, and his body knew just how to pull it.

Jungkook was lazy enough not to think, the sleepiness from the night before weighing on his shoulders. Gaming had kept him a good two hours past his bedtime. It had been worth it, he thought, as he felt the end wall approaching. His brother had actually wailed when Jungkook had surpassed his score- never mind that they had only being playing Mario Kart.

He had to be careful. Sleeping through his classes could easily get his teachers on his back- meaning another collision with an angry Mrs. Jeon.

He opened his eyes, hoping the sting of bleach on his eyes would snap him awake.

Jungkook almost recoiled in shock from the sight waiting for him. He shut his eyes and opened them again, counting fives then tens under his breath as he realised that he was not alone under the water, that he was seeing a boy beside the end wall.

The boy had pale skin and auburn hair that spun around his head like a halo. He was still dressed.

Jungkook reached forward, wanting to ask the boy what he was doing at the public school pool, wanting to flit away the idea of him hallucinating a whole human being.

The boy flinched at the ghost of his touch, recoiling away from the swimmer, eyes wide and a stunning shade of brown that was unparalleled by autumn.

The boy’s lips made voiceless shapes against the water.

‘WHO-‘

Jungkook’s felt his breath go slightly shallow.

The air hit him like a rain of bullets as he rose above the surface with a gasp, records long forgotten.

He needed some good sleep, that was all. Sleep and maybe a good three hours of the National Geographic- nothing like baby manatees to release him from this fitful boisterous mood. He hated swimming. It was driving him crazy. Jungkook wanted to go home-

“Kid!”

Yoongi looked over at him, boxy glasses perched at the tip of his nose. He had ran all the way to the opposite side of the pool when his younger friend had failed to make his appearance on due time, the pep talk prepared to spill from his lips fading as he noticed Jungkook’s horrified expression.

Harsh breaths filled the silence of the pool building. Yoongi lent Jungkook his arms, offering support as the boy pushed himself to sit at the ledge of the water, his legs balanced at his lap, hands patting away the water in a way that made Yoongi wonder if he was afraid of it.

Yoongi felt Jungkook’s heartbeat slow under his hand. The kid’s mother was probably pressuring him again.

“Are you okay?”

Jungkook wished he was. He kept his stare fixated to the tips of his feet, unblinking.

“Nevermind, “ Yoongi mumbled, hooking his hands under Jungkook’s arms to pull him up. “That’s enough for today. You’re going to take a shower- we’ll come back when you feel like it...”

Jungkook listened to his brother, grateful but deaf to the words.

It was hard to think with the flickering image of the water aflame with someone’s hair.

God please, he thought, please let me be sane.

The day had been awful, his thoughts being congested by the imminent threat of insanity that pulled at his breath, suffocating him whenever he tried to think or speak of anything else. School corridors, the feet, the faces and the chaotic spin of limbs all descended to a single faceless blob that he waded in.

At lunch, he felt Hoseok nudge his foot from under the table, both him and Yoongi staring at Jungkook with that same concerned expression, which irked the younger boy beyond all ordinary means of measure.

He could not help it. All around him, his world was bristling, the people in it crumbling as if they were but made of paper.

To his left, Namjoon excitedly filled Yoongi in on the details of his latest summer essay assignment, Yoongi taking the words in with silent appreciation, sipping at his coffee and all. He had probably stayed up the night before, Jungkook thought, irrationally angry at Yoongi for it.

At all other occasions Jeon Jungkook held his highest respects for the photographer who held his passions in secret, tinkering songs at late hours, living the life of an underground rapper- right under his parents’ noses at that!

However, as of current, he was angry. Dread pooled in his stomach, reminding him of a time when his friends would all grow up and follow their dreams, leaving him behind in their small town.

What if this was it? What if he was going to go crazy and his mother would have to throw him into rehabilitation? What if his highest peak at life would be his measly high school status of being a swimmer boy, his future being utterly dull in comparison?

Jungkook offered Hoseok a timid smile in gratitude for the chips his friend was thrusting across the table his mind caught up in another place, a song of failures running through his ears, an anxious thrum against his veins.

In Year Nine, they had studied the Great Gatsby for English Literature. Jungkook remembers his teacher’s weary smile as she read the words, ‘ one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterwards savours of anti-climax’.

Yoongi had mentioned Jungkook’s first dishevelled moment in the water to Jungkook’s older brother, Seokjin, who mentioned it at their dinner table, bringing the entire dinner meal to utter chaos.

“How could you, Mom? Look at him! He’s barely touching his food.”

Jungkook reached for a piece of chicken as his mother glanced at him, her eyes wide with worry and guilt. Glancing at the look on his mother’s face, Jungkook’s heart stopped at his throat.

“It’s not like that-“

“No more excuses, Jungkook, “ Seokjin declared crossly. “You don’t have to lie to Mom.”

His little sister, Soyeon peeked at him from under the precipitous strands of noodles hanging off her folk. At first she had been glad that the conversation had drifted away from her newly blond hair, but now, catching the worry on her brothers’ faces, the panic etched onto them, she concluded that she would have preferred herself taking the brunt of their mother’s wrath instead of all this worry.

“I just-“

“Just what, Jungkook?” His mother asked him, her voice calm but her features wrung in hurt. She had never meant for things to turn out as they had. She would never, never pressure her son into holding something bigger than him. Not her son, she told herself. She just knew in her heart that Jungkook had potential- that was all.

“I just wanted to enjoy the water. Yoongi Hyung just overreacted. It’s been a while since, I really...”

And the lies dribbled out of his tongue like honey, the others reacting to it just the way he wanted them to, eyes warm and heart open.

They tried their best to make him enjoy the water again. His mother would wait for him behind the steering wheel of their Nissan, her face glowing with the balmy sunscreen she had on. Sometimes, she would even get Seokjin or Soyeon to join them, but it was mostly the two of them, just like it had always been when Jungkook had been growing up.

Jungkook sat at the ledge of the pool, the soles of his feet already pruned against the water.

“Show us some of your stuff!” Hoseok cheered from his seat beside Yoongi on the pavilion.

Yoongi nodded solemnly, his nose the tip of his nose endearingly white.

“Do the butterfly- the wiggle worm when you make the corner!” Namjoon yelled, his mouth filled with chips.

Jungkook grinned. The cold morning wind felt icy against his cheeks. Across him was a reflection of himself in the water, all broad shouldered and thin waisted.

‘Swimmer body,’ his mother said to her guests, her hair a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. ‘My handsome, talented boy.’

The rest of them, the women with the knitting and the too loud laughter, chortled in response, oohing at Jungkook’s abashed expression. Seokjin whined about favouritism and their mother just smiled, her eyes alight with a happiness that could only be refuted with the words ‘Jungkook’ and ’Swimmer’.

Before he could overthink it, he rose to his full height, smiling at the smell of Namjoon’s Pringles, knowing how it went against pool policy.

“Here I go,” He said with his back to them. They hooted in response and he was under water.

The rhythm came to him slowly. His legs fell back and straight, his arms long and wide as he began to chant inside the confines of his head, ‘faster, faster...’

Like a miracle he swept through the water, feeling its cool touch on his skin as he made laps.

One.

The muscles of his legs and abdomen tingled with the work he was putting them through.

Two.

His eyes were open under his goggles. He could see the blue tile of the pool, the skin of his hands pale and flawless under the water as he reached for it.

Three.

His friends’ laughter had faded to become a backdrop.

There was a roaring in his ears and just like that, the boy was back.

Jungkook was closer than he had been when they first met.

He was no longer startled by the apparition, having grown used to seeing him in the town’s public pool. In fact, the boy was now almost a comfort, his halloween themed hair a pretty halo around his head, water clinging to the tips of his eyelashes.

The boy looked up at Jungkook, his arms outstretched towards him. It was strange how the boy’s clothes did not cling to him, despite them being underwater.

Jungkook gave him a light nod as he took off on another round. He had little time for gaping, his friends were waiting for him and he had class after practice.

From his place gliding on the surface of the water, buoyed by his arms and legs, it was amusing to Jungkook how adamant the other boy was underneath him. No matter how fast he went, the boy was always there, either beside him or under him, swimming with him.

Today the boy looked like he was struggling to be noticed. He waved his arms and tried to tear at Jungkook’s torso, scowling as he did.

Jungkook did not let him. There was too much to do in too little time. What did it matter that there was a ghost attempting to get him a concussion mid-swim?

All he needed to do was get his work done- without paying attention to his hallucinations.

Suddenly, he felt a light kick hit him square on the stomach.

He turned to the source in surprise, his mouth stupidly falling open in surprise. Water gorged its way into his throat. He felt himself fold in half before gently rising to the surface of the water.

A minute before his hair rose above the surface line, he was shoved back in the water.

The boy was onto him, an apparition, a demon under the water.

Jungkook closed his eyes and attempted to kick away at it. He clawed at its arms and possibly at its face but it stuck to him, unmovable even by force.

His vision darkened, his muscles slackening. He had to get some air.

He made a second futile struggle against the boy’s hold, only to for the boy to strike his forehead against Jungkook’s as if in exasperation. The boy’s hands came to lie flat against his cheeks.

‘What do you want?’ He mouthed against the water.

How was he still breathing?

The boy used his fingers to push Jungkook’s eyelids shut, moving to wrap his arms around Jungkook’s neck, a strangle hold that treaded the blurry line between love and suffocation.

With the ghost touch of the boy’s lips against the bones of his ear, he heard a voice, soft and saccharine, whisper, ‘I am Jimin.’

With the fleeting image of warm fires and sweet-stained teeth, they fell on forth to a place beyond the world they knew.

The water gurgled around them as they descended to a time that was unbidden by the smell of chlorine, the shouts from across the bleachers.

Jungkook was suddenly at his grandparent’s lake house- the same grandparents who had not spared them an inch of their money when Jungkook’s parents had come very close to rock bottom. He saw his mother on the wooden patio of the house, her legs a honey tan against the balking heat of the sun. Seokjin lay back on his elbows, half-asleep with a lollipop stuck to his mouth as his mother droned on about a story he had to read for school. Even at thirteen, Seokjin’s face drew looks.

There was an unconventional order to his face, its planes moulded high below his eyes that gleamed darkly against the light and the blue misty quality of that morning.

Jungkook saw himself stand up next to his sister who had been braiding his hair into misshapen knots.

His younger self radiated warmth. There was a scar on his cheek from when he had fought with Seokjin for the game controller a week before. His hair fell over his ears, tufts of it bouncing as he made his way across the wooden planks.

Jungkook watched himself in awe. He saw the way he clenched his eyes shut, at eight dismissive of the obvious- he couldn’t swim, his brother could barely- and indulgent of impulse.

Soyeon noticed a second too late, screaming for Seokjin as Jungkook fell in headfirst, with a giant smile on his face as he went.

Jimin fixed Jungkook with a pointed stare before tugging at his hand and making them both fall into the water. It was almost like they were chasing his younger self, Jungkook thought in amusement.

Above them Jungkook’s mother was yelling for their uncle to hurry up.

‘Are you crazy? I can’t send Seokjin inside a lake- he can barely make it to the deep side of the pool! Hurry up, Jungkook is inside, you lazy bastard-‘

Soyeon gasped. Seokjin stared at his toes, ashamed.

Jimin giggled from his place next to Jungkook on the muddy shallows of the lake. Jungkook stared at his younger self, watching how his legs made their way to hold him afloat, his hands first thrashing before coming to calming to make slow sweeps against the water.

Around them, the water was muddy from the dirt and uncontrolled growth of plants. Fish swum under and around his younger self, who kicked against the water with the familiarity of a swimmer. Sunlight shed its way through the water and Jungkook’s family would soon gape in awe at the boy who saved himself, his mother rushing to slap him on the face before hugging him flush to her chest.

“Why?” Jungkook asked, turning to Jimin with his hair sticking to his temples.

“You needed to remember.”

With that came whole summers of their time together. All practices were spent in some grand place in Switzerland or subtropical Asia. Jimin took them to pools, to lakes and even someone’s artificial waterfall, loose limbed in a manner that insisted he took all these visits, these moments of water and sunlight, in stride.

Today they were manoeuvring through a river, Jungkook in his speedos- as he always was- and Jimin his brand of stripes and tight jeans.

They were above water for once, so Jungkook could see the minor imperfections across the other boy’s figure, the scar under his ear, the scabs on his arms and legs.

He supposed it was nice, being allowed to see so much.

Over time, his performance grew into an even higher brand of grace. Jungkook was no longer simply a record-setter, he was a work of art. Photographers and journalists came to see him, captivated by the idea of a boy enigma, someone who swam like he resembled water.

He found himself needing Jimin less, the memory of that day in the lake pushing him far and wide.

However, Jungkook grew worried when he never saw Jimin after he left for college on another swimmer scholarship.

He tried everything, from calling out for Jimin under water- choking on it as he did- , to visiting local lakes and hot springs, to communing to flames about a boy in a public pool.

The other boy did not appear. He had vanished without leaving a trace. The worst part of it all was that Jungkook couldn’t ask anyone about it.

His roommate, Namjoon, worried about his health. Jungkook began to find treats left for him on his bed, tea and biscuits, then incense. When he asked Namjoon for it on one of their joint study sessions, Namjoon had simply pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

“You’re always looking so worried. You rarely sleep, it’s like you’re panting for breath...” He had said one night, “Tell me how I can help you. How can I make this better for you? Please, I feel useless.”

It was on his break back in Busan that he decided to try the public pool again, and like the apparition he was, Jimin showed up again, his face alight with a smile in full bloom.

“Why me?”

“I’ve always watched you,” Jimin would say, his fingers drumming against the inside of Jungkook’s wrist.

“And that totally not creepy,” Jungkook added laughing silently.

They were at the bakehouse again, the light pressing against Jimin’s skin, the contours of his face basking in it.

Jungkook fell sideways as Jimin shoved him.

The truth was painful and clichéd.

Jungkook would know of it later.

A predecessor to his swimmer status, he would learn from a journalist, was a certain Park Jimin of the fifties. Pressured to the brim, Jungkook was told, Jimin swam like the water was a myriad wind pushing him back and forth to where he needed to be.

‘How did he pass?’ Jungkook would inquire, discomfited by how antsy the journalist had gotten at the mention of the boy’s death.

‘He-he had mental issues. Went with the water, the public pool. People didn’t visit it for ages, only going after it was retiled for renovation.’

On asking Jimin, he would find himself watching a boy in a hoodie and speedos in the back of a friend’s cab, counting the moments left in the pretence of nodding to the song’s beat. The friend’s voice sounded ominous inside the vestiges of the car, smooth and deep as he sang about heartbreak and sweethearts.

Jimin would hug his friend before they depart, his voice a whisper as he said, ‘Take care Tae.’

Jungkook saw the fading skyline, the slam of fury as his Jimin’s eyes were forced to squeeze shut, his muscles twitching as it tried to escape from the hold he had over them. The slackening, the peace, Jungkook saw it all with tears streaming down his cheeks.

He felt the ghost of Jimin’s lips against his cheek as they were pulled back to the present, “You were better, stronger than I had ever been.”

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badlands-lore · 3 years

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In The Harsh Light of Day, Pt. 1

[ IN THE HARSH LIGHT OF DAY: REVELATIONS PT. 1 ]

the world has the distinct tendency to spin madly on despite all chaos or calm. despite imminent disaster. despite every threatening storm. despite every guttural cry for turning to cease. the sun will always come up. the seasons will always change. life and death continually take what is due— what the divine feels it is owed. past, present, or future dangers are child’s play in the wake of that abysmal clock and all that is implicated in the natural order of existence. chaos and the divine go hand in hand, and the price of admission for life is misery.

the sun came up again today. as predicted. as expected. routine is all too comfortable. all too anticipated. keen, groggy sunlight stretches its limbs out in troves against distressed wooden floors. such floors that have seen decades of love, abuse, growth, life, death — the list is beyond, but it all encompasses one word: home. she’s standing there, golden tresses a cascade down narrow back, rigid in her stature. even the birds could sense her worry, the adamance that something was indeed wrong indicated in the absence of chirp and song.

just as routine predicts, the morning mail was slid through the slot of that grand wooden door. and just as routine expects, maren montgomery, brain-sodden from a long night’s rest, bent to pick it up. anticipation, however, has befumbled her, as she clutches a very unexpected notification in a dainty, white-knuckled grasp. there must be a mistake, says her mind, frenzied and incomprehensible. it’s all there written in black and white, straight from the horse’s mouth. taxes unpaid. debt accrued. millions owed.

with every lick of color drained from that delicate face, she begins a silent tirade through the house. she’s after one man; the one she’s bound to legally by deed, by blood, but certainly not by loyalty. he's been occupying the master and the force in which she swings open that door likely rattled the entirety of the south park, but her cloudy resolve isn’t concerned with courteous niceties for the other man who sleeps soundly in her bed across the house— the one for whom her loyalties, her family, her love lies. the next few moments are pivotal. the trajectory of the current situation at hand shifts dramatically.

it’s ransacked, the room in which her brother has occupied up until this moment; drawers cleaned out, mess strewn about, left nearly beyond recognition. it reeks of abandon, disillusion, cowardice. knowing overcomes her, lithe arm juts out to one side, bracing that all-too-delicate body against what was once mason’s door frame. utterly alone to pick up the pieces of a once vibrant life now in shambles, she will be the one to bear the cross for her family’s transgressions— and she knows this to be fact.

bare feet pad back downstairs, shuffling through the foyer and out into the morning dew. the shift in ambiance is in harrowing juxtaposition to the storm brewing inside of that golden head. as suspected, his beat-to-shit red truck is gone— alongside any hope left dwelling in her heart for a brother who cared enough for his own flesh and blood to stay. to weather a raging storm. to fight for the one thing that was their own. hot tears flood those aquamarine eyes, spilling over in the stark realization that this burden is now only hers, and hers alone.

there’s an absolutely desolate beauty in this downfall. there are revelations, even in the face of vapid and unsurprising discoveries. maren montgomery is now aware of a few very simple truths: in the harsh light of day, there is a guttural reminder that loyalty is never promised. love is never freely given. and people will take, take, take when given the opportunity to scavenge on those who only give.

#maren montgomery #chapter 1 #family #angst #betrayal

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izzyovercoffee · 7 years

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Mandalorians and the Force

I had begun a series about this on my star wars blog some time ago, and never continued it. Because it’s only tangentially related, as it deals more with the Jedi Order and how the Jedi may view Mandalorians, I’ll include a link to the tag, and may refer to posts from time to time.

musings: mandalorians and the force tag on the old blog

Overview

This has been something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about, as ... early materials, particularly in Legends, dealt a lot and often with Mandalorians and their relations with Force Users of all kinds --- but most obviously with both the Jedi Order of the old republic, as with the Sith Empire.

The starting off point of between 3000 to 4000 years before the Battle of Yavin only had one conflict after another, after another, after another, involving Mandalorians drawn into galactic-scale wars by the fault of one of the two major bastions of Force warriors.

That kind of history shapes opinions. It shapes culture, and beliefs, and attitudes --- both personal and cultural --- towards the Force, as a religion, as a spirituality, and as an affliction in the form of Force Sensitivity.

History matters when it comes to understanding what those underlying attitudes may or may not encompass --- not just in and through a history of war, but also an understanding of mando’a as a language, and the sheer reach of the Mandalorians at their height of power during the Mandalorian Wars.

It also serves to understand what and who the Ka’ra are, and why they matter --- especially in the terms of Mandalorians and their unique understanding and relationships with the Force by a different name, or no name at all.

These attitudes, that history --- and Mandalorians are very much steeped in as much of a bloody history as one intermittent with peace, and venerate a type of ancestor worship through armor, and legends, and art --- then informs how a Force tradition may or may not arise.

The Big List

So, for organization, I’m making a bunch of bullet points and we can consider this a masterpost until such a time as I make a page for it, if I do.

The Mandalorian Wars

Conquest, Conversion, Conscription

Integration vs Assimilation

Force Traditions are a complicated, complex thing --- and something that can and does exist outside of the schools of the Jedi, and the Sith. The Clone Wars showed us, at least, that force traditions absolutely can and do exist without interference, and helped set a precedence that an unknowable number of unique cultural traditions exist in universe.

But what does that mean for Mandalorians? Well ... at the height of the Mandalorian Wars, the Mandalorian people had conquered most of the galaxy outside of The Core. The Republic very nearly fell, if it weren’t for the interference of Revan, Alek (later Malak), and the Jedi Exile.

Mandalorians, on the whole, are huge on adoption --- and are a culture that can take others in with ease, without requiring a total assimilation. What I mean by that is that ... it’s easy to be both a Mandalorian and, say, a Mirialan, when the requirements of “be mandalorian” are, essentially: “Education and armor, self-defense, our tribe, our language, our leader—all help us survive.”

It meant that anyone, literally anyone, could be a Mandalorian.

Throughout The Mandalorian Wars, the Mandalorians conquered a great number of systems and people. Mirialans among them, for one example --- a people for whom the Force plays a large role even in the mundane parts of the culture. Thus, Force traditions could be shaped in that way --- through a trace of history, and shaped by Mandalorian influence from that point onward.

Modern Attitudes Towards Force Sensitivity

The Jedi Order throughout history

The Sith Empire over time

Discrimination against the Force

Throughout various Legends sources, from KotOR i & ii and expanded materials to Star Wars: Republic Commando and on, Mandalorians are written as holding a strong bias against Force Users --- from as quiet and benign as a general distrust to as extreme and threatening immediate violence.

This begs the question: Why?

Are they just hateful against the Force and “supernatural” beings, or is there an actual reason for it?

For the most part ... on the surface, it certainly looks like there’s no reason for it except for fantastic racism and xenophobia. But, if you dig deeper, there is a repeated theme throughout Mandalorian history: the abuse of Force Users (predominantly Jedi and Sith) that manipulate, use, and lead the Mandalorian people into galaxy-wide war and repeated, imminent total destruction.

In light of that history, it makes sense for Mandalorians to, generally, distrust and dismiss Force Users as dangerous and not to be interacted with.

But how, then, might that bigotry also extend to children born within the population who begin to exhibit Force Sensitivity? Would they be accepted, or shunned and thrown out, and is that something easily predicted?

And despite that history, can there be clans with long-standing Force Traditions extending back through several millennia? And what might they look like?

Mandalorian Cultural Beliefs

The Creation Myth, and how that informs concepts of Alignment

Chaos vs. Stagnation; Change and Growth (above all things)

Alignment conflicts juxtaposed against Light vs Dark

In the meantime, I offer my short answer to a complex question: Do Mandalorians view a Light/Dark side interpretation of the Force?

Yes, and no.

It’s made complicated by a belief system and foundation of cultural values that don’t recognize Light and Dark as “good” or “evil,” nor do they view them as separate ends of a single spectrum. This is why, I’m guessing, Mandalorians are often viewed as “all dark siders” to the more pious Jedi, and only “pawns never to be given too much power” to the more extreme Sith --- Mandalorians cannot commit to an extreme because that way leads to stagnation.

Extremes are a suffocation of growth, and Mandalorians’ cultural foundations, down to their very creation story, venerate growth above all else --- and see stagnation often as a sickness, something to fight against. To then adhere to either extreme suffocates chances for change if change requires moving against an extreme.

Another thing to understand is this: Mandalorians do not demonize the dark, just as they do not worship the light.

As I’ve said before, to mandalorians: Black, the color of darkness, is the color of justice. The real, genuine, understanding of capital j for Justice. And at the other end of the spectrum, white is a deception --- white, as in a field of snow, or a fresh start, is not so much a purity as it is a mask to hide flaws, and traps. And if one cannot see one’s flaws (whether it be age upon the armor, or a truth in plain sight) then one must be wary of deception.

And, as spoken in a recent episode of Rebels, the dichotomy is not good vs evil, or light vs dark, but something far more simple, and far more important:

“Hope, or Fear?”

Growth, or Stagnation?

Do we pursue the promise of a future, or do we lose our way imitating the past?

Mandalorian Spirituality

The Stars, the Ka’ra, the Mand’alore

Destiny, Luck, and The Force

Symbolism, History, Blood and Armor --- From Mandalore’s Mask to The Darksaber

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that in the Star Wars Universe, “Destiny” is a real, palpable thing that exists through the Force. Mandalorians may or may not be agnostic as a people, but they are not remotely ignorant and willing to indulge in willful blindness to facts --- especially ones that have and continue to affect their history, their livelihoods, and their continued survival in as real and dramatic ways as The Force has time and time again.

The Mandalorians are also an incredibly sarcastic people, who crack ironic jokes and puns and indulge in gallows humor --- because that’s just how they are, and describes what they do and how they feel about “destiny.”

When talking about Destiny, and Luck, in Star Wars? You’re also talking about The Force --- whether you like it, or not.

So. What is "Destiny,” to Mandalorians? Destiny is synonymous with good luck. And good luck? Jate’kara. Luck, Destiny - literally: good stars, a course to steer by.

What are the stars? Ka’ra. Stars. From ancient Mandalorian myths, also known as the ruling council of fallen kings (not gender specific, gender doesn’t exist in mando’a).

Who are those fallen kings? The Mand’alore of history. Every. Single. Once-ruler of the Mandalorian people --- all dead, but were once alive, once mortal, once real. Made unreal in death, and each became a star in their passing. Each became a light for luck, for destiny, to steer by. Still alive, still living, through cultural values, in beliefs, in armor, in blood, in masks and sabers.

How Mandalorians view the Force, then, is shaped not by existing views (as the Jedi Order, or the Sith Empire), but very much steeped in a unique form of ancestor veneration and a complicated spirituality that avoids gods of worship in exchange for stars to favor, ancestors for guidance, and a never-ending need to strive, continuously, to “become better than we were.”

#mandalorians #izzy talks mandalorians #izzy talks mando'a #kind of #meta: mandalorians #meta #v: star wars #i guess maybe i should tag rebels in here too #eh it's like a footnote nevermind #meta series: mandalorians and the force #i will most likely update this post in the future with links to each post i make #for now it's just bullets bc lol #this is in no way shape or form the order of posting future blah blah #but you can reblog if you like #but for now this is a brief overview of each section and then ... hopefully i can actuall lmao finish this series this time #but anyway #long post for ts #B')

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itsallavengers · 7 years

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you know how steve always sleeps on the side of the bed facing the door "bECAUSE YOU ARE PRECIOUS TONY HUSH" okay but one if one night while they were asleep baddies did break in to try and snatch tony but were met with 240 pounds of kickass

If there was one good thing that would come out of this, it was that Steve now held the right to be able to gloat about being correct.

Although, when you woke up to the sound of foreign footsteps creeping through your bedroom as you held your very un-enhanced, very asleep and very vulnerable lover in your arms- that sort of thing tended to be pushed to the back of your mind.

(Read more, mobile users!)

Steve had about half a second between waking up from the tiny sounds and deciding what to do, and in that moment, a lot of things ran through his head.

Number one, and the most important of all, was of course Tony.

Tony, who hadn’t heard a thing. Tony, who was still deep in a sleep that only came from too many nights in the lab and not enough in a bed.

Tony, who- from the looks of their formation and the sort of equipment they were carrying- was the one that these people were gunning for.

Fear gripped Steve’s heart involuntarily, and he felt himself clutch Tony’s body a little tighter against his own on instinct. The assailants were professionals, that much was certain; there was absolutely no way they’d have been able to get in otherwise- but who they worked for, Steve didn’t know. All he could see were plenty of machine guns and a hauntingly familiar clamp that Steve had once seen in a CCTV clip from 2008.

The arc reactor. They were trying to take the arc reactor.

From Tony’s chest.

Steve battled to keep from letting his breath hitch in horror, instead tightening his fingers minutely across the juts of Tony’s hips.

There were six of them in their room. It looked like there were more to come, but like Steve said, merely a tenth of a second had passed since his initial waking, and by the time he’d sprung into action they still wouldn’t have had the chance to move much further than that.

So. Six targets.

All carrying sub-machine weaponry, and utility belts piled high with various other handguns and explosives. Probably highly trained, and confident enough to try and take Tony Stark.

Steve was just going to assume they weren’t aware he and Tony were sleeping together. Because if they were, they really hadn’t thought it through very well.

one third of a second gone.

Steve’s top priority was getting Tony out of the line of fire, and preferably himself too, if he could manage. Except in order to move Tony, he’d put himself at a disadvantage, and right now, Steve didn’t have room for mistakes. Not when Tony’s life was on the line.

He had to throw them both in opposite directions, really. Which was… doable. Just a little inconvenient.

A footstep fell down on the carpet, and Steve heard the press of air as it was crushed between boot and floor. Every thought he wasted meant the targets moved a fraction further into the room.

On quarter of a second.

There was a pull-out drawer by Steve’s side of the bed. In it was a copy of Pride and Prejudice, a few sweet wrappers, various pencils and sharpeners, and his loaded ‘44 Magnum.

This was going to be fun.

“Sorry, love,” Steve whispered into Tony’s hair.

With half a second gone since waking, Steve sprung.

Tucking his legs into his chest, he pushed into Tony’s stomach harshly, whilst his hands rose up and grasped on the side of the mattress. As Tony was shoved violently off the other side of the bed, Steve was sent in the other direction.

Directly toward his visitors.

His body slid off the mattress, and a hand was already splayed out, grasping at the handle of his drawer. It was lucky he was a super-soldier with heightened reflexes and coordination, or he would never have been able to pull his gun from the inside of the drawer whilst simultaneously throwing the rest of it toward the chest of the nearest assailant.

It was a rather perfect execution, if you asked Steve.

He watched from the floor he had rolled on to as the piece of heavy oak furniture went careering into the man’s collarbone at immense force, snapping the bone it met as soon as it impacted. The man went down with a grunt.

One out of six. Another second passed on the clock.

And now the guns were being trained on him.

Backwards rolling, Steve pushed into their ranks, disrupting the formation as he straightened up to full height and raised his gun, shooting the first person he saw. A bullet between the eyes- they were dead before they’d hit the ground.

2/6

There was a shout and Steve saw as three separate barrels were pointed in his direction, but he was faster than all of them combined, not to mention incredibly pissed off. It didn’t make for a good time. Although it did, however, make for a good show.

Ducking under again, he rolled to the side and backed up, using the person on his right as a human shield, whilst effortlessly crushing the dominant wrist in his hand. There was a little resistance from the armor he was wearing, but ultimately it was useless against Steve’s strength, and the gun clattered from his hands paired with a muffled scream of pain.

Steve punched him quickly in the temple, and unconsciousness was imminent.

3/6.

Dropping to the floor, he stuck a leg out and swept, turning a full 360. Two of the three remaining fell, and Steve picked up the gun that his previous victim had just dropped before slamming it into the sternum of his closest attacker. Whilst occupied with this, he could sense the other two beginning to move, and Steve knew exactly where they were headed.

Like hell they were going to actually reach their destination.

A round of bullets fired, and Steve instinctively ducked away, losing sight of the last man on his feet as he shied away from the gunfire being let off directly to the left of Steve’s ear. He cursed himself and everything that was holy- another fucking second, wasted.

constantly moving, shifting, turning out of the line of fire, Steve twisted his torso and rolled to his feet, eyes wild and searching for the other guy as a hefty kick against the side of the flailing man’s head dealt with whoever had been shooting from the floor.

6 seconds since waking up, and Steve turned, pointing his gun to the last man standing.

At the very same moment, that man yanked Tony by the collar, and raised his own weapon.

Fuck.

Not fast enough. Steve hadn’t been fast enough.

He should have just shot all of them.

“Drop it,” Steve hissed, face like thunder as he stared across the bed and kept his eyes on their attacker. “Drop that fucking gun right now or so help me God-”

“What will you do, Captain America? Take another step and I blow Stark’s brains out. Move a muscle and he dies. What power do you have? Hm?” The stranger answered right back.

Underneath them, Tony was on his knees, eyes wide and bewildered as he took in the situation around him and noted the chaos. It had, after all, only been about ten seconds since Tony had even woken up.

Probably not the sort of wake-up call he’s been expecting Steve to give him, all things considered.

Steve was silent for another moment, but his gun didn’t waver. It never went well when you assumed that the enemy would stick to their word- letting down his guard would be fatal for both of them. “What the fuck do you want.”

The man shrugged. “Initially? The arc reactor. Now the plan’s gone south? A bargaining chip,” he gripped tighter on the back of Tony’s neck and shook a little, sending an involuntary growl shooting right out of Steve’s throat, “and it looks like that’s what I’ve got right here.”

Steve opened his mouth again, but before he could threaten anything at all, a familiar voice cut through the tension. “Incorrect.”

They both stopped. Looked down at Tony; so horribly innocent in his Thor-inspired pajamas and sleep-mussed hair.

Tony looked at Steve, and rolled his eyes. “You know,” he lifted his head a little, tilting it to the right in order to get a better view of the man in front of him, “if you’re going to try and hold someone hostage, you really should check that their hands are away from dangerous things before you get started.”

And with that, Tony headbutted backward, out of the line of fire and into the very sensitive section between his attacker’s legs.

The reaction was instant, and undoubtedly something Tony had planned. The man didn’t keel over, exactly, but he did jerk backward a little. And that was all the opportunity Tony needed, apparently.

Slipping his right hand over his left shoulder, he clicked safety off his own Stark Semi-auto and fired three shots in one fluid movement.

The bullets rang across the room for another tenth of a second, this time, before silence fell.

“Hm,” Tony muttered absently, picking at an imaginary speck of dirt on the barrel, “always wondered when keeping this under the bed would come in useful.”

“I thought you kept it on your dresser,” Steve replied on automatic, gun still raised jarringly at the spot the man had been a second ago.

“I do,” Tony reached over, pulling out his own drawer and then lifting yet another handgun out, “but it’s always nice to have spares.”

Steve took a deep breath. Watching Tony move was good for him. He was awake, now, and holding two separate guns, and everyone else in the room was either dead of unconscious, so it wasn’t exactly like Steve had anything left to worry about.

“Steve, I-”

The rest of the sentence never left his mouth, though, because suddenly Steve was there- arms wrapping tightly, almost desperately around Tony’s body, encompassing him in his warmth as Steve tried to hold him as close as he could get.

“Fuck,” he muttered, clamping his eyes shut and pressing his mouth into Tony’s hair. Gently, delicately, he wrapped a hand around the back of his lover’s head and pulled down, until the man was resting against his shoulder. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck f-”

“I’m okay,” Tony assured, mouth moving against Steve’s bare skin, hands brushing along Steve’s arms, “I’m okay. Stand down, soldier, threat neutralized, situation contained. We foiled their dastardly plot yet again, Go us. Well. Go me, really. I did do the big superhero saving, after all-”

“I’m sorry?” Steve couldn’t help but ask, fingers winding into Tony’s hair, tugging him back so Steve could stare at him, “you did all the big superhero stuff? No mention about how I just took out five guys in six seconds?”

“You were counting?”

“I was counting. I was very proud. I’m pretty sure I just set a record.”

“Yes, but did you heroically save yourself using the genius methods of ‘knowing how a body reacts to being hit in the dick’ and ‘paranoia induced weapons hoarding’? I don’t think so.”

Steve would have answered, but he was honesty too fucking tired for a debate right now. Instead, he just stroked along the jut of Tony’s cheek with a thumb and then bent over, kissing his forehead soundly. “And this is why I sleep closest the door, by the way.”

“That is bullshit and you know it, you would have heard it, door or no, so don’t lie to me, you just like the right side of the bed too much.”

Steve chuckled against Tony’s mouth. “Okay, Tony.”

“Don’t ‘okay, Tony’ me, I just saved your life-”

“Oh, so you actively saved my life too, now, did you?” Steve asked in bemusement, and it was kind of fucking weird, sat on the floor next to a dead guy, but at least it wasn’t Tony, at least it wasn’t Tony-

“I saved my own life. Doesn’t that mean the same thing?” Tony asked, and he was smug, but there was a painfully honest truth behind those words.

“You know what, we’re not going to go there right now,” Steve declared, hauling both him and Tony to their feet and then scooping Tony up into his arms with nothing more than an obligatory mutter of disdain in response. That was practically positive talk, really. “We have still got a few more hours until sunrise, and I want to sleep. These people are not going anywhere, anytime soon. So I am going to a guest bedroom, and I am taking you with me.”

“Can we have ‘thank-God-You’re-Alive’ sex?” Tony mumbled, cheek pressed firmly into Steve’s shoulder as hands snaked around Steve’s neck and clung there.

Steve laughed, maneuvering them both over various broken ornaments and people. He was probably going to care a lot more about that in the morning.

But for now, there was just Tony.

“Sure,” Steve agreed, knowing full-well once Tony got into a bed he would be asleep within the minute. The man didn’t even seem fazed by the fact that he’d just been attacked- really proved how fucking crazy their lives were, really. Anyway- Steve could worry enough for the both of them. It was fine.

“I know what your plan is, Rogers, and I would like to say I do not agree with it. At all.”

“Sure, Tony.”

“I think you’re horrible and mean.”

“Sure, Tony.”

A small pause. “But I think maybe you sleeping on that side of the bed is…yeah- probably wise.”

Steve had to keep himself from stopping mid-walk. Tony had never admitted that. Ever. And Steve didn’t know what it meant that Tony was deciding to finally just let Steve have this now, but he didn’t much care, either. It was just…nice. That was all.

Steve smiled, kissing the crown of soft brown curls. “Sure is, Tony.”

#im so tired but i had to answer this i love thse arguments between them #stevetony #avengers #marvel #itsallavengers writes

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allyklapak · 4 years

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Is it murder or suicide? How unsustainable societal and corporate practices threaten our lives.

The downfall of humanity may come by way of a variety of methods, whether that be catastrophic natural disaster, irreversible degradations of vital resources, or widespread disease facilitates by humanities poor practices and unstable political, environmental, and socioeconomic state. Scientists have been engaged in this discourse on the end of the world as we know if for years as our climate imminently reaches its breaking point. However, recently, the rest of the world has been thrown into this realm of petrifying chaos and uncertainty as we as a collective humanity face a pandemic that threatens all that we love. It is more important than ever to understand the connections between human behavior and its potentially adverse effects on our well-being. Through comprehension of the casuistic relationship between our actions and the rise of disease, we can be better prepared to confront or hopefully prevent future outbreaks. Environmentalists have always injected necessary urgency in their pleas for change, but now the world may finally understand this pervasive feeling of impending doom.

Each day, humans take risks both consciously and unconsciously which can be categorizes into five major groups: biological, chemical, natural, cultural, and lifestyle choices.[1] I argue that each of these are in our control to some degree. The world is comprised of an intricate web of cause and effect relationships. Biohazards can be attributed in part to both natural and human activity. These threats cultivate as transmissible or nontransmissible diseases depending on their origin and status as viral or bacterial.[2] Biohazards are particularly dangerous as their ability to spread may threaten lives on an epidemic or even globally, pandemic, scale.[2] Humans play a role in this threat as scientists have ascertained that more than “half of all infectious diseases were originally transmitted to humans from wild or domesticated animals.” [3] Ecological medicine traces these connections to properly assess the parts humans play in these cases.[4] These issues further highlight the issues that arise from the disproportionalities between developed and less developed nations. For example, impoverished peoples are more at risk of consuming bush meat or soiled water that may carry disease and subsequently do not have access to the necessary healthcare for testing and treatments. Those that cannot afford vaccinations are vulnerable to diseases that many modern nations are able to safeguard against. Working to address and limit these disparities is vital to mitigate the threat of contagious diseases. This is more critical than ever as we face a ubiquitous threat of COVID-19 which began through human consumption of a wild animal and has induced mass chaos. The text eerily predicts our current state as it explains how viral disease is “so easily transmitted that and especially potent flu virus could kill millions of people in only a few months.” [5] This is the reality we face. It is important to recognize how pivotal human response is to the course of events that have and will continue to unfold. Humans have the power to contribute to an overall healthier world with less contaminated resources and practicing responsible health practices when possible to therefore decreases the universal threat of disease.

While infectious disease carries with it an immediate and all-encompassing threat, human health may also be threatened by toxic threats such as carcinogens, mutagens, and teratogens causing cancers, mutations, and birth defects respectively.[6] The study of these chemicals and their ability to cause injury, known as toxicology, has traced certain connections between adverse health conditions, specific chemicals, and the products in which they are found.[7] Even substances that are negligible in small dosages may become lethal as, “any synthetic or natural chemical can be harmful if ingested or inhaled in a large enough quantity.”[7] Anything in excess may have adverse effects and it is particularly dangerous when the public is unaware of the harmful things they are exposed to, such as pesticides and air pollutants. Human activity comes into play as we are the ones to implement these chemicals into our environment, sometimes inadvertently. Impositions and violations of human health is grossly negligent on the part of companies that oversee the continues use of harmful chemicals. Due to the shortcomings of our self-interested government, public outrage and widespread outcry is the only way to motivate stricter regulations.

Humans threaten the health of our environment and thus ourselves by mishandling of waste. Excessive consumer habits have produced exorbitant accumulation of solid waste labeled either industrial or municipal.[8] The ineffective techniques used to contain waste often leads to pollution of land and water sources. The United States leads in the amount of waste we produce. [9] The specific quantitative estimates of waste are often conveyed through absurd yet accurate visualizations. For example, we use enough water bottles to reach the moon and back 6 times.[9] It is even more concerning that the U.S. is the largest producer of hazardous waste.[10] Our misuse of this waste ultimately adversely impacts ecosystems and the resources we need. There exist many options for disposal of waste but understandably, minimizing waste through reduce, reuse, and recycle practices are the best preventative strategies.[11] Waste management and waste reduction work cooperatively in integrated waste management which combines the efforts to minimize harmful effects.[11] The more detrimental disposal methods include burning and burying waste in often faulty systems which become particularly precarious when dealing with hazardous waste. Companies may detoxify this waste through physical, chemical, biological, phytoremediation, plasma gasification methods, but these may be costly or release toxins into the atmosphere.[12] Storage methods are similarly imperfect and may still lead to subsequent pollution of surrounding land.[12] Government regulation and law is vital for discouraging poor waste management but is often hindered by the clouded economic interests of those in power. Alternatively, promoting recycling practices through innovative new trends can allow this movement of waste reduction to gain traction. Additionally, states can follow suit of others who have instituted incentives to encourage recycling of paper, plastics, and metals. However, the most effective vehicle for change would be a revolutionary drive to reinvent the industry. By implementing more cradle to cradle designs because “the key to shifting from a disposable economy is to design for it.” [13] I believe that this is an achievable goal with framed in respect to economic gain. I understand that hesitation arises from those who do not want to spend more in the short term to save in the long term, but it seems as if the trend to make this switch has become. If each person strove to minimize their waste consumption the issue of waste disposal would be significantly more approachable. It is frustrating that companies will not switch their own designs as it then requires society to put in a discouraging amount of effort to adopt sustainability. This primarily comes from the publics place of blissful ignorance and refusal to take responsibility for the mess we so clearly made.

The way we deal with issues is largely contingent on risk. Things that humans perceive to not be in control of change their perception to the risk and prevent action. Humans underestimate the effect their waste production has on the world state. Every small part counts. Many small actions create a major reaction which is a concept that applies to stopping the sickening of our planet and our bodies. This is particularly important in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic. We are seeing how individual action is pertinent to responding to the crisis on hand as each must do their part to mitigate the spread. We must learn from this and apply it to our handling of waste. If each person does their small part, perhaps the ever-growing issue may finally subside or at least become manageable. So may argue that we cannot control the weather, however I believe that every motion by a human hand creates a butterfly effect. We over consumer, waste burning increases, our atmosphere warms and hence the weather is changed. Humanity holds our own delicate lives in our hands and yet our actions may be what destroys us.

Discussion Question: Can the current pandemic be attributed to climate change in any way? Word Count: 1359

Miller Jr, G. Tyler. Living in the environment: an introduction to environmental science. No. Ed. 19. Cengage Learning, 2017. 443

Miller, 444

Miller, 448.

Miller, 449.

Miller, 447.

Miller, 452.

Miller, 456.

Miller, 575.

Miller, 576.

Miller, 575.

Miller, 578-580.

Miller, 589-592.

Miller, 595-601.

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plugrick · 7 years

Text

🌓Rickacurring Nightmare

@tusoypendejo

Dont think about it. Whatever you do, don’t think about it.

Don’t stop running, don’t aid too much attention to the situation at hand, and don’t let thoughts wander back to the nauseating image of the thing following only yards behind. Keep going.

Stay cool. Take the chaos and break it down into digestible, bite-sized pieces. Hone the senses on heaving stuttered breath in, forcing it back out doubletime. Huff! Huff!

Don’t glance over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the ever encroaching thing that clattered down the catwalk only yards behind, catching up too fast–

Oh god, he looked. “F-fffuck!” Through the layer of blur induced by movement over the split second flash he caught, the sight of massive rippling muscle and rows of finger length, inwardly hooked teeth parted in a snarl was enough to seize his next step and nearly make him stumble.

Don’t think about it.

As long as Rick abided by this internal mantra, filled the blank spaces in his harried brain with repetiveness reminiscent of a broken record, he could get through this. Dont think, it reiterated on a constant loop against the merciless encroach of visceral fear; But it skipped, the needle hit a snag in the worn grooves, and the message became dischordant, whittling away at already weak resolve until it inevitably became a baseline scream signalling imminent danger.

BANG SCCCCRRRHH BANGBANG

Oh sweet fuck, it was gaining ground. The heartbeat pounding in his ears sounded faraway yet deafening, like thunder rumbling underwater. Tendons and sinewy muscle strained hard enough to threaten a snapping of ligaments under the stress put upon them by the full-tilt sprint that he was struggling to maintain. God damn, why hadn’t he worked on his cardio more? All the accumulation of age and unchecked drug abuse had really worn his body down to a shell of his former athleticism. He was too out of shape for this.

Rick felt like he was going to start falling apart at the seams. He knew damn well that he couldn’t keep this up. Hell, it was only by the grace of the adrenaline coursing through his overworked circulatory system that prevented an entangling weight of unpleasant memories and engrained dread to encumber his whirling legs. With each and every impact his feet made with ground, the jarring connection hitched his air intake, which didn’t assist the creeping sense of panic clotting his windpipe. Perspiration beaded down the slope of his forehead from sheer effort, momentum derived only from prey animal escapism. Don’t let it catch you again.

SCRITCCCHBANG BANG SCRRRRH

The pursuants’ long claws scraping like nails on a chalkboard had his wits at their frayed ends. All he could think about was how he didn’t want to feel them curl around his side.

“Fuck, fuck - hhhuh - sh-shit!“

He’d really fucked up the game plan this time. How had he managed to end up here, trying to outpace this thing in its’ own advantageous environment?

The elevated bridge in the hull of this abandoned mothership wasn’t exactly the most ideal place for a chase scene with already disproportionate odds. He’d wanted this thing to feel like it had the upper hand, but maybe that’d worked a little too well. The dim emergency lights rendered the hallway too dark to gauge exactly how much distance he was putting between himself and the unnerving sound of something unquestionably sharp scraping against the studded metal floor, but Rick knew it sure as hell wasn’t far enough behind to provide leeway for even the barest room for error. This choice of location was arguably a poorer decision than using himself as a lure.

“RRRRRRHHHHHHHHHIIIIIICK ”

Oh, hell to the motherfucking no. “Ohhh sweet jesus! Ohhh mother of fucking shit! Ohhhh god–!“

He took it back. Carrying out a performance as live bait was /definitely/ the worst idea he’d ever formulated in his entire pointless life. What kind of shit had he been smoking that made him think this was a solid course of action? Oh yeah, just put yourself on a silver platter in front the giant shape-shifting space lizard hellbent on wrapping jaws around you - how could it go wrong? Fucking dumbass.

Maybe this was over before it ever started.

No! No - this was going to work. It was non optional. Yeah, this - this orchestrated scheme was going to pan out just fine, even if it had only gone about half right thus far. He had the coordinates. He was a Rick. He could do this. And if he truly wanted to be rid of this problem, this waking nightmare terrorizing his life, he just - He just couldn’t afford to spare a single second to hesitate.

Sweat slickened fingers struggled to find traction on the smooth dial on the back of his portal gun amidst jostled steps, the knob softly clicking as he searched for the correct dimensional sequence. C-132. C-137. There it was! “H-hah!”

This glowing number displayed upon a tiny LED screen represented salvation. It encompassed freedom, a chance to leave the past behind and move on. It meant no more watching over his shoulder in paranoia in case he was inevitably found again, no more waking up in cold paralysis with the ghost of claws sinking into his flesh;

He was going to take this abomination somewhere it belonged, leave it to rot in some fucked up dimension full of monstrous things just like it.

C-138. A place as shitty as bottom-barrel, hopelessly ruined earthscapes came, complete with an equally shitty old Rick for this thing to chase around instead. He doubted that the difference with it there would be noticeable at all. Or maybe that was just what he was telling himself to justify pussying out on his own problems and throwing one of his alternates under the goddamn bus. Whatever. Sorry, Rick, it’s not personal.

Focus! It was now or never. He squeezed one eye shut and aimed the nose of his gun as true as he could manage, shooting out a beam of green light that became a swirling green mass of eddying energy projected upon the wall ahead.

This was where things got fucky. The plan was a simple enough concept in theory, but in action? It bordered on madness. He’d figured, hey, if this thing would ram through walls just to get to him, why wouldn’t it dive through a portal for a meager chance at a taste?

Right. Now that it had his trail, lighted up on it like a bloodhound made of cold skin drawn taut over spinal ridges and a widely set skull, it’d follow him through a goddamn wood chipper. Just keep eyes trained forward. Ignore the way air raggedly released from convulsing lungs in sharp gasps, the sound distinctly desperate and unhinged. Push through the agonizing burn taking root in the center of a knotted diaphragm, the cramps from unoxygenated muscles that formed stitches just under the rib cage. Close the distance between here and that portal. Just a few more steps, almost there–!

It all came down to this ballsy leap of faith, legs cartwheeling through the air on a direct trajectory with the warping portal. As he passes through the threshold, he swears he can hear the whistle of claws whipping through empty space just behind the curvature of his spine. He thinks he can feel the slightest tug as slender fingers ripped through the fabric of his flowing overcoat with the ease of a knife passing through butter, effortlessly as though the phalanges were made of razor blades. He grits his teeth. If he glanced over, he was afraid that he might catch sight of massive five-fingered hands swinging from peripheral view to wrap completely around his torso–

And then it hit him: The outstretched hand and the crushing realization of failure.

He hadn’t made it far enough.

The strength behind a singular backhanded strike was equal to the brute force of a dozen people, like a bear on steroids. The sheer force of oversized knuckles colliding with the square of his lumbar snapped his head back, made the tightly curled grip around the portal gun release. All it took was one blow to knock the air clean out of Ricks’ lungs and send him skittering at alarming velocity over wide swaths of broken asphalt blocks and rusted rebar sticking up like grave markers out of dismally grey ruins. They snagged at his clothes and engraved fine cuts in flesh, but ultimately didn’t hinder his path as Rick tumbled like a ragdoll, head over heels –

Until something made of uncomfortable bony angles stopped him mid-flight, giving way with the ease of paper mache under the force of momentum. The two bodies met at an abrupt halfway point, catching each other with an effective gut check that sent Rick sputtering for air all over again. “Hurgh-!” He could only dimly register that he’d collided with someone made of lanky limbs that were now inexplicably entangled with his own, all decked out in shredded clothes and stupid sunglasses and telltale blue hair that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Hhhuuhhh-g-gettoffa m-me,” Rick wheezed incoherently, despite the fact that he was the one in the wrong, offering an unappreciative shove to a shoulder that seemed strangely metallic under his fingertips. He struggled to swiftly separate himself from a heap of entwined limbs to little avail as the dawning realization came over him that he’d been unceremoniously thrown down a mountain of rubble, and subsequently felt the part. His knees were sore from agitated old injuries, bruises blossoming along ribs, palms scraped raw and empty.

Wait - his hands were empty. The portal gun! “W-where is it?!” It must’ve skittered away, bouncing out of his hand upon the moment that he was swiped out of midair suspension like an insect. His flat hands swept over the ground, searching thoughtlessly for the only hope he had at getting out of this in one relative piece. “W-w-where’s the gun?!”

Oh, fuck no. It wasn’t going down like this. He’d spent too long evading, living with the lines carved into his sides for it to happen like this.

“RHHHHHIIIICK”

The release of half-speech, half lungful of breath containing too much volume to belong to anything /remotely human/ hissed out, piercing and predatory. It immediately drew Ricks’ gaze up at the hill of debris that he’d taken the express route down from, wherein he could make out the dark silhouette of reptilian features set on an intimidating frame;

It rose eight feet tall on bipedal legs the thickness of tree trunks, staring down unblinkingly with slitted pupils widened with interest. The parting of hinged jaw exposed rows of snakelike fangs meant to sink deep into anything unlucky enough to find itself sandwiched between them,

Like the glow of the portal gun sitting atop a long tongue.

The very last hope of escape slid down its’ gullet with finality, lost forever. Rick could feel his heart sink to his stomach.

It was as good as over. “Fuck.” The only chance to escape lied within the very alternate dimensional version of himself that he’d been planning on screwing over, who he turned to with the utmost urgency. “F-f-fucking portal us out b-before that thing comes down h-here, asshole!”

#tusoypendejo #rp /#HOPE THIS IS OK #it's fucking long because ~story~ or whatever

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abitoflit · 7 years

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To Kill a Mockingbird

After having watched Robert Mulligan’s film adaptation of Harper Lee’s novel entitled, To Kill a Mockingbird, I noticed that the director depended more heavily upon physical form in order to relate the points he wished, while Lee depended on her ability to paint pictures with her words. For example, writing as an art form, necessitates language, which clarifies the many different aspects of a story, (i.e. setting, character development), whereas film requires it to a lesser degree. This is due to the fact that if an author failed to give a description of his/her characters, the story’s setting, etc., we wouldn’t know what anything looked like, or was like. In order to relay things such as appearance, filmmakers, on the other hand, need only “dress up” their actors in the way described within their script, and choose those they feel fit the image of their story’s characters. Then, when they are watched on screen, viewers instantly know all they need to about their appearance- whether or not they are young or old, how they tend to dress, what color their eyes are, what color their skin is, etc. In addition, they also learn more “complex” facts, such as if they have a meek demeanor, or hold themselves in such a way that suggests that they are courageous, or even full of themselves.

In addition, I have noticed that both Mulligan and Lee use similar methods of relating the nature of each of their characters. For example, they may use a character to describe another, such as when Lee had Mrs. Maudie describe Atticus to Scout in her novel. She writes, “if your father’s anything, he’s civilized at heart. Marksmanship’s a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin’s different from playing piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn’t shoot till he had to, and he had to today,” (Lee 112). Readers, now equipped with this knowledge, come to a deeper understanding of Atticus as a person. They come to realize that he is a “civilized” individual, to use Mrs. Maudie’s term; a person who sets a certain expectation for himself, that he will act a certain way around other people, and hold himself in a certain light. He expects himself to maintain a certain moral code, and fight “fair” during all of his conflicts with other people, and the many obstacles that the world may throw in his path. Although Mulligan depended on this technique far less than Lee did in his film, he still employed it from time to time. In addition, each of the artists used the story to relate certain facts about their characters, without having to express these facts explicitly. For example, the depiction of the three children- Dill, Jem, and Scout- playing with the tire was used to betray their often childish and playful natures. Another example would be when Scout is shown getting into a fight with Walter Cunningham in the movie, and when she is described as getting into one in the book. In addition, the knowledge we gain of her wanting to fight more in both mediums, (from Scout’s narrations and other sources), allows us to discern the fact that she is more “masculine” than “feminine,” childish, aggressive, and fairly quick to anger.

In the novel, Harper Lee uses a mixture of descriptive language and dialogue in order to paint a picture of a mad dog, threatening the town of Maycomb. She uses the dialogue in order to push the scene along by having both Scout and Jem bring up the dog’s existence, while using descriptive language to add to the scene. By adding detail, she further brings the story to life. For example, Lee writes, “Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his torso,” (Lee 106). By evoking a mixture of images, which relate the fact that the dog appeared as though it were having trouble swallowing and breathing, as its spine had been curved in an atypical fashion as an apparent side effect of its disturbing trembling, readers come to the conclusion that the creature is frightfully ill, perhaps even deranged, as some may associate the trembling with seizures, or fits of epilepsy. As the scene progresses, dialogue is used to elicit clarifying information, while descriptions are used to accentuate the tone, mood, and setting of the scene. For example, “Calpurnia’s message had been received by the neighborhood. Every wood door within our range of vision was closed tight. We saw no trace of Tim Johnson. We watched Calpurnia running toward the Radley Place, holding her skirt and apron above her knees,” (Lee 107), describes the fear elicited by the sight of the mad dog. It sets a mood enriched by trepidation, and sets a frantic tone. Clearly, the entire town is frazzled by the sight of this dog, which is said to be somewhat out of place, this time of year. They cannot seem to fathom how such an occurrence came to be, and this simply adds to their sense of unease. The fact that the children are urged to remain within the house, and only two men- Atticus and Heck Tate, dare to venture out into the street to stop the dog from harming the town, further add to the state of alarm we as readers are meant to feel. As Lee desperately tries to get her reader’s emotions to mirror that of the city of Maycomb, she has the dog draw all the more near. Perhaps, this is to make her story “hit close to home,” as it is so proximate to the protagonist’s dwelling. Naturally, readers are meant to root for them; for the death of the dog. Thus, we as readers can breathe a sigh of relief when Atticus manages to shoot and kill the dog.

When the lenses of Mr. Finch’s glasses are shattered upon the ground at the end of the scene, readers realize its largest symbol: the children’s loss of innocence, when it comes to their view of their father. They have removed their “specs,” which made them, (as non-vision impaired individuals), less myopic. Now, they can understand the full breadth that is Atticus’ character; they can see him for whom he really is. They now understand that he is not as “simplistic” as they originally thought, in the sense that he no longer appears quite so civil and proper. In addition, he is no longer such a “boring” and “one-dimensional” figure within their eyes. Instead, Atticus becomes a figure that the children can really look up to, as he reveals a more mysterious side. He has woven an air of secrecy around himself, which has merely hinted at some of his previously unmentioned skills and traits. Being that the children naturally want to learn more about their father, they are (largely) silenced by their awe, as his use of a gun doesn’t seem to fit their previous view of him. In addition, they seem to revere him all the more as this powerful figure, who possesses a skillset they can understand, and to some degree, desperately want to attain themselves.

In the corresponding scene in the movie, Mulligan often relies on his actors and actresses in order to get the same types of information across in his film, that Lee managed to get across in her novel, with the aid of her words. For example, at the beginning of the scene, after Scout and Jem have shown Calpurnia the mad dog, she urges them both inside. She not only says, “Scout, Jem, come on inside,” but uses hand motions to demonstrate the sense of urgency within her voice, which is compelling them to go inside. Her voice and her movements, which involve not only her hand gestures but her turning her back on the dog, and moving inside to call Mr. Finch after having closed both the screen and the wooden door behind herself and the children, helps to create a hurried, and frightful atmosphere. It relates to viewers that each of the main characters is in danger, as is the rest of the town. The threat, which has thrown them into this state of turmoil, is the “angrily” barking dog noted at the beginning of the scene, ambling awkwardly toward the front of the frame. For the time being, it remained at the back of the frame with a wide, open area surrounding it, demonstrating that the threat is imminent, and will wreak havoc upon the town soon if nothing is done about it. As was the case in the novel, the dialogue, which takes place between Calpurnia, Scout, and Jem, propel the plot forward, while their actions, and the sound of each of their voices, sets the tone for the scene. No description proves necessary as far as setting is concerned, as we can clearly see that the characters start outside of the Finch’s residence, (which allows them to make note of the dog), before progressing into the household, (so that Calpurnia can keep the children safe and warn the rest of the town), before progressing outward and into the streets again, (so Mr. Tate and Atticus can dispose of the threat). Once the scene moves back to the area just outside of the Finch residence, we can see the threat, (the mad dog), ambling up the street. The frame tightens as the dog comes closer and closer, until it shows the dog as being only a few houses down from the Finch’s. At the far end of the screen, we can see both Tate and Atticus with the gun. They stand small, as the last, dismal hope that the town has of destroying the threat the dog poses, before it destroys them. Again, the dialogue between the two characters- both Heck and Atticus- are what propels the story forward, while the actions that take place on account of the dog and the world around them, (the absence of the other town folk, the children being kept inside the house), continue the trend of general fear and urgency, which has encompassed the entirety of the scene. As the frame shifts again, we are shown a close-up of Atticus, holding the gun and taking aim. Mulligan is directing our focus to him, as we as viewers have come to realize that he is the only thing standing between the town and complete chaos. Then the scene cuts to Jem standing beside Calpurnia, which I believe is meant to remind us of what Atticus is fighting for, (and presumably, breaking his “upstanding” character for). Next, we are shown the close-up of Atticus again, and we can tell that he is nervous, for the glasses he raised to allow for sight along the length of the barrel, (which would help him perfect his aim), fall down the bridge of his nose, and get in his way. Hurriedly, he removes them, and loses his previous position. Swiftly, he forces himself to recover and take aim again, as the dog continues to bark; reminding him and us, as the story’s viewers, that the threat of the dog is still looming over his person. We are shown Tate again, who looks confused- perhaps he is wondering what is taking so long. Then we are shown Scout, who seems nervous, and Jem, who seems both confused and nervous. They are used to heighten the tension evident within this scene; the worry, which has overcome each of their hearts. Then again, we see Atticus, and he finally takes his shot. The dog yelps as it falls. The children, unaware of their father’s skill with a gun, seem shocked that he made the shot; their previous image of him had been shattered. But this seems only temporary, as Atticus once again, reasserts his role as father, when he tells his children not to go near the dead dog, which is “just as dangerous dead as alive.” The use of his gesture, (the pointing of his finger at Jem as well as Calpurnia, who is supposed to mind each of his children), assists with this transition of Atticus as the hero, to Atticus as the father-figure. His words, again, are used to propel the plot forward, and relate how the threat is beginning to ebb away with the dog’s untimely demise.

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ncmagroup · 5 years

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by Linda A. Hill and Kent Lineback

Am I good enough?”

“Am I ready? This is my big opportunity, but now I’m not sure I’m prepared.”

These thoughts plagued Jason, an experienced manager, as he lay awake one night fretting about a new position he’d taken. For more than five years he had run a small team of developers in Boston. They produced two highly successful lines of engineering textbooks for the education publishing arm of a major media conglomerate. On the strength of his reputation as a great manager of product development, he’d been chosen by the company to take over an online technical-education start-up based in London.

Jason arrived at his new office on a Monday morning, excited and confident, but by the end of his first week, he was beginning to wonder whether he was up to the challenge. In his previous work, he had led people who’d worked together before and required coordination but little supervision. There were problems, of course, but nothing like what he’d discovered in this new venture. Key members of his group barely talked to one another. Other publishers in the company, whose materials and collaboration he desperately needed, angrily viewed his new group as competition. The goals he’d been set seemed impossible—the group was about to miss some early milestones—and a crucial partnership with an outside organization had been badly, perhaps irretrievably, damaged. On top of all that, his boss, who was located in New York, offered little help. “That’s why you’re there” was the typical response whenever Jason described a problem. By Friday he was worried about living up to the expectations implied in that response.

Do Jason’s feelings sound familiar? Such moments of doubt and even fear may and often do come despite years of management experience. Any number of events can trigger them: An initiative you’re running isn’t going as expected. Your people aren’t performing as they should. You hear talk in the group that “the real problem here is lack of leadership.” You think you’re doing fine until you, like Jason, receive a daunting new assignment. You’re given a lukewarm performance review. Or one day you simply realize that you’re no longer growing and advancing—you’re stuck.

Most Managers Stop Working on Themselves

The whole question of how managers grow and advance is one we’ve studied, thought about, and lived with for years. As a professor working with high potentials, MBAs, and executives from around the globe, Linda meets people who want to contribute to their organizations and build fulfilling careers. As an executive, Kent has worked with managers at all levels of both private and public organizations. All our experience brings us to a simple but troubling observation: Most bosses reach a certain level of proficiency and stop there—short of what they could and should be.

We’ve discussed this observation with countless colleagues, who almost without exception have seen what we see: Organizations usually have a few great managers, some capable ones, a horde of mediocre ones, some poor ones, and some awful ones. The great majority of people we work with are well-intentioned, smart, accomplished individuals. Many progress and fulfill their ambitions. But too many derail and fail to live up to their potential. Why? Because they stop working on themselves.

Managers rarely ask themselves, “How good am I?” and “Do I need to be better?” unless they’re shocked into it. When did you last ask those questions? On the spectrum of great to awful bosses, where do you fall?

Managers in new assignments usually start out receptive to change. The more talented and ambitious ones choose stretch assignments, knowing that they’ll have much to learn at first. But as they settle in and lose their fear of imminent failure, they often grow complacent. Every organization has its ways of doing things—policies, standard practices, and unspoken guidelines, such as “promote by seniority” and “avoid conflict.” Once they’re learned, managers often use them to get by—to “manage” in the worst sense of the word.

It doesn’t help that a majority of the organizations we see offer their managers minimal support and rarely press the experienced ones to improve. Few expect more of their leaders than short-term results, which by themselves don’t necessarily indicate real management skill.

In our experience, however, the real culprit is neither managerial complacency nor organizational failure: It is a lack of understanding. When bosses are questioned, it’s clear that many of them have stopped making progress because they simply don’t know how to.

Do you understand what’s required to become truly effective?

Too often managers underestimate how much time and effort it takes to keep growing and developing. Becoming a great boss is a lengthy, difficult process of learning and change, driven mostly by personal experience. Indeed, so much time and effort are required that you can think of the process as a journey—a journey of years.

What makes the journey especially arduous is that the lessons involved cannot be taught. Leadership is using yourself as an instrument to get things done in the organization, so it is about self-development. There are no secrets and a few shortcuts. You and every other manager must learn the lessons yourself, based on your own experience as a boss. If you don’t understand the nature of the journey, you’re more likely to pause or lose hope and tell yourself, “I can’t do this” or “I’m good enough already.”

Do you understand what you’re trying to attain?

We all know how disorganized, fragmented, and even chaotic every manager’s workdays are. Given this reality, which is intensifying as work and organizations become more complex and fluid, how can you as a boss do anything more than cope with what comes at you day by day?

To deal with the chaos, you need a clear underlying sense of what’s important and where you and your group want to be in the future. You need a mental model that you can lay over the chaos and into which you can fit all the messy pieces as they come at you. This way of thinking begins with a straightforward definition: Management is the responsibility for the performance of a group of people.

It’s a simple idea, yet putting it into practice is difficult because management is defined by responsibility but done by exerting influence. To influence others you must make a difference not only in what they do but also in the thoughts and feelings that drive their actions. How do you actually do this?

To answer that question, you need an overarching, integrated way of thinking about your work as a manager. We offer an approach based on studies of management practice, our own observations, and our knowledge of where managers tend to go wrong. We call it the three imperatives: Manage yourself. Manage your network. Manage your team.

Is this the only way to describe management? No, of course not. But it’s clear, straightforward, and, above all, focused on what managers must actually do. People typically think of “management” as just the third imperative, but today all three are critical to success. Together they encompass the crucial activities that effective managers must perform to influence others. Mastering them is the purpose of your journey.

Manage Yourself

Management begins with you, because who you are as a person, what you think and feel, the beliefs and values that drive your actions, and especially how you connect with others all matter to the people you must influence. Every day those people examine every interaction with you, your every word and deed, to uncover your intentions. They ask themselves, “Can I trust this person?” How hard they work, their level of personal commitment, their willingness to accept your influence, will depend in large part on the qualities they see in you. And their perceptions will determine the answer to this fundamental question every manager must ask: Am I someone who can influence others productively?

Who you are, shows up most clearly in the relationships you form with others, especially those for whom you’re responsible. It’s easy to get those crucial relationships wrong. Effective managers possess the self-awareness and self-management required to get them right.

José, a department head, told us of two managers who worked for him in the marketing department of a large maker of durable goods. Both managers were struggling to deliver the results expected of their groups. Both, it turned out, were creating dysfunctional relationships. One was frankly ambivalent about being “the boss” and hated it when people referred to him that way. He wanted to be liked, so he tried to build close personal relationships. He would say, in effect, “Do what I ask because we’re friends.” That worked for a while until, for good reasons, he had to turn down one “friend” for promotion and deny another one a bonus. Naturally, those people felt betrayed, and their dissatisfaction began to poison the feelings of everyone else in the group.

The other manager took the opposite approach. With her, it was all business. No small talk or reaching out to people as people. For her, results mattered, and she’d been made the boss because she was the one who knew what needed to be done; it was the job of her people to execute. Not surprisingly, her message was always “Do what I say because I’m the boss.” She was effective—until people began leaving.

If productive influence doesn’t arise from being liked (“I’m your friend!”) or from fear (“I’m the boss!”), where does it come from? From people’s trust in you as a manager. That trust has two components: belief in your competence (you know what to do and how to do it) and belief in your character (your motives are good and you want your people to do well).

Trust is the foundation of all forms of influence other than coercion. You need to foster it.

Trust is the foundation of all forms of influence other than coercion, and you need to conduct yourself with others in ways that foster it. Management really does begin with who you are as a person.

Manage Your Network

We once talked to Kim, the head of a software company division, just as he was leaving a meeting of a task force consisting of his peers. He had proposed a new way of handling interdivisional sales, which he believed would increase revenue by encouraging each division to cross-sell other divisions’ products. At the meeting, he’d made an extremely well-researched, carefully reasoned, and even compelling case for his proposal—which the group rejected with very little discussion. “How many of these people did you talk to about your proposal before the meeting?” we asked. None, it turned out. “But I anticipated all their questions and objections,” he protested, adding with some bitterness, “It’s just politics. If they can’t see what’s good for the company and them, I can’t help them.”

Many managers resist the need to operate effectively in their organizations’ political environments. They consider politics dysfunctional—a sign the organization is broken—and don’t realize that it unavoidably arises from three features inherent in all organizations: division of labor, which creates disparate groups with disparate and even conflicting goals and priorities; interdependence, which means that none of those groups can do their work without the others; and scarce resources, for which groups necessarily compete. Obviously, some organizations handle politics better than others, but conflict and competition among groups are inevitable. How do they get resolved? Through organizational influence. Groups whose managers have influence tend to get what they need; other groups don’t.

Unfortunately, many managers deal with conflict by trying to avoid it. “I hate company politics!” they say. “Just let me do my job.” But effective managers know they cannot turn away. Instead, with integrity and for good ends, they proactively engage the organization to create the conditions for their success. They build and nurture a broad network of ongoing relationships with those they need and those who need them; that is how they influence people over whom they have no formal authority. They also take responsibility for making their boss, a key member of their network, a source of influence on their behalf.

Manage Your Team

As a manager, Wei worked closely with each of her people, who were spread across the U.S. and the Far East. But she rarely called a virtual group meeting, and only once had her group met face-to-face. “In my experience,” she told us, “meetings online or in-person are usually a waste of time. Some people do all the yakking, others stay silent, and not much gets done. It’s a lot more efficient for me to work with each person and arrange for them to coordinate when that’s necessary.” It turned out, though, that she was spending all her time “coordinating,” which included a great deal of conflict mediation. People under her seemed to be constantly at odds, vying for the scarce resources they needed to achieve their disparate goals and complaining about what others were or were not doing.

Too many managers overlook the possibilities of creating a real team and managing their people as a whole. They don’t realize that managing one-on-one is just not the same as managing a group and that they can influence individual behavior much more effectively through the group because most of us are social creatures who want to fit in and be accepted as part of the team. How do you make the people who work for you, whether on a project or permanently, into a real team—a group of people who are mutually committed to a common purpose and the goals related to that purpose?

To do collective work that requires varied skills, experience, and knowledge, teams are more creative and productive than groups of individuals who merely cooperate. In a real team, members hold themselves and one another jointly accountable. They share a genuine conviction that they will succeed or fail together. A clear and compelling purpose and concrete goals and plans based on that purpose are critical. Without them, no group will coalesce into a real team.

Team culture is equally important. Members need to know what’s required of them collectively and individually; what the team’s values, norms, and standards are; how members are expected to work together (what kind of conflict is acceptable or unacceptable, for example); and how they should communicate. It’s your job to make sure they have all this crucial knowledge.

Effective managers also know that even in a cohesive team they cannot ignore individual members. Every person wants to be a valued member of a group and needs individual recognition. You must be able to provide the attention members need, but always in the context of the team.

Effective managers know that even in a cohesive team they cannot ignore individual members.

And finally, effective managers know how to lead a team through the work it does day after day—including the unplanned problems and opportunities that frequently arise—to make progress toward achieving their own and the team’s goals.

Be Clear on How You’re Doing

The three imperatives will help you influence both those who work for you and those who don’t. Most important, they provide a clear and actionable road map for your journey. You must master them to become a fully effective manager.

These imperatives are not simply distinct managerial competencies. They are tightly integrated activities, each of which depends on the others. Getting your person-to-person relationships right is critical to building a well-functioning team and giving its individual members the attention they need. A compelling team purpose, bolstered by clear goals and plans, is the foundation for a strong network, and a network is indispensable for reaching your team’s goals.

Knowing where you’re going is only the first half of what’s required. You also need to know at all times where you are on your journey and what you must do to make progress. We’re all aware that the higher you rise in an organization, the less feedback you get about your performance. You have to be prepared to regularly assess yourself.

Too many managers seem to assume that development happens automatically. They have only a vague sense of the goal and of where they stand in relation to it. They tell themselves, “I’m doing all right” or “As I take on more challenges, I’ll get better.” Consequently, those managers fall short. There’s no substitute for routinely taking a look at yourself and how you’re doing. (The exhibit “Measuring Yourself on the Three Imperatives” will help you do this.)

Measuring Yourself on the Three Imperatives

Don’t be discouraged if you find several areas in which you could do better. No manager will meet all the standards implicit in the three imperatives. The goal is not perfection. It’s developing the strengths you need for success and compensating for any fatal shortcomings. Look at your strengths and weaknesses in the context of your organization. What knowledge and skills does it—or will it—need to reach its goals? How can your strengths help it move forward? Given its needs and priorities, what weaknesses must you address right away? The answers become your personal learning goals.

What You Can Do Right Now

Progress will come only from your work experience: from trying and learning, observing and interacting with others, experimenting, and sometimes pushing yourself beyond the bounds of comfort—and then assessing yourself on the three imperatives again and again. Above all, take responsibility for your own development; ultimately, all development is self-development.

You won’t make progress unless you consciously act. Before you started a business, you would draw up a business plan broken into manageable steps with milestones; do the same as you think about your journey. Set personal goals. Solicit feedback from others. Take advantage of company training programs. Create a network of trusted advisers, including role models and mentors. Use your strengths to seek out developmental experiences. We know you’ve heard all this advice before, and it is good advice. But what we find most effective in building the learning into your daily work.

For this purpose, we offer a simple approach we call prep, do, review.

Prep.

Begin each morning with a quick preview of the coming day’s events. For each one, ask yourself how you can use it to develop as a manager and in particular how you can work on your specific learning goals. Consider delegating a task you would normally take on yourself and think about how you might do that—to whom, what questions you should ask, what boundaries or limits you should set, what preliminary coaching you might provide. Apply the same thinking during the day when a problem comes up unexpectedly. Before taking any action, step back and consider how it might help you become better. Stretch yourself. If you don’t move outside familiar patterns and practice new approaches, you’re unlikely to learn.

Do.

Take whatever action is required in your daily work, and as you do, use the new and different approaches you planned. Don’t lose your resolve. For example, if you tend to cut off conflict in a meeting, even constructive conflict, force yourself to hold back so that disagreement can be expressed and worked through. Step in only if the discussion becomes personal or points of view are being stifled. The ideas that emerge may lead you to a better outcome.

Review.

After the action, examine what you did and how it turned out. This is where learning actually occurs. Reflection is critical, and it works best if you make it a regular practice. For example, set aside time toward the end of each day—perhaps on your commute home. Which actions worked well? What might you have done differently? Replay conversations. Compare what you did with what you might have done if you were the manager you aspire to be. Where did you disappoint yourself, and how did that happen? Did you practice any new behaviors or otherwise make progress on your journey?

Some managers keep notes about how they spent their time, along with thoughts about what they learned. One CEO working on a corporate globalization strategy told us he’d started recording every Friday his reflections about the past week. Within six weeks, he said, he’d developed the greater discipline to say no to anything “not on the critical path,” which gave him time to spend with key regulators and to jump-start the strategy.

If you still need to make progress on your journey, that should spur you to action, not discourage you. You can become what you want and need to be. But you must take personal responsibility for mastering the three imperatives and assessing where you are now.

Go to our website: www.ncmalliance.com

Are You a Good Boss—or a Great One? by Linda A. Hill and Kent Lineback Am I good enough?” “Am I ready? This is my big opportunity, but now I’m not sure I’m prepared.”

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