#Guess who i care about most based on how i draw them challenge impossible

[pavlov-sdog]

Ashes to Ashes i think

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

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[echodrops]

I’m obviously late to the tumble party... but I stumbled across your Notagami Essays posts and they are absolutely Fabulous! Love your writing and the amount of detail you go into :)

So I figured you may be a good person to ask - if you just had to guess (bc as far as I know it’s never been officially confirmed?) but if you had to take a guess or give a rough estimate, how old do you think Yato was when he first met Sakura? We know he’s estimated to be at least a thousand years old, we know he’s - from the start of the series to present - estimated to be somewhere between 18 and his early 20s (physically)... but I can’t find a single thing/discussion/post/stickynote/whatever where it talks about how old he might have been when he first met Sakura - let alone the emotional/psychological effects of Sakura coming into his life and introducing healthy mindset/morals/maternal-influence etc. etc. (obviously no mom and Father’s neglect played a big role in him not knowing how inappropriate it was for him to ‘accidentally touch’ and yell “boobs!” but you can also just say he was so young he didn’t know how inappropriate that was?) My point is: how old do you think Yato was (physically anyway) at the time of their meeting? and Do you know of any discussions or care to share your opinion on how being the no more than the age of blank affected his mental/emotional understanding of Sakura teaching him a new narrative?

Sorry this is a random out of the blue ask 😅😓 if I rambled on and you don’t feel like answering, I get it, just figured it was worth asking :)

I fell down a serious rabbit hole trying to see if I could figure out the answer to this question about Yato’s age but unfortunately I’m mostly coming up empty-handed.

The answer to this question actually depends on two different pieces of information which--as far as I can remember--we’ve never actually been given for certain.

1) We would need to know when Yato was actually born.

The manga has kind of hinted at a total (not physical) age for Yato in the flashbacks which showed him as a young child during the Heian era (putting him somewhere in the vicinity of a little over 1000 years old) and Father not making masks before ~1100 years ago, but the problem is we still don’t know how many years might have passed between this scene (the youngest we’ve ever seen Yato):

And the next flashback scene, where Yato meets Nora:

If gods age normally when they are children, these two scenes might be only a handful of years apart. But if gods don’t age normally, then these two scenes could be decades or centuries apart, which leads to the other missing piece of information (under the read more to save people’s dashes):

2) We would need to know the aging process for gods who are just born/reincarnate.

Up to this point in the manga, we’ve only seen two gods reincarnate--Ebisu (who reincarnated too recently to really help answer this question) and Takemikazuchi. The implication of Takemikazuchi’s backstory is that his shinki forced him to reincarnate and then hid his reincarnation from all of Heaven. The only way they could have kept other gods from noticing that Takemikazuchi had reincarnated would have been by not allowing him to go out at all until he had grown enough to match his previous reincarnation in appearance. This seems to suggest that gods probably do age normally when they are children--hiding Takemikazuchi away for ~20 years seems a lot more likely than being able to hide him away for centuries, after all... (I also feel like I have very vague recollection of some scene in the manga where someone comments on Takemikazuchi not having been around for a “few years,” but it’s been so long since I reread I can’t recall if this is a real moment from the manga or just me misremembering.) 

Overall, however, based on what we’ve seen in the manga, my guess would be that when they’re young, after just being born or being reincarnated, gods age pretty normally. This would suggest that, for the first few years at least, the physical and mental ages of reincarnated/newly born gods actually overlap; baby Ebisu acts like a little kid because he is, in fact, both mentally and physically a little kid.

That would mean that, for all intents and purposes, Yato’s physical and mental ages lined up when he was young and meeting Sakura, and he acted like a little kid because he really was just a little kid, god or not.

(Detour for a second though: 

This line always struck me as interesting in that it might, just might, give us a more specific timeframe for Yato’s “birth”: although the constellations, of course, are visible in the sky every single year, this particular combination of concepts (kanoto-tori, yin metal rooster) is known much more commonly as one of the sixty years on the cyclical Chinese calendar, also used in Japan. Counting back on the calendar, 961 A.D. was a yin metal rooster year and would align just about right for what we know about the timeframe in which Yato later met Sakura (~970ish). Just referencing constellations doesn’t mean Adachitoka was pointing to a specific year, but it might have been another hint as to the timeframe of the flashbacks.

Okay, detour over.)

Anyway, without 100% confirmation on either of those pieces of information--when Yato was born and whether gods age at the same rate as humans after reincarnating--I don’t think it’s really possible to pin down Yato’s “real” age (physically or mentally) at the time he met Sakura. We mostly just have to estimate. 

Personally, based on his size and behavior at the time, I’d put him somewhere between seven and maybe up to ten, but the way Adachitoka draws characters kind of makes it impossible to judge their ages by appearance; Yato is about the same size as Nora when he meets Sakura, implying that he and Nora were around the same physical “age” at that time; meanwhile, Nora is later portrayed as being roughly the same age as Yukine, suggesting she was maybe 12-13ish years old when she died. So, despite being drawn tiny, it’s possible Yato was meant to be anywhere from a little kiddo (6-7) to all the way up to Nora’s age by the time he met Sakura.

But all that said, I think what you were really asking about was more the mental state Yato would have been in when he met Sakura and how his young age would have impacted his ability to change his world views, right? The answer to that is... complicated and could be approached a lot of ways. Coming from a background of working with and educating social work students, there are several common psychological theories of child development that might apply here, for example. 

I’d recommend checking out Erik Erikson’s psychosocial stages of development, though. 

(Pulled from here.)

I don’t have time to explain the entire theory with the complexity it might deserve, but the basic idea is that, as children develop, they experience a series of crises or challenges that they must overcome. Successfully overcoming each challenge results in successful psychological and social development; failing to overcome a challenge in childhood will result in long-term negative impacts later in the child’s life. (There are plenty critiques of this theory too, so don’t take this as gospel or anything--just a theory worth thinking about!)  

Given Father’s lack of interest in teaching Yato basic concepts of humanity, I would put Yato at approximately the “Initiative vs. Guilt” stage when he met Sakura. At this level of Erikson’s theory, children struggle with asserting themselves and developing a healthy sense of how their personal desires might conflict with the expectations and rules set out by others. In this stage, giving a child positive feedback for their actions teaches the child that those actions are “right,” while giving negative feedback teaching the child that their actions are wrong. In order to overcome this particular challenge, children need to begin taking initiative and aligning their actions with social standards; the child acts, and the parental figure reacts--through this process, children learn “I can do X thing but I cannot do Y thing.” 

When you hear things like “Children are cruel,” most often what people are referring to is that it takes time for children to learn empathy and to experience guilt when they cause harm to others; children do not natively understand the repercussions of their actions. It’s only through a process of testing the boundaries, of receiving praise or punishment, that children define what is “right” versus “wrong,” and begin to feel bad when they do something deemed wrong.

And this is pretty much word-for-word what we see Sakura teaching Yato.

If they have healthy role models and caretakers during this phase, children develop successfully. Successful children in this phase get their first taste of personal responsibility; unsuccessful children are (supposedly) plagued for years afterward by a sense of guilt and shame when their actions produce disapproval from everyone around them.

Yato... doesn’t exactly make it through this development stage unscathed, because he receives conflicting definitions of right and wrong from his Father an Sakura:

Which ultimately results in, years later, the Yato we know and love who still does his Father’s bidding to kill humans even though it fills him with a horrific sense of guilt:

Through his time with Sakura, I think it could also be argued that Yato moves into the next stage of Erikson’s theory as well, getting into the “Industry versus Inferiority” crises. 

Meeting Sakura brings out Yato’s true, deep down desire as a god: to help people. (I think it’s important to note that this isn’t something Sakura teaches him--it’s a quality Yato already possessed; it was explicitly Yato’s desire to please people that led to him murdering in his father’s name.)

Once he learns what makes people happy, Yato immediately pursues that with intense focus:

The primary goal of this phase of psychosocial development is to experience a sense of confidence in one’s actions. When children practice their skills, pursue areas where they are praised, and gain new skills and aptitudes through mentoring from healthy role models, they gain confidence in their ability to excel, to fit in with peers their age, and to create meaningful things. By encouraging Yato to pursue positive behaviors--playing peacefully with other children, appreciating natural beauty, and creating useful things like boots for the needy--Sakura moved Yato toward successfully completing this phase and developing a sense of confidence in his actions and his ability to achieve positive things in the world. 

Of course, Father cannot have that (because confident children with a sense of self-worth are much more difficult to abuse), so he puts an immediate end to Sakura’s influence over Yato in the most insidious way possible: although he clearly manipulated the situation to achieve Sakura’s death, out loud, he blames Yato, implying that Sakura’s death was all Yato’s fault, the results of Yato taking unwanted action “industry” and yet failing--creating a sense of “inferiority” instead.

This, of course, haunts Yato all the way to the present, as he--again and again and again--blames himself for things outside his control or failing to live up to expectations that no one in his situation (still being manipulated) could possibly hope to get “right.” 

Finally, you could say that Sakura’s presence is Yato’s life is ultimately what sows the seeds of the manga’s main plot up to this point, with Yato’s quest to create an entirely new identity for himself as a god of fortune instead of a god of calamity. Personally, I would say that Yato is currently still in this phase of development, still working out how to define himself and who he will ultimately become once he is finally free to decide on his own path in life. It was Sakura’s gentle influence--his desire to become the kind of god who could make her smile--that eventually sparked his conflict and finally led Yato to the brink of catastrophe. If he wishes to become the god Sakura told him he could be, he can no longer suffer his father to live.

So, long story longer, I think it can be argued that Yato meeting Sakura at such a young age is EXACTLY what made it possible for him to change, and exactly what has led to his crisis in identifying himself and redefining his sense of right and wrong. 

Uhhhh... I hope that answers your question!

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day thirty-one

Prompt #31: “I trust you.”

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall.

Words: 2218

Author’s Note: an underappreciated aspect of chess culture? games played for fun are called Skittles. set post 5B, Scott & Stiles take a break to play a game of chess, and wind up talking about a whole lot more than just a game. Gen fic, Scott & Stiles focus. Stiles POV.

>> j’adoube (i adjust)

Stiles tosses his pen in the air. Watches it flip, twice. Catches it, barely. Toss and repeat.

“Hey, Scott.”

Scott, who’s sitting across from him at the desk, just grunts without looking up. They’ve been going over scholarships together for the past three hours, and it’s the most mind-numbing use of a Saturday Stiles has had in a very long time.

Which, considering most of his Saturdays have been more of the terrifyingly bloody variety, is probably still preferable. But still.

“Scoooooooott.”

Scott flips to the next page. “Mm?”

Stiles throws his pen at him and smacks him squarely across the face.

“Ow, Stiles—what?”

Stiles flips over onto his stomach, triumphant to have finally gotten Scott’s full attention. “You wanna play a game?”

Scott puts his own pen down and leans back in the chair, stretching and popping in a way that suggests being hunched over for that long is unpleasant for even a werewolf. “What kind? Board game?”

Stiles grins.

Board games, to his mind, are sacrosanct.

Not necessarily because he loves them—given a free range of choices, he’d rather do just about anything else—but because it’s so easy for them to suck.

Yahtzee, Monopoly, Shoots and Ladders, Candy Land, Sorry, even Risk—there’s just too much luck involved for his taste. Draw randomized but predetermined cards, roll uncontrollable dice. And that’s not even touching the disaster that’s Life, where the only two choices that ever matter are college or career, kids or no kids.

Absolutely nothing about bite or no bite, or possession or no possession.

Or ‘betrayed by a monster that gets your best friend killed and your crush of five years committed to an asylum,’ but.

Either way, it’s a joke.

There are better board games. Clue or Scrabble, which still rely on the hand that’s dealt, but at least can be salvaged with enough knowledge and strategy.

But he has the best one in mind for today.

“Chess?”

Scott’s eyes light up with a competitive glint Stiles feels like he hasn’t seen in ages, and he knows he’s won.

“I could do a round or two,” Scott says.

“Oh, thank god—”

“But, then we have to get back to work on these.”

“Yep, uh-huh, absolutely,” Stiles says, rolling off the bed and hunting underneath it for his set.

He fully intends to bribe Scott into playing way more than that, but one thing at a time.

His fingers close over the wooden case and he draws it out, blowing a bit of dust off the top. He turns it over in his hands.

If board games are sacrosanct, then chess is the holy grail.

Most people don’t get the attraction, and he respects that. It takes a certain level of concentration to be good at chess, and considering how many strategy books he’s read on the topic—even if he rarely remembers them—he can beat a casual player without too much effort. Plus, most people prefer games that don’t require much thought, perfectly wiling to just roll their dice and move their mice.

Stiles respects that a lot less.

What he likes about chess is that it’s the one game that’s completely and totally winnable every time—with no variation from chance or random dealing. He might be outmatched, but he’s not outnumbered.

Every choice he makes is fully his own.

It’s the best game.

The only marginal difference is that white has a slight advantage, as it gets to go first, so as Stiles tosses the set onto the bed he says, “I can be black this time.”

Scott barely glances up from the scholarship he’s still worrying himself over. “Hm? No, that’s okay, I don’t mind. You can take white.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and flops onto the bed. “You’ve been black the past like, eight times we’ve played. You’re white this time.”

“Stiles, I really don’t care if you want it.”

It’s an innocuous statement, but Stiles’ temper flares because all he can hear is that Scott thinks he needs the advantage—even if it’s one that, statistically, barely even matters. “What, because you don’t think I can beat you otherwise?”

“What? No, Stiles, I—” Scott falls silent, and it’s enough to instantly cool Stiles’ frustration. “I just—never mind. I can be white.”

Stiles hesitates for a few beats, then turns the board and starts setting the pieces up so the white ones are facing Scott.

He pauses. He’s been trying to pay more attention to Scott lately, but it’s hard—Scott tends to fold pretty quickly on smaller issues, and he tends to—

Well.

Not.

“Then again,” he tries, “I guess it doesn’t really matter—”

“You asked me to play white, so I’ll play white.” Scott’s voice is flat. “You were right; we haven’t switched it up in a while, so it’s only fair. Just give me a sec to finish this.”

“…Okay.”

Stiles toys with the edge of the board as he waits for Scott to finish restacking the papers.

One of the reasons Stiles likes chess is because it makes for a surprisingly good Rorschach test, and he’s played it with every member of the pack at some point or another.

Liam’s not much of a challenge, mostly because he’s made it clear he doesn’t care. The one time they played, he’d started strong—aiming to capture more than aiming to secure—but his failure to consider long-term strategy had gotten him into trouble almost immediately. With Malia, she has a good concept of how to control the center of the board, and favors trap-based strategy, but her ability to pay attention to her opponent’s gameplay is usually her downfall. Lydia tends to focus on a bishop and pawn strategy, which works very well for her mostly because it infuriates Stiles—his own strategy relies heavily on a more spontaneous approach to movement, and her method thoroughly demarcates most of the board. That’s probably why he enjoys playing with Kira, whose strategy rotates every time they play—as soon as he’d introduced her to the game, she’d started binging chess tutorials at speeds that put his own research to shame.

He hasn’t had the chance to play with the new pack members, but he has his guesses as to how that will go. Mason will play circles around him, but be super nice about it. Hayden will either trounce him thoroughly if she cares, or lose terribly if she doesn’t, and there will be nothing in between. Corey… Corey will probably favor the knights, which will make him hard to beat on the front end, but almost impossible to lose to in the endgame.

But he can work with that. All of those strategies make sense; make it easier for him to understand and categorize them.

He looks down at the white and black pieces, standing silently in anticipation of the match.

He can’t think of any reason Scott would want to reject the advantage, unless it was just for his benefit, but he hadn’t appeared to be lying.

And now Scott probably won’t tell him because he’d snapped at him instead of just asking.

Stiles winces and rakes his hands through his hair.

It’s just a chess preference. It’s not like it matters.

Except it does, because everything between them feels so fragile after Theo.

Stiles’ thoughts are interrupted when Scott vaults onto the bed, accidentally knocking one of the pawns forward as the board lists to the side.

“Whoops,” Scott says. The tiniest of smirks appears on his face as he moves to fix it. “J’adoube.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to announce that that’s not your move when I can clearly see what just happened.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Scott says, adjusting the piece. “You’ve definitely called me out for less in the past.”

“You tried to change your mind after wrapping your whole hand around a bishop! How is that less?”

Scott shrugs, and Stiles is relieved he doesn’t seem to be bothered about the pieces anymore. “I’m just saying. Can’t be too careful.”

“A mindset I would normally endorse wholeheartedly, however.”

Scott laughs, then settles in cross-legged and stares down at the board, elbows resting on his knees and face furrowed in contemplation.

Stiles glances at Scott, then at board, then back at Scott again.

Scott doesn’t move.

Suddenly, it’s really bothering Stiles that despite having played with him more than anyone else, despite knowing him better than anyone else, Stiles still doesn’t understand why Scott plays the way he does.

It’s not that Scott’s exceptionally bad, or that Scott’s exceptionally good. It’s that he’s both.

When he plays with Stiles, he matches him step for step, pivoting his goals almost as quickly as Stiles does. But the few times Stiles’ seen Scott play with others, that ability seems to vanish—his level of competence almost directly mapped onto the level of the person he’s playing with, above or below where Stiles would expect it.

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s just Scott. Stiles had long since acknowledged that there were always going to be some things that didn’t make sense about his best friend.

That was before Theo. Before everything that was Scott & Stiles fell apart.

And also, Scott still hasn’t moved.

“Hey Scott?” Stiles waits until he glances up at him, chin still resting in his hands. “You gonna go, bud?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. He blinks down at the board. “There’s just… a lot of options.”

“Okay, right, that’s true,” Stiles says. “But it’s also just the first move.”

“Yeah.”

Scott reaches out and touches the pawn from before. He hovers there for a moment, then retracts his hand—the pawn still unmoved.

Stiles clears his throat.

“Really? You want me to—” Scott sighs. “J’adoube.”

“Technically, you’re supposed to say that before you touch it.”

“And technically, you said I didn’t have to say it earlier, so that one could count for the one I just did.”

“Bro,” Stiles says, because this is getting ridiculous. “Literally just move the pawn. Or a knight. Or any of the other pawns. There are zero other options.”

“I know, I know,” Scott says. “I just… what if I move this piece, and then you move like your knight or something, and it turns out I made the wrong move?”

Stiles squints at him. “It’s your move. Why would my move, which comes afterward, make yours wrong?”

“Because I have to stop your plan.”

“Right, but like.” Stiles tilts his head. “What about your plan?”

“That is my plan.”

Stiles’ brain short circuits, and he spins rapidly through every game he’s ever watched Scott play. “So—so wait. You mean every time you’re playing you’re just… trying to figure out your opponent’s plan? You’re not making one of your own?”

“I mean, kinda?” Scott reaches for the pawn again, then pauses before touching it. “J’adoube.”

“Yeah, whatever, just move the pawn,” Stiles says. “So earlier, it wasn’t about wanting me to have an advantage; you wanted black because… it’s to your advantage?”

Scott spins the pawn around in a slow circle, then lets go of it without moving its position. Again.

“I guess,” he says. “You like playing white better and I like black better, so it just… makes more sense to let us play the ones we actually prefer.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

Scott shrugs. “It just seemed like it was important to you, and I… I didn’t want to argue.” His eyes drop, and so does his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore.”

Something clicks in Stiles’ mind. “J’adoube.”

“Uh,” Scott looks pointedly at the pieces, which are still unmoved, and his hands, which aren’t anywhere near them. “What?”

“‘I adjust,’” Stiles says. “That’s what you’ve been doing. Adjusting your plan to match mine, or—or anyone else.”

Scott picks at the edge of his sleeve. “And that’s bad?”

“Um.” Stiles hasn’t gotten that far. “No? I mean like, you’re clearly very good at it. You’ve definitely beat me enough times doing it.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“See, there you go, anticipating me again. You’re a pro.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay, the point.” Stiles glances down at the chessboard—and then at the pile of scholarships, too. “Look, I’m just saying you gotta just take the shot sometimes. Or move the pawn. Whatever. My point is, it’s okay to make your own plans.”

Scott shifts a bit to look behind him at the paperwork, something both worried and hopeful in his expression.

“And then, y’know,” Stiles continues, “you can always adjust them later if you have to. But you don’t have to start out that way.”

Scott picks up the pawn and turns it about in his fingers. He bites his lip. “And… you trust this to work?”

“Nah, man.” Stiles settles back against the wall and nods towards the board. “It’s the first move; I have no idea how it’ll play out. But… I trust you enough to know that you can handle it if it doesn’t.”

Scott’s eyes get suspiciously bright, but Stiles doesn’t comment. “I trust you, too.”

(And, well.)

(If Stiles’ eyes get a little bright too, no one comments on that either.)

Scott moves the pawn to e4, and lets it go.

[the-awkward-outlaw]

i’m so excited your inbox is open!!😁😁can i request an arthur x fem!reader where he’s insisting he’s “an ugly, old outlaw” and all that bs and she gets really emotional and gives this speech on how handsome (adorable) and loyal and caring he is? basically just tooth-rotting fluff😊😊love your work!!🤍

I hope I ticked all the boxes for this one, lol. But it definitely turned out very fluffy (which is good, because I live for fluff! They are my favorite to write, especially with Arthur). Enjoy! 

Masterlist

Read on AO3

You stand on the edge of Horseshoe Overlook, repeater in hand, waiting for an improbable attack. Of course, you can’t be entirely sure there won’t be one. Arthur mentioned a couple days ago running into some Pinkertons while he was out fishing with Jack. Something tells you that if they found this place, they’d have no problems marching in. 

An hour later, the sun’s beginning its slow descent into the sky and you hear something: a horse coming down the path. Just as you lean around a tree to see who it is, Arthur comes into view. 

“Oh hey, Arthur!” you say excitedly. Not only does he carry heavy weight in camp, he’s one of the nicest men you’ve ever met (despite being an outlaw), and he’s also the man you’re in love with. You haven’t had the courage to tell him this, the thought alone terrifies you. 

He gives you an adorable “gun” finger salute as he trots past, but you notice his eyes don’t crinkle the way they do when he smiles, almost like he’s faking it. He goes on towards the camp and you follow him, wondering if something’s wrong. 

When you get to camp, you ask Karen to take guard duty for now, explaining you’ll make up for it later. She accepts, saying you owe her a whiskey, to which you agree. Arthur dismounts his horse, feeding her a treat. You hear him say, “rest now, girl. You did good.” God, he’s so cute the way he talks to his horse. 

He continues on towards his tent and young Jack crosses his path as he walks. “Hiya, Uncle Arthur!” 

“Hey there, Jack. You keepin’ safe?” Arthur’s been worried about him ever since he ran into the Pinkertons. Of course, Arthur’s always been protective. 

“Yeah.”

“You still reading with Hosea?” 

“Yeah! He read me a story about a prince! I did a page all by myself!” 

“That’s excellent, son! Good for you!” 

Jack skips off and Arthur continues on towards his tented wagon, his shoulders rolling as he walks. You melt at the exchange he had with Jack. He is the most adorable, gentle man you’ve met. How is it that he’s a wanted man? 

Arthur shuffles around his wagon a bit, adjusting some things on his little table. Then he grabs the flaps of the canvas and pulls them down, clearly wanting some privacy. 

Silently, you go over to his tent and peak in. The sight breaks your heart. He’s sitting on the cot, hunched over, his hands clasped together as his elbows rest on his thighs. You can tell he’s upset about something. 

“Mr. Morgan?” you ask. 

He looks up and clears his face. “Oh, hey there, Y/N. What can I do for ya?” 

“Nothing. I just wanted to check on you. I was… I guess worried. You okay?” 

He smiles a little, huffing a bit. “Oh I’m doin’ just fine.” 

You can tell he’s lying, and you’re nervous to stay any longer. It’s clear he wants to be alone. However, you swallow your fear and walk into the tent. 

“Can I ask what’s wrong, Mr. Morgan? Whenever I have something weighing heavy on my mind, I find it’s helpful to tell someone.” 

“Oh trust me, no one wants to hear about my problems. I’m just… just a sad, miserable ol’ outlaw.” 

Your heart feels like it’s going to break. How can he think such awful things about himself when every time you see him, he’s doing something good to those around him? Bringing Mary-Beth a pen, reading stories to Jack, giving that one-armed man in Valentine money. Every time you’re with him, he proves the exact opposite of what he’s saying now.

“You… don’t really think that’s true, do you, Mr. Morgan?” 

“Oh trust me, I ain’t sayin’ bad enough about myself. I’m… a no-good killer, a fighter. And uh, just a bad man.” 

A tear slides down your cheek and you go sit down next to him. “Mr. Morgan, forgive me, but that’s not what I see. Every time you’re around, I see you helping folk, making people smile. I see you doing too much good to believe that a bad man is all you are.” 

“You don’t know me very well, Y/N. Hell, you only been with us a few months. Wait a few years, you’ll be sayin’ somethin’ different.” 

“I don’t think so. If anything, I’ll probably be sayin’ even nicer things about you. And honestly, Mr. Morgan, I’ve never lied to you. I ain’t startin’ now.” 

“Trust me, you won’t. No one does, everyone who spends any length of time with me knows how horrible I am.” 

“I’ve spent plenty of time with you,” you say. “I don’t think you’re horrible. Sure, you’ve made some bad choices, but who hasn’t? I… I’ve made choices that I regret too. But you can’t look at the world with people split in two based on good and bad. People are complicated. You’re complicated. That’s how the world is, and you ain’t doin’ yourself any favors by seeing it that way.” 

He sighs heavily, looking away from you. He doesn’t speak for a few moments and when he finally does open his mouth, you’re sure he’s about to tell you to leave him alone. 

“To be honest, Y/N, I really am a bad man. The only thing I’m good for is fightin’. All I ever been good at.” 

“Mr. Morgan, can I ask who told you this?” 

“No one told me, Y/N. I… I always known. And the other night, robbin’ that train full o’ city folk. Well, I robbed and beaten plenty of people before, they was really no different. But… I was over near Strawberry earlier. Some guy challenged me to a race. Guess he just bought a new horse, wanted to show off. Anyways, ol’ Artemis and I gave him a run for his money. I won, of course.” He scratches his chin. “When that other bastard got there, he was real angry. So angry he shot his horse in the head, so I shot him. Don’t quite know why I did neither. When…. When I shot him, I realized I felt nothin’. Not joy, not regret. Just nothin’.” 

“Maybe because there was nothing to feel, Mr. Morgan. After all, a man who can so easily shoot his new horse he was so proud of moments ago cannot be much of a man at all. Perhaps… perhaps you killing him was a good thing.” 

“How do you mean?” he asks. He finally turns to you, his blue eyes searching yours. 

“Well, if he can so easily shoot a horse in that fashion, something tells me he doesn’t know how to rein in his anger, that he lets it get the better of him. Who knows? Maybe he was constantly hurting his wife or kids if he had them. Maybe you killing them will send them relief, freedom. That’s the way I have to see the world, Mr. Morgan, that our bad deeds have a positive effect somewhere in the world.” 

Arthur grunts a bit. “Maybe. But… but I’m still nothin’ more than a fighter.” 

“No you’re not. Forgive me, Mr. Morgan, but I’ve been watching you probably more than you think. You’re a good man, a wanderer, a hunter. An artist too I bet.” 

“How do you figure that?” He cocks his eyebrow a bit, staring at you from the side of his eye. Part of you thinks he’s on the verge of smiling, which encourages you. 

“I’ve seen you sitting on the edge of camp, writing and doodling in that journal of yours. John told me Dutch taught the two of you to draw, but it didn’t take with him.” 

“Hmm, a lot of things didn’t take with that boy.” 

You giggle, but don’t really want to lead this conversation into a heated discussion about John Marston and his flaws. “I bet you’re good though. Could… I mean, would you hate me for asking if I could see your drawings?” 

You are extremely doubtful that he’d give you that privilege. After all, you and Mary-Beth talked about journaling and she mentioned how Arthur is notorious for it, but how no one has ever seen the inside of his. However, Arthur surprises you by sighing heavily and taking his journal out. He flips through it quickly, finding a page that has a drawing of a large wolf on it. He hands you the book, though he seems nervous. 

Gently, you take it from him and inspect the drawing. It’s beautiful, professional even. You can so easily see the textures of the wolf’s fur, the bristles of the pines behind it. It’d be impossible to not admire the strokes put down, each one with their own intention and purpose. 

“Mr. Morgan, this is incredible. I knew you were an artist, but I didn’t think you were this good.” 

“Oh nonsense. Anyone can draw like this. Hell, I bet you ain’t that bad of an artist yourself.” 

It’s your turn to raise your brow. “You wanna bet? Give me your pencil.” 

He hands it to you and, in the lower right corner, you draw a small version of his wolf, which is far more than laughable. You’ve never been very good at drawing, but even this version is pathetic. After a few minutes, you hand him back his journal. 

“There. Now your wolf has a badly deformed companion.” 

Arthur takes one look at it and then he lets out a laugh. “I like it,” he says after a moment, his eyes meeting yours. This time, his eyes crinkle. 

You can’t help but giggle. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. Morgan.” 

Still grinning, he straightens up a bit. “Why you always callin’ me Mr. Morgan? You can call me Arthur on occasion, you know.” 

“Oh I… I know,” you say, looking down at your lap, your cheeks burning. “I… I don’t know why I do.” 

He admires your features for a moment. Arthur knows you’re sweet on him. He clued into it pretty quick when he first asked you to call him by his first name weeks ago and you refused. Then he heard Tilly and Mary-Beth joking about how they knew. He also noticed you did things for him no one else did: bringing him coffee in the morning, offering to clean his guns, how he was the only person you asked to teach you how to play poker and black jack. Other small things you did only for him. It didn’t take long for him to realize he felt something for you too.

He finds your behavior now endearing and you’ve helped cheer him up immensely. He grabs your hand and lifts it, placing a soft kiss to the back of it, which causes you to look up at him. 

“Thank you, Y/N,” he says. 

You’re blushing hard again. “You’re welcome. Arthur.” 

Just as he’s about to lean over to try and place a kiss to your lips, Grimshaw’s shrill voice carries across camp. 

“Where the hell is Y/N?! That damn girl, always disappearing! I swear when I find her…” 

“Shit,” you say and quickly yank your hands out of Arthur’s grasp and then darting outside to subdue Grimshaw. 

Arthur chuckles, his heart much lighter than it was before. He looks down at his journal, finding your poor rendition of a wolf. Little do you know that it brings him great comfort and always will. In the future, when things go bad, he opens to this page just to look at it, to remember the things you said. It’s a moment he’ll never be able to forget. 

[newbornwhumperfly]

all i know is you’re the nicest thing

CW: references to past non-con, dissociation, panic attack, references to victim-blaming.    

a spinoff gift fic of @haro-whumps brilliant, heart-wrenching group whump series. this is based on some headcanons we’ve exchanged. i hope you like it, haro!!!                                                 

Snow is thick on the ground and Galo is going stir-crazy.

He hasn’t been able to run around the mansion for a week now. While it was kind of a fun challenge to wrestle through the drifts when they were ankle-high, it’s now impossible while keeping good form. Per usual, he’s been visiting the gym regularly but that’s come to a stop with the week before Christmas, depriving Galo of even this pressure-release. He still lifts weights, pushes and pullups until his arms tremble but he’s pushed himself as far as he can without burning out. Video games always exist, obviously.

What’s really funny, Galo thinks sourly, plucking a thread loose in his coverlet, is how a little cold weather makes you realize how isolated you are. Sure, he’d never really cared for Christmas. Correction: he kinda hated it. Aside from the fact that he’s decidedly not religious, the holiday was always bound up with baggage. Being made to wear festive, uncomfortable dresses to seemingly infinite parties full of infinitely shallow, shitty guests tripping over themselves and one another to flaunt how well they were doing. 

Ever since he’s gotten his own place, Galo never bothered with his own celebrations. No SO, no super close buddies to chill with, no way in hell he’s gonna make plans with anyone in his family. Outside of the occasional Christmas party at work and its flimsy temptation of free dessert and sparkly booze, he hasn’t bothered.

Now though…

Galo worries his lower lip as he sips the smoothie Sasha made for him. There’s a sprig of holly on the rim and it makes him grin. The timid woman has blended his breakfast for the past seven months and he’s come to lean on the reliability of it, the way that Sasha assembles the ingredients just so, drawing out a fresh deliciousness he’s never managed to coax from the mixture. She’s really damn good with food and he remembers to tell her so whenever the opportunity arises. It never fails to soften her.

Now he has people to take care of. Well, ok, they’re not children. But sometimes Galo feels that way, as guilty as it makes him. They’ve learned helplessness well, as they were trained to. As it was beaten into them over years and years, until they were broken, stitched back together with brutal routine. He grips his cup, fingers flexing in rage. Aunt Bethany may be cold in her grave but Galo’s anger refuses to cool, needing only a flinch or stammer or any unbidden reminder of the abuse to stoke that fury. The many weeks Galo has lived with these traumatized slaves has only peeled back fresh layers to the nightmare, all of it fuel to the simmering heat that lurks below his skin. He said he wasn’t religious but he really hopes hell is real.

Galo threads his fingers through his tuft of hair, yanking firmly to shake that train of thought off its runaway track. Now he can’t even work out until the burn of adrenaline smothers the hateful heat in his veins, he needs a new distraction other than his guild or fucking video games he’s played a hundred times before. The charity places he fills his spare hours with are all closed too, the heavy snowfall blocking most of the volunteers from service. He really is gonna go crazy, stuck for long, quiet hours in this sprawling estate with only his slaves for company. Who can’t leave and will all probably feed off his tension until they’re all an accidental frown away from a breakdown.

Fuck.

Bethany is gone but her horrors haunt this house, the ghosts waiting to strike in every corner.

Galo wonders if these guys celebrate the holidays at all. None of them can buy eachother anything, duh, but they’d probably made do? He doesn’t really have any clue what slaves would do on holidays but it’s probably none of his goddamn business. If he had to venture a guess, they probably did something special together after Bethany fell asleep. Or who knows? Maybe Christmas had shittier associations for them than even he had. That assumption was probably depressingly accurate. They were clearly devoted to this little unit of theirs and had probably found some way to make the day nice for one another.

And Galo had the nerveto feel stymied. He groaned as he threw an arm over sore eyes, blocking out the gaming livestream he was listlessly tracking on his laptop. He sure as hell wasn’t throwing a party in this gothic funhouse, most likely the first time in the group’s memory that they didn’t have to arrange an event. He was sitting pretty on millions of dollars, bemoaning his loneliness on a holiday he didn’t even celebrate in the first place.

He’s sure that the poor bunch downstairs could only dream of getting good things like he could get for himself anytime he wanted.

Oh.

Galo sprung up from his lazy sprawl against the headboard, an idea flaring up, getting brighter and warmer the more he thought on it.

This…this could be a good idea.

Could be being the operative word here, Galo determines, clicking away from the livestream to open a new search page as he reaches for his notebook and begins to flip through the pages of observations. He pauses, massaging his eyes as he considers his options. He’d have to be verycareful with this one; if he’s gonna do this, he needs to do it right or not at all. It might be a big fucking mistake, with the potential for backsliding practically a minefield under Galo’s still-balancing feet.

But it has been months. Dozens of days had crawled by without incident and he’s got wiggle room when it comes to potential fuck-ups – the last triggering incident was over two months ago and it had nothing to do with Galo’s actions. He figures he is safe for now. But, then again, he might never be safe when it comes these people – or rather, they might never feel safe with him, he acknowledges, heart panging sharply at the thought. Is it worth the risk, disturbing the fragile balance he’d so painstakingly built over the stretch of time?

Galo sighs, trying to release his tension the breath as he rubs his temple, ruffling the buzz of hair distractedly. It might be selfish, but he wants – desperately – to make them happy. To do something for them all other than just stay out of their way. There’s always the risk, in anything he says or does or doesn’t say or doesn’t do, that he will hurt them without even knowing it and it hurts. One thing he knows for sure is that he’s never been that person to resign themselves to doing nothing. Nothing is written in stone – if he has the heart and the care, he can do what he puts his mind to.

Sucking air into his lungs in one big, fortifying whoosh, Galo squares his stiff shoulders and starts typing suggestions into his search bar. He’ll start with Greyson, since his choices are easier, and then work his way down the list. He’s got less than a week and if he can do this right, and he needs – he reallyneeds – to get this one right, then they’ll be happier. And that’s all that really matters in the end. These people have never expected kindness outside of one another for their entire lives and Bethany had built the world in their minds in her image, a world of casual cruelty.

Well, it’s about the time to change that, and if Christmas is supposed to be a time of rebirth or whatever, Galo will exorcise his aunt’s presence with the ass-whooping spirit of the motherfucking season.

                                                        ~          ~                              

Master Galo has been…animated.

Galo is almost always cheerful, at least in their presence, but the past week has thrown the man into a state of nervous energy. It isn’t…bad, as far as Greyson can pinpoint. There is an excitement which hovers around him but there is tension too. He’s been muttering under his breath a great deal, mumbling to himself in a distracted, half-aware manner as he has tended to do when he has a lot on his plate. He has been glued to his laptop a great deal as well, tending to pace with it as he wanders on socked feet between his usual haunts. Most hours, he drifts from one room to another, sometimes shutting himself into a room to make a call, sometimes contemplating something on the screen in long pauses, biting his lip, brow scrunched in focus.

Greyson has warned the rest to take care and not distract Master Galo, as he is prone to bumping into doorframes or nearly tripping as he turns about to set the device down and scribble swiftly in that bulky notebook that he carries in his pants pocket everywhere he goes. Whatever Master Galo’s true mood, Greyson knows it would not do to disturb his patterns of distraction. It has already been tense downstairs, what with Master trapped inside due to the harsh weather and lack of exercise routine. A bored Master is dangerous. His full attention could be easily caught by anything (or anyone) who got in his way right now.

And he cannot help but notice, even though he should not notice, as it is none of his business, that Master Galo keeps the screen darker than usual when he carries it around and he always closes it when Greyson or one of the others approaches. He does the same with the notebook but there is almost a caution to the movement when Galo notices he is being observed or approached, snapping the device shut and looking for a moment almost like a guilty child caught sneaking a treat. Greyson does notwant to think about what that means. He will find out soon enough, he suspects.  

So for almost a week, as Christmas Eve crept closer through the soft, white hours, passing too slowly and yet too fast, Greyson watched and waited for something to happen.

                                                           ~          ~                           

Nyla has brought several packages up to Master Galo’s room in the past week.

In the past, she wouldn’t take too much note of this. Mistress had had everything delivered to her once her knees got too bad to go out shopping anymore and she had always given Nyla’s own knees a good whack with her cane when Nyla brought her the latest purchase.

Now, however, it is unusual now and unusual is always bad. Master Galo doesn’t tend to buy things for himself, besides the occasional video game or set of clothes that he often chooses to drive out and pick up in person. Now, he has eagerly grabbed each new package from her, a pleased, giddy grin on his face every time. She doesn’t know what it means but she has noticed Master’s hyperactivity and knows that Greyson is concerned. When she allows herself to dwell on it, it concerns her too.

Master’s behavior might not be bad (yet) but Nyla certainly isn’t going to call it good. Master Galo insisted he wants Christmas to be uneventful and while Nyla would typically be beyond grateful for such a reprieve, her anxiety worsens with the lack of planning to busy her worried mind. Nevertheless, she pours the fretful energy into perfecting what she can. She can always be perfect. Nyla assures herself of this constant as she polishes and re-polishes, scrubs and sharpens and floats like a dust mote through the halls, quivering at the ready for Master’s beck and call.

Her headaches are beginning again. The season ushers them in without fail, sharp heat coiling down her neck, her jaw, up through her temples and between the eyes, at times so stabbing that she nearly staggers from the anguish. She doesn’t though, despite being uncommonly tempted to grimace against the cruel pale glare of winter sun through every window. Putting it out of her mind, she glides quietly in rooms near Master Galo. 

Adjusting this, that was already straight. 

Wiping this, that was already spotless. 

She scrubs at a wood-stain on the balcony for the sake of scrubbing, letting the tingling cramps in her overworked wrists and sore knees distract her from the pain in her head. How much her jaw felt like it was trying to escape from her face, how much her neck seemed trying to twist off from the rest of the spine, and the constantpressure, the throbbing patch of nose, eyes, brow clamped with a spiked vice.

Mercifully, dusk was coming swiftly at the heels of the noon, the quickly dimming sky beckoning in Christmas Eve. Nyla has told Greyson to be ready with the car in case Master should want to go somewhere at the last minute. Lilah has kept the driveway shoveled with Evan’s help, bless them both, and salted. Sasha putters about the kitchen, busy with nothing as she travels in slow circles like a crumb circling the drain. They all feel it. They are all waiting. Master has been locked in his bedroom all day and most of yesterday, doing…something. Other than an occasional soft curse, Nyla has heard little when she passes (pauses, lingers, eavesdrops) by his door. She doesn’t think about what might be coming, what could be about to descend upon them swifter than the evening, better to lose herself in little meaningless labors.

Her focus thankfully helps her avoid a start when Master Galo flings his bedroom door open and pokes his head out, glancing about until his eyes catch Nyla, already risen from her futile polishing to a poised, submissive, smiling stance.

Perfect. She is perfect.

“Oh! Hey, Nyla, good – you’re exactly who I wanted. Um, is everyone…busy right now?”

Nyla parses the question. Everyone should be busy. That seems to be the right answer.

“Yes, Master Galo. Is there anything you require?”

Master didn’t seem outwardly displeased by her answer so she let herself breathe into his reply.

“Awesome. Yeah, actually. Why don’t you tell everyone to finish up whatever they’re doing? If it’s not finished, it can wait till later. After that, can you tell everyone that I wanna see them, and you too, in the living room? I’ve got some…gif-, uh, good surprises for everyone.”

Nyla can’t breathe in. She has breathed out already and can’t breathe back in. She needs to breathe in. Needs to speak.

Surprises.

For everyone.

Oh god. 

Oh please.

Breathe.

She’s missed his words, muffled, underwater, swimming through too-thick air, no sound.

You need to breathe.

You need to listen.

Listen!

Air thins around the words and they make it to Nyla’s ears.

“-holiday spirit and, uh, yeah. It’s my festive mood coming out I guess. Don’t wanna give it away, you’ll all see the surprises in a moment anyway! But, yep, a few minutes? That good?”

Breathe.

She’s still smiling. She can feel it. She can feel her face, her mouth, her hands clasped in front of her. She can’t feel her lungs for some reason.

She blinks.

Nods.

She’s answered Master, right? God, please, has she answered Master’s question?

She must have. She must have. She must have answered correctly because he is grinning and nodding and thank holy god he isn’t really looking straight at her, rubbing his neck in that strange way he does sometimes. She must have answered him because he hasn’t gotten angry and he’s closing the door and she couldn’t have made it worse and she can’t make it worse and she’s perfect and she-

Perfect.

The word is like a splash of cold water and Nyla remembers how to inhale, knees buckling briefly with the dizziness of no air, catching herself on the balcony as the head-neck-spine-wrist-knee pain floods through her awareness, riding in on the icy wave of fear.

Surprises.

For everyone.

Perfect.

Enough. Nyla flicks her tender wrist with sharp, punishing taps until her limbs unfreeze. The moment she trusts her legs to carry her, she scoops up her cleaning supplies and lets her body take over. Drift gently down the stairs to inform the others. Obey. Guide the others.

Be perfect.

                                                           ~          ~                           

It’s about fucking time.

Evan allows himself to savor this small prick of resentment on his swift walk to the living room, following only a minute behind Greyson, who’d tersely passed along the command.

Huffing harshly through his nose, he lets the tic in his jaw relax into his required, submissive blank while he tucks the flyaway hairs at his neck and forehead back into his ponytail. He doesn’t give a damn, of course, how pretty he looks. It’s not like his Master is gonna fuck him…probably. Gifts are not good; Evan should know that by now. Should know better than anyone. His gut lurches oddly at the memory of clammy, clawed hands pawing and pulling and scraping and taking what they want. He hasn’t been eighteen in a while but the space of years makes no difference and he can still smell the stench of smoky, heaving gasps. He can still feel the confusion like a sticky sweat crawl through his limbs morphing into terror-rage-shame.

It’s just the scent-memory which summons nausea, nothing more. He just…hates the smell of ash on breath. Hates that it’s been months since he’s had hands on him, years since that was new, hates that the hands fill his dreams and make him wish he had no skin to touch at all. He scratches the ghostly caresses off in the shower and tries to be grateful, bitterly, that no new hands have replaced the phantoms. Master isn’t gonna fuck him, at least, not soon. He shouldn’t have any reason to care about “looking proper”.

But Nyla would care, Evan thinks, the months-old regret clenching like an invisible vice around his heart. He owes it her to still be good, to at least try to live up to her poise.

It’s this duty which lulls him as he glides, smooth and graceful as he can, into place behind Nyla in the living room. He notices how she and Greyson have put themselves at the front, forming a fragile wall in front of Lilah, who is quivering in place and hunching to make herself shorter. Sasha has placed herself at Lilah’s left, shoulder almost brushing her bowed head as she curls ever-so-slightly inward towards the teen. Evan has been left Lilah’s right to stand at, his tall form shielding her from the room’s entrance. All of this was Nyla’s doing, of course it was. She has ensured that Lilah will, at least, not be the first to endure what is to come, has given her time to brace herself.

Evan’s love and respect for Nyla soars and nearly overwhelms him for a moment as he tries mirroring her back-straight neck-long eyes-low hands-clasped-lightly posture. She had forgiven him a while ago though softening took far longer and he is grateful for the generosity of time when he hears her hum, barely audible, in approval.

It is the only sound other than crackle-rumble of the enormous wood-fire blazing high and hot and he glances to the side to see the orange shadows dance over Lilah’s face. The dull roar has drowned out her breathing, too loud, too uneven. She hasn’t gone Quiet yet and he wishes she could when the flames reflect tears threatening to spill from her eyes already. She’s trying very hard, he can tell. His sweet baby Lilah. His sweet baby girl. He wishes so badly he could hug her right now. He wishes Master wasn’t about to hurt her for no fucking reason.  

Stop it.

Those thoughts are dangerous territory and Evan will notlet himself ruin anything for everyone else. This isn’t about him. He needs to be perfect right now, for Nyla, for Lilah, for all of them. He owes them that much at the very least. It gets harder to keep his face flat, however, when Master practically strutsaround the corner.

In all the months he’s been here, Master has never looked so energized. He’s switched out his usual t-shirt and shorts for a casual suit, hair slicked, and when he strides to a halt in front of the Christmas tree, he’s almost bouncing on his heels. His hands keep clenching, unclenching, clenching with whatever jumpy giddiness that’s put that wide grin on his face. Whatever restraint has kept him tethered is loose now and it trembles through every line in his broad body.

Evan drops his gaze to the rug so he doesn’t have to look anymore, tracing the red-white-green stitching of embroidered wreaths below his shoes. He knew, he knewbetter than to trust Master Galo’s mood, so peppy, so eager, so cagey. Master’s gonna drop the act like a heavy fist down on their heads and Evan might almost be sickly satisfied if not for how a traitorous nausea is curling in his gut to swallow the rage, if not for how his whole family is trembling around him, if not for how he’d almost – almost – begun to wonder if Master was…different.

At least this stupid, stupid, stupidpunchline is about to be called. Cold comfort now with how chipper Master is, how he can barely contain himself with the sweet satisfaction of it all, to watch his slaves quiver on the cusp of long-awaited suffering. Evan just hopes its everything Master’s fucking dreamed of.

                                                     ~          ~                                      

Lilah is so confused that she wants to cry.

Usually, the tension would strain every muscle tight, fighting her mind that kept trying to Go Away, ‘cause it wasn’t time yet. She is about to cry, a little wetness escaping, wiped away quickly. She can’t cry yet, she can’t even cry yet ‘cause nothing even happenedyet and that’s bad. She can cry later. There’ll be plenty of time to cry, soon. Soon, will go Quiet and she won’t be worried about anything.  

She doesn’t understand.

It’s so stupid to be confused. This just…used to be so simple and it hasn’t been the same recently and…she doesn’t get it. Evan was right, of course Evan was right, he’s always been right about Mistress things. She should’ve trusted him more about Master. But…but he…

He seemed different.

She’s never been good at the games, not like everyone else. She’s stupid about the rules anyway, and there’s so much that the rest of them all understand so easily, that they’ve learned from so many years of being good. She should know that there will always be a game. There will always be a rule. A test.

But still. He really did seem like he might be different than Mistress. His games were so very different that Lilah would wonder if he had a game at all. That’s stupid. But she had a good reason to be! Master had always been kind to her. He’d always smiled at her, real big, and he said such nice things about her work! He gave her lots of rewards too. Lots of rest and new kinds of food and special tools to make her yard-work easier, even though Lilah had always done a good job without those things.

“It’ll help you as a thanks for being so good at everything”, Master had told, all his teeth showing.

She should’ve known that was a lie. It had to be. But she’d wantedso badly to believe it.

Master never got mad when she went Quiet – kind of sad, or what looked like sad, and watchful and worried. But never mad. He’d never get mad at Lilah, even though he’s been mad at the others, been mad at Evan, even though they’re all better at this. Good enough for years. Good enough, at least, to not be punished all the time, day and night, beaten into place ‘cause she always had to be reminded of how not-good she is.

Bad girl.

Why? She just wants to know why and wanting hurts. Her heart hurts. It’s not a scared-hurt. It’s a sad-hurt, heart sore and throbbing wildly. She feels sadder than scared and that’s new and stupid but…she really did think Master woulddo something bad when nobody has been really bad and now he isgoing to and…she just doesn’t know why. But he is. And he’s happyabout it. Evan would say it’s ‘cause Master enjoys it, that he enjoys playing with them the way he does. She should listen to Evan. Why doesn’t she listen? Why can’t she ever keep up?

‘Cause you’re a bad girl.

Master’s voice rings suddenly through the room, the noisewhere there was no noise pulling Lilah’s breath in a little too quickly and Sasha barely twitches at her side. Lilah swallows a whimper before it escapes her dry throat and just…listens to Master.

 Please, let him get it over with quickly,she begs to someone, anyone.

 Please let it be quick.

And, horribly, selfishly.

Please.

Let him choose someone else first.

                                                       ~          ~                                        

“Ok! First off, Merry Christmas Eve to everyone.”

A silence hovers briefly and Sasha stumbles to say “Merry Christmas, Master Galo” in sync with the rest of the group. Their chorus, fortunately, hides her stammer. Master has not seemed to mind her stumbling speech but right now? There’s no doubt it that every broken phrase would tally up in whatever pain is to be doled out now.  

“Thanks! So, you’re all probably a little confused by the lack of celebrations. I know my aunt had tons of parties but…that’s just not me. I don’t love parties at the best of times and I really don’t love Christmas. But I figured, hey, I can do the holiday my way and you’ve all been a big part of changing how I feel about it. Everyone’s been awesome about decorating the house beautifully and making things feel cheerful, so, thanks so much for that. I really appreciate it.”

There is another beat of silence before Nyla, sweet, sacrificing, perfect Nyla, glides forward a couple of steps, Greyson carefully sidestepping to fill the space in front of Lilah, and kneels at Master Galo’s feet before taking up his hand to kiss it.

“Thank you, Master, for your kindness. We are all honored to serve you in whatever manner you desire.”

Sasha thinks, for the first time in a while, of how starkly largehis hand is next to Nyla’s head. Cold sweat beads on her brow as she measures those palms as though examining them for the first time, how when Nyla’s lips touch the backs of Master’s fingers, the span of his knuckles bridges her brow from temple to temple. He could crushNyla’s face with a firm squeeze, shatter her delicate little nose with one heavy slap, how could Sasha everhave forgotten that, even for a moment?

And now, the little blonde woman is deliberately putting herself at those heavy feet, pulling that meaty hand towards her lovely face, flattering and appeasing, indicating that she has chosen to go first for whatever this is. She’s so brave. She’s so good. Sasha loves her so much and she wants to save her so badly. Sasha wants to curl around Nyla’s kneeling form until Nyla is hidden away by Sasha’s arms and back and she’s safe from the pain which frightens Sasha so much and which Nyla so plainly does not deserve. But she is petrified and spineless and would only make it worse.

Oh, Nyla.

Greyson.

Lilah.

Evan.

Me.

Don’t react poorly!

Sasha blinks furiously until her tears settle behind her lids, pulsing with restrained grief.  

Don’t make this worse than it’s already going to be.

                                                       ~          ~                                    

Greyson should’ve been the one to approach Master Galo first.

He has a…dialogue with Master and either way, he is older, more practiced, should be quicker to know what to do. But Nyla has caught onto being what she should be in half the time it took him and has thrown herself into the line of fire with her typical grace. It sickens Greyson that he was too slow and let her take the burden.

Currently, Master’s glee seems to have abated at Nyla’s gesture and, seemingly, was not replaced with rage. Yet. He blinks down at Nyla’s upturned, sweetly submissive, face and smiles softly at her. No smirk. No secretive glint in his eye. Nyla must have done the right thing, yet again. Master has yet to…use Nyla in that way but he clearly acknowledges the faultless state of her service and it softens him towards her.

“That’s…wonderful, Nyla. Very good! Hey, while you’re down there, can you help me pull these boxes out?”

Before Nyla has even crawled over to the bottom of the towering Christmas tree, Master has crouched beside her, scooping out brightly wrapped packages from below the swoop of the low-dangling branches and jangling the glittering ornaments. Brushing pine needles off his pants, Master piles them, gesturing Nyla to copy him, onto an armchair before swinging back towards them all to clap his hands decisively and grin once more.

“Alrighty, then. So! Nyla?”

“Yes, Master Galo?”

Soft, immediate, lilting.

“I guess since you’re, uh, right here, I’ll give you your gift first. Uh, can you hold your arms out, Nyla? This one’s a bit big.”

Greyson has barely time to blink before Master has practically dropped one of the largest packages, a box of wide, flat golden cardboard topped with plaid bows, into Nyla’s quickly outstretched arms.

What?

“Sorry! Sort of threw it at you, didn’t I? You can go back to the rest, Nyla. Greyson, you’re up, my man.”

What?

Greyson’s feet carry him forward, arms already extending, body reliably obedient even while his brain is lagging.

 “Here y–, oh, no need for both arms. Heh, sorry, dude, your gift’s not Nyla-big.”

What does that mean?

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t need to understand, Greyson reminds himself harshly, he only needs to obey. So he remains blank, cups his palms as Master Galo places a little sleek black box, neatly bound in white ribbon, into Greyson’s palm. It is not professionally wrapped, Greyson absently notes, the tape was raggedly snapped off the dispenser and the bow is a bit crooked. He glides into place back at Nyla’s side, poised like emotionless pillars with their…gifts held stiffly in front of them as each person is called forth. Lilah, then Sasha, and, finally, Evan; all are handed a package, unique in size and decoration and received quietly and quickly before they are re-assembled as they were before, only now clinging to…

Most likely, the instruments of their imminent torture.

Or, as Master Galo is saying…

“Awesome. Alrighty, so, you’ve all got your gifts now. That’s good. You’ve probably noticed that they’re kind of sloppy. I wrapped them myself and…let’s just say, I wasn’t born to be a decorator. You’re just gonna have to live with it, heh. So…if you guys wanna sit down, like, on the couches or on the floor or, like, wherever you feel most comfortable opening your gifts? Just, uh, yeah. Everyone just go ahead and enjoy!”

All are silent and it is Nyla who folds elegantly to the floor and first begins to peel the wrapping back, small hands fluttering like butterflies as she unwinds the ribbon. Greyson folds alongside her, hesitating a brief moment as he catches Master’s eyes on his knees and then, slowly, sits on the ground and folds his ankles neatly in front of him. Master looks pleased when he sits this way rather than kneeling and Greyson’s jaw slightly slackens as he settles in beside Nyla. Her quick grace disguises her shaking to all but Greyson, whose arm touches her shoulder and absorbs her tremors. He leans, barely, against her, steadying her (and, honestly, himself as well) while he neatly disassembles his own package.

His box is the smallest, Greyson has noted, so he is the first to lift the lid and find…

A pair of glasses.

They are frameless at the bottom, rimmed in delicate wire that is stained redder than a ripe apple. It matches the hue of Greyson’s favored necktie. Spongy black nose pads and grips at the tips of the temples show how the eyewear would grip the face comfortably. Coiled beneath the neatly folded pair, clipped to the ends of each temple, is a fine chain, dozens of miniscule links glittering silver beneath the clear lenses.

They are…beautiful.

Greyson cannot do much more than blink. He can tell that everyone else is unwrapping slowly, glancing from the corners of their lowered eyes at his reaction and he shouldreact in some way. But he…he can’t…

What?

He finds that he is trembling as he plucks the frames from their nest of silk cleaning cloths, cradling them like they will shatter if he breaths wrong. His eyes raise almost without intent, catching Master Galo openly watching him, a soft hesitance weighing his gaze. Greyson nearly starts but Master gets ahead of a potential apology by gesturing vaguely at Greyson’s gift.

“I, uh, I peeked through B –…through your records and found your prescription. It said five years ago and I don’t know if your eyes changed since then and, well, if I’d gotten an appointment for you, this wouldn’t have been a surprise. Someone recommended I make them a tad sharper and so I did but, if you wanna adjust them or if they’re too strong just tell me… Anyways, I, uh, I really hope they see as nice as they look, heh…oh, yeah, and the chain is to keep them around your neck and the cloths are yours. Like, in case that wasn’t clear, all the stuff in the box – hell, the boxif you want it – is all yours. But, I hope you enjoy them, Greyson.”

Greyson cannot speak. He opens his mouth, moves his lips, and nothing emerges. Trembling more pronounced now, his hands pull off and fold his glasses and tuck them into his breast pocket, he does not choose to do this. He does not decide to lift the new frames to his face, unfold them, slide them into place and loop the chain behind his neck. He blinks as his body reconnects with awareness again, the missed moments of automation causing him to startle bodily with the clean, unscratched, clarity of the room before him.

There is…something inside Greyson’s chest. It is like a living thing, pressing, stretching the wall of his sternum. It takes his heart and his lungs and squeezes, mercilessly.

It hurts. 

The animal is resurrected, awakened from a peaceful sleep to roar in his blood, unfamiliar with the way his insides are warm and loose and tingle like his legs after rising from hours on his knees, all the blood rushing back to the numb area. He feels and it aches and his throat is tightened by the same animal grip on his innards.

The tight, the hot, the blood-rush, the suddenness of the old tenderness is tearing at Greyson and, suddenly, all he wants to do is weep. No hollow, scraped-out loss prompting the swollen heat pounding like a pulse behind his lids. A press, inexorable as it is tender, against his sternum is cracking him from the inside and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He abandons his typical protocol of vacancy to bite his inner cheek savagely, allowing the throb to distract and dull the other strange unfamiliar anguish below his ribs.

It hurts but Greyson can take hurt. This anguish which is not anguish will be smothered too and once he allows the ache in his gnawed mouth to ebb, he is clearer again.

                                                        ~          ~                                        

Evan is pissed.

At least, he’s really trying to be. What he really feels, right now, is confused as hell. Which angers him more, ‘cause he can take his own pain and humiliation and the games that never ever end but this is, admittedly, pretty fucking weird.

He will, in his own mind, confess to being tense, if not really surprised, about his box being the biggest. But as he lifts his…gift out of its mountain of tissue paper, he can’t feel much of anything. It’s like his head is disconnected from his shoulders and his hands move on their own to unfurl a frankly enormous blanket, at least six feet in all directions, fluffy and hedgerow-green and thick and light all at the same time.

The first thing he registers is how soft it is.

He almost starts when he feels the texture of the blanket, fingers sinking into the tufts of…what is it? Evan doesn’t know, he’s never touched something this soft. He almost expects it to melt like soap-foam between his palms but it settles, barely a weight against his folded legs. It feels nice.

Evan snaps back to clarity, lowly roving a glance around to the others. They’ve all opened their own gifts and they’re all as confusing as Evan’s. They all look like gifts, but real gifts. The sort which Mistress’ “friends” would exchange during those god-awful parties. Sasha is cradling something bright and delicate in her hands, Nyla’s got something to wear perhaps, and Lilah’s unwrapping something fluffy. He can’t clearly see what Greyson got in that little box but he’s oddly silent.

Evan tries to stay sharp. He needs to be sharp, to be aware, nothing is more dangerous than getting distracted right now. Nothing is…good about getting a present. But he’s drawn like a throat to thirst by the softness in his lap and sets his jaw before cautiously lifting the blanket like a cape over his shoulders. Tufts tickle the nape of his neck, gentle bulk shielding his torso from the open air, and Evan feels more than allows his spine to relax just a fraction.

It feels so good. He likes it so much and he hates that he likes it as much as he does. Yet even as he straightens his spine and keeps his eyes down, he cannot help but turn his cheek just barely so that the tufts brush, feather-like, against the skin.

Liking this is fucking dangerous, of course it is, of course it is, it must be fucked up somehow. But Evan is tired of caring right no. And so leans further into the softness. Maybe he’ll pay later but if he really got this as a…giftthen he’s gonna damn well enjoy it like one.

                                                     ~          ~                                       

Nyla is stalling.

Yes, she’s offered herself first. Yes, she made a show of opening her package. But…she hesitates and keeps twitching away when she tries to peel back the mountain of red tissue. She smooths is back in layers, slippery as onionskin, crackling at even the littlest movement. She’s afraid of what she’s going to find and she has no excuse for her delay but that fear which keeps her fussing with the final sheet of tissue.

It is only once Greyson has lifted his gift out its box that she finally, unforgivably late, folds back the final barrier. It is in the same moment that Greyson’s gift becomes clear in her periphery, unmistakably a new pair of eyeglasses, when she comprehends what lies before her in the box.

A dress.

A dress?

It is a dress and it’s a pretty dress and it looks expensive and it’s a real gift and Nyla almost doubles over, spasming fingers gripping the edge of the box in an effort to remain grounded. She hides her tremble with busy movements, not really thinking but allowing her body to take over and carefully pull the dress from its crinkly nest.

Nyla knows little about clothing except from what Mistress Bethany and her guests wore but she knows what quality cloth feels like and this dress is certainly a cut of the finest. It has a supple, satiny feel but it isn’t silk, more like good linen in a soft blue imprinted with a pattern like white and grey stitching. It is crisp and flat and smells a little like vanilla when she moves it. Pleated skirt which could hit just below the knee, elbow-length sleeves, slimming waist. It has a wide neckline which doesn’t plunge to her breasts but instead would barely sit above the collarbones and sit halfway down the shoulder to show off their delicate swoop. It would show off the arc of her neck perfectly.

She would look so elegant in this dress, appearing so proper and almost fancy in a modest way. It is how she has dreamed of looking, sometimes, when she neatens her apron and flicks lint off her drab, black, uncomfortable uniform. In this dress, she would look as perfect as she behaves.

Absently, she strokes the along the mysterious fabric, wondering what it would feel like against all of her flesh. She nearly shivers with pleasure at the very thought of sliding that material over her head, zipping it up nice and neat. She suppresses a second, cold, shiver when a gratitude rises, unbidden, at her presence amongst the rest of the group. Mistress Bethany had never forced any of them to strip more than a shirt in front of one another but…who knew what Master Galo might command? If they had been alone when Master Galo gave her this, she would certainly assume she was meant to unclothe and slip into her giftstraight away. Display it for him. Looking pretty in it for him.

Master has paid close attention to them all, that much is abundantly clear. Nyla glances to the side and sees how Sasha is mesmerized by her gift. It is some sort of hair ornament, a flat clip to bridge the top of the head, a glorious, darkly polished wood that had been carved with an inlay of golden roses. It won’t just hold back the cascade of ebony hair, it will brighten the wavy length which Sasha combs between her fingertips, which soothes her so. Which one would notice if one watched her for long enough. Sasha’s fingers fly between hair and the ornament, sunk fully back upon her heels as she turns the clip over in her fingers like it is glass, watching the firelight catch all the petals and vines of gold.

Sasha loves her hair. She loves her gift.

It is all gift, Nyla realizes. All of her clothes are a gift. Seeing properly enough to do tasks obediently, having glasses at all, is a gift. Everything they are allowed to have is already a gift, graciously given on strict conditions. Nyla can go without her gift – her clothes – at any time Master Galo desires.  

Nyla soothes her fluttering pulse with a low breath, stilling her hands so they won’t seize the fabric and scrunch that ironed hem. She is here, right now, with her family. She traces the pattern with her eyes, counting the facsimile of stitches on the bodice as she allows that thought to ease the edge of sudden anxiety. There is absolutelyno sense in torturing herself with scenarios like that, no sense at all. There was no need. Even…ifsuch an idea did come to Master Galo, Nyla would give him no reason to play it out. She was perfect, she had always been perfect, and she will continue to be perfect; it is the only thing she can control. Nobody will have any reason to hurt her. Oh, Master can hurt her, of course he can, but he won’t have a reason to do it.

She won’t evergive anyone a reason.

                                                        ~          ~                                   

Galo hears a giggle and the surprise causes him to glance up from the game he’s been pretending to play on his phone, sprawled on the armchair several feet away from the group.

Lilah has opened her gift. A little red winter hat, ear-flaps and all, topped with a cotton puff which Lilah is poking at. She has pressed a hand to her mouth but is still grinning through her fingers as she pokes and ruffles the little poofy ball on the hat, on the matching gloves, on the tassels of the matching scarf. Lilah has lost herself in an almost open delight, youth bubbling through her nerves as she bats at her gift. Her bruises have long faded, all the cuts pinked and flat with age, so her freckles are stark. The absence of wounds makes her look so much younger than her eighteen years and her glowing grin gives her a childish glow.

Tears well in his eyes and he has to press his knuckles against his lids as he tries to swallow back the ache in his throat.

“Thank you so much, Master Galo! Thank you!”

Galo hopes his eyes are clear as he glances up again and sees that Lilah is the one who spoke. The others are clearly carefully looking anywhere but at either Lilah or Galo and, to be honest, he’s a little shocked at what amounts to an outburst from Lilah. She is trembling violently but is also clutching her gift tightly to her chest, gazing at Galo with…gratitude, heavy as worship, in her eyes.

Her grins widely at her, his gesture seeming to brighten that gratitude to a feverish glow. It’s all too much for Galo all of a sudden and he has to look away again so the tears won’t betray him and leak down his face, hoping to God that his reply doesn’t sound too choked.

“You’re welcome, kiddo. I’m…really glad you like it.”

                           i’m gonna throw myself into a pit now! hope ya’ll liked it!

[theraputicfluff]

Evasion

You know what I can’t get enough of? ticklish Emile.

So guess what I wrote: a fic involving ticklish Emile.

Gotta credit this lovely fic by @cefstickles, which totally sold me on the Deceit x Emile pairing. The AU of this fic is based loosely on this post, which speculates that Dr. Picani might take on some of Thomas’ sides himself if he had Thomas as a client.

Pairings: Deceit x Dr. Emile Picani Words: 1,357 Warnings: tickle fic, implied angst from unidentified clients, sad Emile (don’t worry, he gets better). SFW. [Let me know if I left any warnings out!]

If you’d like to be added to my taglist, lemme know!

Emile Picani loved his job. Really, he did.

But the same traits that made him so good at it- the empathy and depth of understanding that allowed him to pour so much of his heart into his work - left him, on bad days, feeling as dim and hollow as a spent candle.

Today was a bad day.

"Are you alright?" Deceit asked, uncharacteristically direct.

Emile was slumped beside him on the couch, struggling to peel open an applesauce cup. He didn't seem to hear.

"...Em?"

"Hm? Oh, yes." His voice was thin, more like he was murmuring to himself than replying. Another long silence followed.

"One of your patients, I take it?"

Emile finally placed the applesauce cup on the coffee table, still stubbornly sealed. "Several." He straightened up and smoothed his hands over his knees. "But. Work at work, home at home." He flashed his companion what he hoped was a cheerful smile. "No need to worry. You wanna watch a show or... somethin'?"

It was not a convincing performance.

"That's not dinner, is it?" Deceit nodded to the applesauce.

Emile looked at it blankly. "Well, I can't get it open, so I suppose not."

Deceit turned his human eye to him and managed to deliver a scolding lecture on the importance of self-care in a single deadpan look. Emile would've smirked, if he still had it in him.

When he looked away instead, Deceit's heart dropped a little. He felt a bit out of his depth - heart-to-hearts were in Emile’s wheelhouse, not his (at least, not honest ones). But he sure looked like he needed one.

"Would... you care to discuss it?"

Emile did manage a warm little smile at that. "I can't, really... confidentiality and all that."

"Oh, but I'm very confidential!" Deceit replied. "Keeping secrets is my specialty."

"You have enough of my secrets, sweetheart."

Truth was, Emile really didn't want to talk about it. It was hard enough to listen to the echoes of the day's events; they’d been spinning through his mind since he'd walked through the door.

Deceit slumped back. "Well, let's find something to help you relax then."

"Honestly, Dee, I'm fine. I just need a good night's sleep is all."

"You know how you get, though. At this rate, you'll be tossing and turning all night..."

Emile sighed and let his head fall limply against the wall behind him. Another silence yawned.

"I thought you cared about me! I thought you understood!"

"...Is there a particular show you feel like rewatching?" Deceit's voice sounded far away.

"Dr. Picani, I did it again. I thought I was getting better."

"Well, if you can't get it off your chest, and you're clearly not interested in television..." Deceit was starting to grow concerned.

"Dr. Picani, I want to-"

"-Hey!" Emile squeaked, and dropped back to earth like a sack of bricks.

"That got your attention." Deceit peaked his hands under his chin and began tapping his fingers together, a villainous glint in his eye.

Emile, sensing where this was heading, drew his knees up to his chin and pressed back against the cushions. "I-if that’s how you think you’re gonna get me to relax, you’re-"

"Is it? Why, I hadn't considered it, but I must say that's an excellent idea."

"Dee, I didn't mean-" Okay, maybe he did, just a little bit. "Y-you don't have to-”

"I think we could both use a little... levity, don’t you think?"

"Wait - both of us? Is everything okay?" Picani scrambled to sit up against the arm of the chair and tilted his head with concern. "You didn’t have another nightmare, did you? I know how hard you take th-"

"Ah ah ah, don't go turnin' this back on me!" Deceit cut him off, smirking. "I'm not falling for your little therapist routines."

"Wha- that’s- it’s called emotional sensitivity, you jerk!" Picani was unable to keep the smile out of his voice. "That's not a ‘therapy routine,’ it's-"

"It's called an evasive maneuver, my dear, and I see right through it." He leaned in close, propping his chin on the other’s knees. "Evasion, after all, is my specialty."

Emile made an attempt at a stern look, but was far too distracted by the proximity of the other man (who was now stretching his fingers, catlike, up toward the ceiling) to maintain it.

"Now, if I remember correctly..." Deceit resumed poking gently up the other's sides, screwing his eyes up to the ceiling as if searching for something lost between sofa cushions. "Somewhere along here really got you last time..."

"Ack! Dee, stOPit, I'm too - I'm too tired to be ticklish - right nohow!"

Deceit actually did pause to give the doctor a look. "My dear. You are a terrible liar."

At that Emile finally cracked, unable to hold back his own nervous giggles any longer. One of the challenges (or perks, depending on how much of a lee mood he was in) of being tickled by someone who was the literal embodiment of deception (or so he claimed) was his skill in sleight of hand. It made trying to anticipate when and where he would strike virtually impossible. Emile could only press himself as far back into the pillows as he could, drawing his arms up to shield himself more as a reflex than serious defensive tactic.

"Oh, I remember now," the darker man drawled. "It was riiiight about... here."

Emile squeaked again and flinched sideways as long fingers began scribbling into his ribs. Deceit was also a strategic 'ler: he kept track of the precise pressure points that made his victim squirm most desperately, like the bottom edge of the ribcage, for example, or the space immediately above the hipbones. In Emile's case, he'd found places where skeleton met softness were particularly effective.

Of course, Deceit had to dig a little to find them, as Emile was... well, primarily composed of softness. But this only contributed to the stuttering giggles the therapist was now shaking with. And it gave Deceit an excellent excuse to slip a hand under his sweater to get a better feel.

"Dee- DEHEHE!"

"Yes dear?" Though the darker man's voice was perfectly calm, Emile caught a quick twitch in the corner of his mouth, betraying his true feelings. He was loving this.

So was Emile - at least, the part of him that wasn't trying to halt the progression of Deceit's hand against his bare skin. He succeeded only in trapping it even closer to his body. Deceit felt his glove slip off as Emile jammed his elbow into his fingers, and, shooting him a positively evil smirk, began skittering his now-free fingernails up and across Emile's belly.

"AH-aha! STOPPIT!" It didn't help that Deceit's hands were freezing cold. Must be why he wears those ridiculous yellow gloves all the time... Emile's train of thought came abruptly to a halt as Deceit found a sweet spot exactly halfway between the base of his ribs and his bellybutton. The poor doctor crumpled sideways and wheezed with laughter, desperately clutching at Deceit's sleeve.

"Goodness. That's a good spot." Deceit was outright grinning now, unable to stifle it. "Heaven help you if you ever require a Heimlich maneuver."

There was the hint of a waver to the dark side's voice as he (just barely) fought down his own case of the giggles. The man was just. so. cute.

And, unbeknownst to Deceit himself, catching that little waver was one of Emile's favorite parts of their little games. The dark side’s own giddy delight may have been subtle to onlookers, carefully tucked under his usual suave, sly persona, but the therapist was just as skilled at seeing through emotional facades as Deceit was at producing them. Emile could read him like an open book.

And being able to find a crack in the composure of someone so careful to maintain it? Somehow it felt to Emile as if a shy puppy had chosen him as his favorite.

When Emile lost his breath completely, Deceit finally withdrew his hand and patted the rumpled sweater back into place. It took Emile a moment to collect himself, still quivering with soft, hiccupy giggles.

"You're..." he slowly propped himself back upright. "Good... at that..."

Deceit only leaned back with a chuckle of his own. And a very fond smile.

Emile had always struggled to put his work aside long enough to adequately recharge his emotional batteries. But when he needed to forget the weight of the world, at least long enough to get some sleep, Deceit was always happy to help.

After all, it was his specialty.

[planetsam]

jealous michael is my favorite michael! give me alex is engaged and michael says how much he's hurting because of it. "i'm sorry Michael, we could be friends but i'm happy with my life now and... i'm not in love with you anymore" please

“I object!”

Michael has spent most of his life trying to blend in and the feeling of two hundred pairs of eyes simultaneously turning towards him is nothing short of nauseating. He can barely acknowledge them though. The eyes he’s most interested in are staring at him from the altar. He’s surprised. And Michael tells himself he’s not imagining the faint hope in them. He realizes the silence is starting to get uncomfortable. He objected. Now everyone’s expecting him to follow up. Carefully easing past the two people in between him and the aisle, Michael ignores the rush of nerves that leave him with the overwhelming desire to shoot himself back to Antar.

“I know they say you don’t get over your first love and I think that’s bullshit,” he says, “people move on all the time. What I don’t know is how you get over someone who makes you fall for them over and over again. Every damn day, every time you look at them. And I never want to look away,” there’s another sharp inhale and Michael grabs the ten from his back pocket and gives it to the flower girl, “advanced pay for the swear jar,” he says and turns back to the grooms, “I love you,” he says to Alex.

“Babe,” the man Alex is marrying looks concerned.

“I know this is a dick move,” he continues, “but you can take comfort in knowing your wedding planner is going to straight up kill me,” he says. The reminder of what Isobel can do sets Alex’s features in a hard line. Not that Michael needs a psychic to know the bullshit Alex was saying, “so before I die a slow and agonizing and very deserved death, I’m calling bullshit.”

“This is my wedding,” Alex speaks up, finally. Anger in his tone, “I’m getting married, you can’t just show up—“ he takes a step forward and Michael fights the urge to look smug.

“After months without a word and a bad haircut?” He challenges, “or months without a word and a new boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Alex says, “we’re past this.”

He’s close enough that he can see the hurt. Alex isn’t impulsive anymore, he makes his decisions based on things like logic and facts. The fact is that he’s agreed to marry this other guy, he’s agreed to this massive wedding in this beautiful venue. The fact is that he’s told Michael he doesn’t want him anymore. Point blank. It’s also a fact that they are good at lying to each other, but that doesn’t seem to be a factor in this as much as Michael wishes it was. He’s willing to say that he made a mistake, but the fact is also that Alex is moving from the steps and his groom down to the aisle where Michael is.

“I’m not past anything,” he says.

“That isn’t my problem anymore, Guerin,” Alex tells him, taking another step.

“You’re lucky I don’t want to be friends,” Michael points out, “you’re a really shitty one.”

“I don’t want to be with you,” Alex tells him.

“Bullshit.”

“Why are you being so stubborn?!” Alex demands finally, “this is my wedding,” he repeats, “I made a commitment to marry that man,” he says. That’s the thing Michael didn’t account for. Alex might love him but Alex takes his commitments so seriously. Even now he’s in his uniform, “it’s too late.”

“Okay,” Michael says, sidesteps him and walks over to the groom, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says.

“Look, you seem like a really nice guy and I can’t imagine how this must feel,” he says, “I’m very happy to let you punch me if that helps. It definitely would make me feel better. But,” he says, “Alex and I love each other. If you know him half as well as you should to marry him, you know that.”

Alex rips his eyes from Michael to look at the groom. Michael can’t say he takes pleasure in the silent conversation he has with Alex, or even in the small, sad smile that comes to the guy’s lips. The groom turns first and looks at him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Alex sag with relief. It’s worth it, he decides. No matter what happens it’s worth it. Groom looks upset but not angry. He knows it too. One day he’s gonna make someone really happy and be a great husband to them. That someone just isn’t going to be Alex.

“You wanna hit me twice?” Michael offers.

“That’s not necessary,” the groom says.

That’s the last thing Michael remembers.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“You deserve worse. What the hell were you thinking?!” Isobel chides him, pressing the ice harder.

“That I didn’t want Alex getting married to anyone but me and he felt the same?”

“That better not be a question.”

She’s turned the wedding into a very fancy party to celebrate self love and freedom. Inviting most of the staff has gotten them at least a partial refund. Michael comes to in a chair right after the DJ announces that Brad is single and all non relatives should form a line to the left. Apparently he and Brad have more in common than loving Alex, go figure. Speaking of, Alex comes towards them. He’s taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. In his hand he’s got a cup of ice and a linen napkin. Isobel looks up at him and rolls her eyes.

“Sleeping beauty is awake,” she says.

“Switch with me,” He says. Isobel gets up and ruffles his hair which doesn’t help the pain in the side of his face.

“I’ll always think of you fondly,” she says.

“You’re giving him your killing blow?” Michael demands as she saunters off.

There’s nothing to do but face Alex. When he turns Alex cups his chin to look at his split lip and bruised cheek. His face is unreadable, but his touch is impossibly gentle as he puts the ice against his face. Michael really hopes he’s not drawing a parallel between this and his father. The only thing that is the same is Michael doesn’t care about getting hurt if it’s for Alex.

“I didn’t know you were with Mike Tyson,” he says.

“Brad boxed in college,” Alex says.

“That would explain it,” Michael says. Alex is silent but Alex is there. So Michael gives up his struggle for the perfect words and just goes for honesty, “I’m sorry for ruining your wedding.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am,” Michael says, “I’m not sorry you didn’t get married, but I’m sorry this night got ruined,” he looks at Alex, “why didn’t you stop me from stopping your wedding?”

Alex presses his lips together. They both know the answer to that. Isobel’s had the place strung with countless fairy lights and they shine on Alex’s dark hair. The candles in their mason jars on the tables also don’t make it any easier to look at him without getting distracted. But Michael tries. First he takes the hand from his chin and then he takes the ice and the hand that was holding it. There’s an imprint on Alex’s finger from a ring that’s been driving Michael insane. But now the mark has been transferred to Alex. He can’t wait for it to fade.

“I love you Alex,” he says, Alex hesitantly meets his eyes, “I spent my entire life letting people make decisions for me and trying to hide. But I couldn’t—“ he stops, “I want to marry you. I know that’s selfish, I know this doesn’t work if we’re both selfish but screw it. I want to be with you. I love you and I know you love me. And if we get out of each other’s way, we can make this work.”

Alex gently untangles their hands and Michael fights the feeling of his heart cracking. He’ll prove it. He will. Somehow. Maybe they’ll be one of those old ass couples who get married in those sweet ceremonies because they couldn’t before. Alex carefully rips his chin and presses the ice back, slightly firmer this time. His face is concentrated hard on Michael’s split lip.

“Alex?”

“Stop talking,” Alex says, “I need your lip to close.”

“Why?” Michael asks tentatively.

Alex looks at him and rolls his eyes.

Oh, oh.

Michael knocks the ice aside and presses his lips to Alex’s. Alex eagerly returns the kiss, the first time they’ve had any physical contact in longer than Michael ever wants to go again. He grips the sides of Alex’s chair to leverage himself closer as Alex finally sinks his fingers into Michael’s curls. Copper tangs the kiss and Michael regretfully pulls back, resting his forehead against Alex’s. His lip throbs but in the best way possible. When he opens his eyes, Alex is looking at him with his eyes bright, wet and finally as happy as they should be on his wedding day. Michael’s face splits into a wide grin as Alex laughs and they are both so close to tears, but good tears. The best tears.

“Please let me ice your face so I can kiss you again,” Alex pleads.

Michael nods and Alex puts the ice back against his lip. But his fingers fan across his cheek and Michael leans into it.

“I guess this is a good lesson not to get hit again,” Michael says.

“Thank god,” Alex replies.

Neither of them notice the photographer. Brad goes for sainthood when he sends them the picture. They’re sitting next to each other, their legs tangled together and Michael is leaning into Alex’s hand as Alex presses ice to his face. You can see Alex’s prosthetic and the fact that they both can’t see anything but each other.

It becomes Michael’s new favorite picture instantly.

A year later, it becomes he photo for their wedding announcement on Isobel’s website.

[quinlinkin]

take it from me ( i’d be lost without you ) ↳ Q’s twdg writing challenge

character(s): mitch, louis ship(s): louitch ( louis/mitch ) word count: 1749 author’s note: ahhhhh, so i finally fell behind. but hopefully only for these couple of days! either way, this fic is based around a short louitch comic i started making in xnalara a couple of months ago that i never ended up finishing. though i do hope to get it done soon, esp if this ship starts to make some traction?? who knowssss

have a lil preview of that comic anyway!!

[   ao3 link   ]

*credits to the wonderful @stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale​​​​​​​ for creating this challenge! you can view the entire prompt list + further details here. happy writing!!

                                                          ― ☼ ―

                                     day fourteen ; night sky.

“Makes you feel small, huh?”

“Hmm…?”

“Like… the universe. When you really think about it, we’re just so- insignificant. A puny, meaningless speck that doesn’t keep everything else from existing. It wouldn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things if we all disappeared one day.”

Pulling his gaze away from the blanket of stars above them, Mitch quirks an eyebrow at Louis. It’s become somewhat of a routine for them to find themselves right here, seated upon the roof of Mitch’s house as they stargaze and talk endlessly. They’ve occasionally even stayed put long enough for the sun to begin to rise, peeking over the horizon as a startling reminder for Louis that he needs to get home before his parents wake up and realize he isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

A crooked grin starts to tug at his lips, and he can’t help but to lightly tease, “Jesus… Deep, much? Y’know, I think you’d better quit that damn drama class before it’s too late, it’s obviously starting to get to your head.”

Louis rolls his eyes and scoffs, yet the unmistakable signs of his own subtle grin are plainly visible in the moonlight. “I’m just saying. When you put things into perspective, it’s pretty wild to think about.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mitch shrugs, green eyes flicking back up to the inky black sky. Truth be told, he hasn’t spent a lot of time contemplating their existence like Louis apparently has. It didn’t really matter to him.

Except for aliens, of course. Aliens were real, the government are hiding the truth, and he’ll gladly fight anyone who tries to disagree.

“Well… What do you think, then?” Louis asks after a beat of silence.

Again, Mitch gives an offhanded shrug. “I dunno. Not much, I guess.”

He can feel Louis’ eyes on him without having to look. It makes his skin crawl, his cheeks tingle.

“No opinions on life beyond earth? No theories about our existence? Figured you’d be all about the conspiracy theory life.”

“I ain’t Shane Dawson.”

Louis laughs. “No, you’re definitely not.”

Mitch gives a breathy chuckle of his own, his elbows shifting against the shingles. “Yeah, I mean- conspiracies are fun to think about. But I wouldn’t go as far as… whatever all that was that came outta your mouth just now.”

“What, you didn’t like my awesomely philosophical speech?” Louis retorts. Mitch can hear the smirk present in his airy tone. “I should be offended.”

Mitch is forced to redirect his attention back to Louis’ face, where sure enough, that classic Louise-esque smirk is spread across it. His eyes linger for longer than intended. “I think you’re better off leaving all that shit to Aasim.”

With another brief, joined laugh, they both turn their attention back to the sky. It’s not uncommon for them to fall into comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes, Mitch will light up a cigarette that Louis always decline to share. Other times, they’ll take turns with a bottle of alcohol snagged from his father’s liquor cabinet until their heads are warmly fuzzy and boundaries become just a little bit thinner.

Tonight, however, there’s nothing but the two of them, no distractions or obligations to be anywhere other than right here.

It’s also not uncommon for Mitch’s mind to wander during these bouts of silence. He wishes he only held positive thoughts for this odd, indescribable bond that’s formed between him and Louis.

He’s unable to understand why Louis would ever want to show up whenever Mitch decides to text him late at night, why he ever gives him the time of day or humors him when they have just about nothing in common. While it’s no exaggeration that Mitch could produce quite the lengthy list of reasons why Louis is so great and interesting, he’s yet to find a single reason why the opposite would prove to be true.

Mitch glances at Louis while his focus is directed above them. There’s a gentle smile on his face, his expression blissful and carefree. He looks positively at peace, and Mitch doesn’t get why.

He suddenly feels guilty. He’d called him out of bed at nearly two in the morning, after all, and while Mitch never dares to admit whenever there’s an underlying problem that prompts him to want Louis’ company, he suspects that Louis already knows.

Louis makes him feel better, plain and simple. Perhaps it’s his shining personality or his positive way of thinking, though whatever the true reason, Mitch never fails to feel his mood lifting from as early on as seeing Louis typing back a message despite immediately regretting sending his own in the first place.

“You don’t have to be here, y’know,” he suddenly tells him. Out of context, it’s entirely unprompted, yet in Mitch’s mind, they’re words that have to be spoken.

Louis immediately turns his head to look at him, his brows pulled together with a keen mixture of confusion and compassion. It’s more than enough for Mitch to be quickly looking away, that too-sincere expression tugging at his heart in a way that makes him feel queasy.

“I know,” Louis speaks quietly, steadily. Careful, as if saying the wrong thing will cause Mitch to freeze up and bolt. It wouldn’t be the first time. “But… I want to.”

The outward confession instinctively draws Mitch’s eyes back to his face, just for a second, before he’s forcing them away again. His eyebrows furrow, searching for words well beyond his grasp to say.

Naturally, Louis picks up on his uneasy silence. “Do… you not want me here?”

“What?” Mitch’s head snaps back towards him, eyes slightly rounded before he’s firmly shaking his head. “No, I - of course I do.”

While he hadn’t quite expected Louis’ response, he supposes he should have. With his standoffish, blunt nature, he can only imagine that he must come off as disinterested in Louis’ company from time to time. He curses his unapproachable demeanor, wishes it wasn’t so difficult for him to open up.

Apparently, Louis decides to push things a little further. Mitch doesn’t blame him for wanting answers, though once again, he’s no longer able to look at him as his expression grows more sympathetic. His voice is incredibly timid when he speaks up, and Mitch feels even worse.

“Then… why say that?”

Mitch sighs. “Ah… I dunno, I just- most people wouldn’t want to, I guess. Most people… wouldn’t care.”

He can feel Louis shifting closer, trying to crane his neck in order to meet his eye.

It doesn’t work until he speaks again, barely above a whisper. “Well… I do. I care.”

Mitch simply can’t control the troubled look that crosses over his face, displaying his every conflicted emotion and his perplexed thought for Louis to see despite the fact he doesn’t want him to.

There’s nothing he can do to stop himself from asking, “But… why? ”

Louis instantly falls quiet. For a moment, Mitch regrets asking, assumes that there’s nothing that Louis has to offer in response to his question. Of course there isn’t, his mind bitterly taunts. He only said he cares to make you feel better.

He’s proven entirely wrong in the next second.

“Because…” he starts, seeming to choose his words very carefully until they’re spilling freely from his mouth. “You’re worth so much more than you think you are. Yeah, you’re a little devious, and yeah, you’ve got this whole ‘tough guy’ act nailed down. But under all that, you… you have a good heart, Mitch. I can see it all the time. Even if you don’t.”

Mitch blanks. There’s nothing that could ever describe the whirlwind of emotions that instantly overtakes him, no amount of understanding that could hope to make sense of it all. Impossibly, he feels gut-wrenching sadness and heartwarming inspiration at exactly the same time, a melting pot of conflicting feelings coexisting with each other, relentlessly battling for the top spot within his mind.

Ultimately, sheer disbelief wins.

“I… think you give me way too much credit…” he mumbles, a rather pathetic reply to Louis’ meaningful expression of his self worth.

Louis doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe you just don’t give yourself enough.”

Mitch can feel Louis’ eyes practically boring holes into his skin as he grows distressingly silent once again, their shoulders brushing in a way that has him tensing up despite himself. Yet as undeterred as ever, Louis is piping up again before he knows it.

“I see you for who you really are. Whether you like it or not.”

There’s no denying the phrase sums everything up better that Mitch could ever express, himself. Yet he’s unable to think about it for much longer after those words are spoken, for in another, completely unexpected turn of events, Mitch can feel Louis shifting even closer.

A brief pause ensues, before Louis is leaning in the rest of the way. He kisses Mitch’s cheek, and Mitch is blown away how such as simple action can bring forth such an intense response. His heart ricochets inside his chest, his thoughts all but exploding inside his head. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe.

Then, he’s turning to gawk at Louis as if he’s grown at least five extra heads. Louis bears a similar expression, seemingly shocked at himself, leaving them both staring at one another like two deer within the glow of the same headlights. 

“I - I’m sorry, I-”

Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe the rapidly multiplying emotions within him take over, blinding him and masking all the rational common sense he already lacks.

Whatever the reason, there’s no stopping himself, no controlling his own actions. He doesn’t care if Louis regrets it, if he’s apologizing because he didn’t mean to.

Mitch closes the distance between them again, and kisses him.

Louis freezes, but for only a second. Mitch thinks that same emotionally fueled instinct must be taking over him, too, for faster than his mind can process, they’re quite literally kissing each other senseless. It feels as if a slowly cracking dam between them has finally broken, and with it, everything comes effectively pouring out.

He doesn’t know how long the kiss lasts. All concept of time becomes lost upon him, and the only thing that eventually separates them is the burning need for oxygen.

And, as they pull away, in some cheesy, embarrassingly cliche passing thought, Mitch swears the stars above Louis’ dazed, smiling face shine brighter than they ever have before.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #233

lalala song lyrics i’m about to go home so copy/pasting time.

What subject do you seem to struggle with the most? Various forms of mathematics. Have you ever solved a Rubik’s Cube? Noooo. I don't have that dedication. What’s the worst feeling in the world? Specifically? Giving someone everything you have physically and emotionally with full force and finding out you weren't enough. Who do you think is the easiest to talk to? Sara, probably. What is your favorite genre of movie? Horror, probably. What’s the best thing that happened to you today? Being told I don't have strep throat. Do you have a favorite metal band or do you not like metal? Metal is my favorite genre. I claim a lot as "favorites," but the reigning king will always be Ozzy Osbourne. What’s your favorite kind of science? Genetics. What’s your homeroom? We don't have those in college. If you had to move, where would you move to? Well, my only choice would be to move in with my dad, his wife, and her son. I'm not financially independent. Who did you last go to the movies with? Dad. I think. Have you ever read anything written by Shakespeare? I'm not going to include things assigned in schools because everyone had to read like, Beowulf or something similar at some point. I once started to read the full Macbeth (we read a condensed version in school) during a hospital stay, but I didn't finish it. Who’s the cutest person you know? Have you fuckin SEEN Sara when she's excited because- How about the funniest? Girt's funny as fuck. What is your current desktop picture? An adorable meerkat pup looking at the camera al;sdjfal;kjwerads If you could be reincarnated into anything you wanted, what would it be? I don't know if I'd even want that, but let's just say I was. Maybe... I was gonna say a lioness, because they're high on the food chain, beautiful, and social animals, but yeah I'd prefer to not be poached. Perhaps a house cat. What talent would you like to have? I wish I could draw hyperrealistically. What New Year’s resolutions did you make? I don't make those. What are three songs that mean the most to you? "Pretty Woman" by Van Halen, "The Only Exception" by Paramore, and probably "It's Alright" by Mother Mother. What do you think of your parents? I love them. What is one thing you would do to make the world better? I wish with a snap of my fingers I could just make all litter disappear or something like that. If you could be invisible for a day, what would you do? ... Wow. I actually thought about it, and the first thing my mind drifted to was "go to Jason's just to see he's okay," and I don't like that. We pass his house every day to go to school and come back, and I think it's only natural that I get curious, particularly when his car is there, but I don't want to care. How much cash do you have on you right now? Just a few dollars from Mom to get something from the snack or drink machine from school if I need to. What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do in your life? Move on. Let go of people. Forgive. How do you measure intelligence? I dunno, how do you? Define the *type* of intelligence. What cartoons do you watch? None actively. Have you ever used drugs? Not illicit ones. Are you into tattoos? *blinks* Do you like photography? I fucking read this as "pornography" first aslkjweoaider. But yeah, I love love love photography. What’s the biggest celebrity you’ve ever seen in real life? The only celebrity I think I've ever seen is Alice Cooper, and it was at a concert. What person in history do you admire most? I don't know enough about any historical figure to really answer this with passion. What is the most daring thing that you have done in public? I don't know considering I'm not that daring. Probably a kiss momentarily going too far or something. Are you afraid of anything that most people are not afraid of? Whale sharks lmao. But pregnancy is the biggie. Well, maybe most are to a mild degree at least, idk. Have you ever watched someone struggle with addiction? Yeah. Who do you look up to for your style? I don't look up to a certain person. If you were to invent something, what would it be? I don't know off the top of my head and I don't feel like sitting here- OH NO WAIT! Remember that one year deviantART's April Fools prank was that it produced some sort of technology where you could visualize a drawing, and by scanning your finger or some weird shit while you envisioned it, it could produce it on the screen? Yeah, something like that. I'd pay big bucks for something that could put my ideas on paper. Who would you like to get to know better? One of my RP partners that I've known since childhood. She's just extremely private online. What’s your favorite thing to order at a Chinese food restaurant? Pork fried rice is my jam. In your opinion, what is the greatest challenge the world faces today? Greed, probably. What have you achieved that you once thought was impossible? Getting over Jason. What have you tried to quit, but weren’t able to? Meat. Not for lack of motivation, but health needs. What was the last rumor that you heard? I don't know. What country star would you most like to meet and why? I'm not interested in meeting any. Have you ever been in a car accident? Yeah. What is the most dangerous thing you have ever done? Overdose. What is the meaning of life? I don't pretend to know anymore. I think everyone gives their life its own meaning based on values, goals, beliefs, etc. Do you prefer cupcakes or muffins? That's hard, man. Depends on the kind, I guess. What is the funniest movie you’ve seen in your whole entire lifetime? White Chicks never fails to get me. What’s the worst nightmare you’ve ever had? My dad about to molest me. What’s your favorite amusement park ride? Merry-go-rounds lmao. Who are your musical influences? This seems like a question for an aspiring musician, which I'm not. What’s the best pick-up line that’s ever been tried on you? I don't know if anyone's ever tried one on me. How many drinks can you handle? I wouldn't really know as I've never reached the point of being drunk, but seemingly quite a few. Weak ones, anyway. If it has a high alcohol concentration, I'm not drinking that shit. What was the longest phone conversation you’ve ever had? Idk, most of the afternoon or evening. I think one occasion with an old best friend went past five hours. Do you know where you want to go to college? I'm happy at my current college. They care a lot about their students. Are you satisfied with the picture on your ID card? Permit, fuck no. School ID, it's alright. What fruit did you last eat? An apple. Aside from yourself, who was the last person to see you naked? My mom. How many classes are you taking? Four, currently. Jumping up to six next semester... though not really by choice. My adviser wants me to have like a safety net by having two classes I CAN drop if I need to, but she's realistic in pointing out that the school path I visualize doable for me will be a VERY slow one and ultimately cost so, so much more money, so she wants to nudge me along as best she can while keeping my limitations in mind. I'm definitely going to try the best I can to do this in four years, but yeah... unlikely. But that's okay to me, so long I get there in not TOO long of a time. Have you ever lost anything down a toilet? I don't think so... but I do recall when my older sister was tiny she flushed a little toy truck down the toilet. We had to get a plumber to save it lmao. I think my mom has kept the truck. Are you someone’s best friend? One of hers. Do you have any goldfishes? No. Have you ever had a pet that you disliked? I absolutely hate my sister's dog that for whatever fucking reason lives with Mom and me. Why we keep a dog that does nothing but annoy us and piss us off is a subject of more than frequent arguing. When was the last time you saw hail? I don't know, a long time ago. What color eyes do you prefer: Green or Brown? Green. Have you ever given a nickname to your pet(s)? Oh yeah. Of my living ones, I call Venus "Miss Venus" and "pretty girl" a whole lot, while Teddy has a whole lot, but mostly "booga," "bub(by)," "boogie," and "Teddy-boo." I just call Roman "butt" a lot, lmao. I don't really have a common one for Mitsu, but I sometimes use "baby girl," I think. Ever been on a boat before? Like, fishing boats. Which is better: Skiing or Snowboarding? I wouldn't know, never tried either. Can you change the oil on a car? I have no clue how. Ever ran out of gas? Not while I myself was driving. I don't even know if I've ever been in the car while that's happened. Favorite kind of sandwich? Most of the time just an 'ole pb&j. Best thing to eat for breakfast? mmmmmmm cinnamon rolls are the GOOD SHIT. Are you horny? Nah. Do you have any magazine subscriptions? Nope. Which are better legos or lincoln logs? Lincoln logs or GET OUT. Are you stubborn? Yeah, most of the time. Are you afraid of heights? YEAH. Ever used a gun? Nooooo and I don't want to. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer? Idk if the guy who did my school ID card was an actual photographer? I dunno? Ever eat a pierogi? I hate those goddamn pockets of disgust. Favorite type of fruit pie? I dun like pie. I used to be okay with apple, though. Do you believe in ghosts? 110%. Ever have a deja-vu feeling? Yes because our world is just a simulation and it's a glitch- (I'm only semi-kidding btw idk I kinda believe it) Why do you think others get deja-vu? Because our world is just a simulation and it's a glitch- Take a vitamin daily? No. I need to, though. Wear a bath robe? No, I get dressed right after the shower. What do you wear to bed? Pajama pants and a tank top. First concert? Alice Cooper. Outside. During a thunderstorm. Shit was badass. Peanuts or sunflower seeds? Both are ew. I can handle a little bit of peanut better, though. Ever take dance lessons? I grew up taking a lot through middle school and some of high school. I tooook... clogging (I was embarrassingly good at that omg), jazz, modern (my fave), lyrical very briefly 'cuz I am NOT graceful, and hip hop. I always hated the music, but the dancing itself is fun. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing? No. They can do whatever they aspire to. Have you ever cried because you were so happy? Yeah. Own any record albums? Not anymore, Mom sold them. I wish I had them now, ahhhh. I love 'em. Own a record player? No. Who would you like to see in concert? I am seeing Ozzy next year or I will fucking riot, Metallica, and Rammstein. Many others would be cool, but those are the biggies. I'd love to see Manson and Otep, but their shows are... yeah. They do gross and/or really disrespectful shit. Hot tea or cold tea? THERE ARE SO MANY TEA OR COFFEE QUESTIONS IN SURVEYS but they tend to be different so I just keep them in alsdjf;awe. The usual: I hate tea. Can you swim well? I guess I swim fine? DJ or band, at a wedding? DJ. I want a variety of music. Ever won a contest? A few, don't feel like trying to remember 'em. Ever have plastic surgery? No. Which are better black or green olives? Olives are fucking gross. Best room for a fireplace? Living room. Who was your high school crush? My first was either Sebastian or Kyle. Or Girt. Then Juan, though that crush was questionable if it was serious or not. He really flattered me a lot, but I've told the story before plenty. Idk if the emotion was romantically reciprocated, though honestly I think it was mostly because of his reputation? I only knew him as extremely sweet. BUT ANYWAY, after that, do I even need to say "Jason?" When he came along, whether or not I really liked Juan was totally forgotten. What do you believe happens to us after death? Hell if I know. Have you ever cheated on someone? No. Does the thought of growing old frighten you? More like the thought of my body deteriorating does. Have you ever hurt someone for your own entertainment? um the fuck. I've done it out of heartbreak and pain, but never for my entertainment. What is your favorite song of all time? Of all time, probably "False Flags" by Massive Attack. Has anyone you’ve known died on a holiday? Possibly, idk. If you could write a book, what would it be about? Sometimes I wish I could make a series out of the meerkat RP I engage in, but I don't have the motivation or dedication for that. And I wouldn't be comfortable revising our "tribute" characters for the sake of legality and just respect in general. What are some lyrics that speak to your soul? "For such a little thing, you sure are in your own way" from a Mother Mother song. I'm not exactly small for a human ha ha, but in the scope of the universe perspective, we're all less than microscopic. Have you ever been in love with more than one person at the same time? Not in love, not. Attracted to, yeah. What is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to you? I remember, though it's a tad blurry, the occasion I was having a serious "grieving session" for Jason at Colleen's house, and her sister was there alone with me. She was talking me through it and grabbed my shoulders at one point, looked me dead in the eye, and told me so firmly yet gently how beautiful a person I was and that I deserved the world and more. I won't forget that, like ever. Do you have any taboo fetishes or preferences? No. What is the thing you are most ashamed of? I've talked about this enough. Well, that or just being a general "this is all your goddamn fault and I am the only victim here" cunt to Jason following the breakup. Actually, yeah, I'm probably more ashamed of that. What is the emotion you seem to feel most strongly? Hm. Embarrassment? Heartbreak? Love? Idk. Do you think of yourself as a unique person? Yeah, honestly. I mean not incredibly, but unique, yeah. What is a movie from childhood that you loved? I've talked about TLK and Finding Nemo and that kinda stuff a lot, so here's a STUPIDLY underrated one: Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmaron. That movie is fuckin beautiful wtf. Are you afraid of death? Aren't we all at least to a small degree? What are your top three biggest fears, actually? Losing my mom, being raped, and all those I love just abandoning me. Do you have an accent of any kind? You can detect a Southern one sometimes. What do you want to be remembered for? Sending a message of love, especially to animals. Are you currently sad about anything? I am literally permanently sad about my weight, though it's not like, an *active* sadness at this very moment? Have you ever changed your spiritual beliefs? Three times now. Catholic to Christian to theist. What is your favorite alcoholic drink? MARGARITAS gotDAMN Do you ever talk to yourself? Sure. Have you ever cried yourself to sleep in your adult life? Oh yeah. What do you think is the meanest thing you’ve ever said to someone? "Thanks for sending me to the ER again." Fucking bitch. Do you have a favorite book? If so, how many times have you read it? Johnny Got His Gun and The Outsiders. Only read both once. I almost never read a book more than that. Have you ever wished you were from another country? Half the time, especially as an adult, I wish I lived in Canada. What are you thinking about currently? My throat is absolutely killing me and I'm ready to leave school. What is a subject that makes you uncomfortable to speak about? I'm more uncomfortable talking about sex than I used to think. Do you have anything you are extremely particular about? When I'm in the passenger seat controlling the music? Oh my god, Mom, DON'T turn the volume down manually. I can do that on my iPod myself, but can only turn it back UP but so loud as it gets lower by the car itself. She knows I turn it down when we're talking, she is, or we slow down, but she does it anyway sometimes and I get unreasonably annoyed by it. Have you ever seen the ocean? Only the Atlantic. What is your most fond memory of your current S.O, if applicable? THE FIRST KISS Y'ALL it was fuckin CHEESY but I LOVE IT Do you find yourself confused often? Oh hell yeah. What was the best time of your life? It's so funny to me how I can answer "2017," the very same year I OD'd. That's rapid growth, my friend. Have you ever been on a cruise? No. Do you miss any of your exes? I only miss the memories of him. Are you religious? I mean I believe in some ultimate creator, but I don't really like calling myself "religious" anymore. I don't worship it, I don't pray to it. I'm thankful to exist, but that's. It, I guess. ANY entity I would respect wouldn't demand me to kiss its feet. Do you think you are attractive? HELL NO. How many people have you slept with? Do you mean like, as in having sex? One. Slightly fooled around with, two, including the previously-mentioned guy. Do you consider yourself a catch? Besides my looks, I do think I'm a good girlfriend. What kind of sauce do you eat your chicken nuggets with? Honey mustard, actual mustard... that kinda stuff. What do you think you could do to improve your life? Get a goddamn job, I'm just really not capable right now. What song is playing right now? "Hag" by Otep. What is your LJ name? I don't have a LiveJournal. I don't even want to EXIST on the same site with a particular fat-headed, bigoted fuck of a bitch. Holy shit I've nearly made an account multiple times JUST to talk that cunt back to Earth. What was the most recent movie you watched? UHHHHHHHH I don't remember actually. How many times have you got stitches? UHHHH twice or thrice? What are your pets’ species and names? I'm excluding the dog I hate because he's not even "mine." Teddy is a beagle/cocker spaniel/probably something else mix. Roman is a cat mix; he seems to have Siamese or something similar in 'im. Mitsu is a fancy rat. Venus is a champagne ball python. What is your most recent musical crush? Mark is a fucking singer, DON'T EVEN @ ME ABOUT IT. Which is better; immense heat or extreme coldness? God, the latter. I literally can't handle like anything above 70 for even like 10 minutes. It's not just that I find heat uncomfortable, but I sweat to a disgusting degree and get extremely weak, dizzy, and sometimes nauseous. Do you have a disease? Just mental ones. I have at least one physical disorder, but not a disease. Do you like gore? BITCH yes. Especially in art. It's the smell irl I can't really handle, as well as seeing like, human gore, but also exclusively in the real world. It feels too personal and close to home, y'know? Do you stutter? YEP. Name a cool person you have lost touch with? Megan, particularly. Who was the friendliest person you have met on the internet? MAN, I don't know if I could pick!! Maybe uhhhh... Megan again? She was nice to like... everyone. Or Connie for the same reason, and she's also chill as hell. I really don't know, I've met a load of great people. Name a song that is overplayed. I don't listen to the radio, so. What websites do you visit frequently? Kalahari Manor, deviantART, YouTube, Facebook, the Silent Hill wiki to make sure it's not exploding from mental cases again to not make it to fucking video game and horror sites/blogs again, and especially lately, Tumblr. There's more, but those are the regularly frequent ones. Does counting sheep help you fall asleep? Never tried. What is the biggest mystery? Where the universe came from and why.

[thestarrynightgazer]

Colorblind

I've been loving Simon recently... so here I am giving him his fair share of angst.

Thanks to @galfridus1 for helping me with this. :)

Base on this panel. :)

~

Various colors exploded above the skies that night, the beauty of the moon and the stars left ignored as red, green, yellow and purple burst. In every explosion were sounds of cheers, laughter and all sounds one could easily guess to be merry. Liones was celebrating, after Dreyfus and Hendricksen were defeated and also to recognize the King of Camelot who sealed that kingdom’s alliance with his majesty, Baltra. It was to celebrate victory, to show that such challenge did nothing to the largest kingdom in Britannia, to give hope and joy to the people who were supposed to be ruined.

Simon felt nothing but agitation towards the celebration, however… not with most of his allies leaving him during the fight.

The young knight grit his teeth, sitting on the floor of the morgue, knees drawn to his chest as he could no longer bare to look at the bodies before him. He refused to leave despite the heavy feeling in his chest, convincing himself that this was the least he could do as the kingdom seemed to be too fixated on the idea about moving on to bother about the dead. This was his way of recognizing the fallen knights, his comrades, his friends… his family.

He had no family… he refused to acknowledge that his asshole of a father was related to him, strongly believing that it was his fault that his mother had died. The man was a drunkard, a gambler, and had even sold his only son like an object, preferring temporary luxury and ignoring the blood that tied them. His atypical silver hair and sapphire eyes had attracted the interest of a slave trader back then, and upon offering a pouch of silver coins, his father hadn’t even hesitated.

He couldn't even do anything, tears falling over his cheeks as he was chained and dragged like some sort of animal into a carriage. He tried to escape, many times, only to end up with angry red marks over his back after being whipped as a punishment.

He thought that freedom was something elusive from his hands from then on… Until they saved him…

They took him in as one of them, accepted him not as a comrade but as family.

And now they were gone...

Agony was all he felt as he saw them, Hugo and Weinheidt had lost half of their limbs, Jillian’s hazel eyes staring into nothingness as he begged to the gods that this might be nothing but a nightmare. He wanted to wake up, to return to those days where Weinheidt taught him archery, where Jillian braided his hair when she was bored and where Hugo constantly made fun of him for being short. They were his happiness. Having them at his side made him satisfied with life.

But it wasn't a nightmare … it was too much, too painful, the agony proof that this was all real.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He could still hear it, the sound of fireworks, the sound of cheers still ringing throughout Liones and he wanted nothing but to shut out the sound from his ears.

“I knew I'd find you here.” He didn't have to turn his head to tell that Slader had entered the place, his footsteps breaking the solemnity and quiet. Simon decided to ignore him, drawing his knees even closer. He was angry with Slader for attending that god damn party.

“Simon…”

“You shouldn't have gone to the celebration,”  Simon stated through gritted teeth, furious that Slader was probably laughing along at the festivities, bringing his glass up for a cheers, drinking and having fun while he was here. The knight hated how their leader didn't even give honor to his team, he hated that Slader had disappointed him…

He had looked up to him, admired him. Slader was the reason he had chosen a sword to fight with, the reason he had grown his hair long. It was all because of Slader…

The knight seemed to be aware that he was upset with him, simply approaching him as he bent down besides where he sat.

“I don't want to.” Simon was trembling from the effort of trying not to cry and look weak. He wasn't a child anymore, he was raised to be a knight and he was bound to lose comrades in a fight. He should have seen this coming. Either he would die or they would, it was inevitable. He should have been prepared, but it hurt.

“The King was planning on recognizing us along with the Seven Deadly Sins as heroes of Liones.” Simon's heart ached at the news, He could imagine it, the five of them, granted with medals by the King, colorful flower petals falling over them as the sun smiled above for the occasion.

He could imagine it, Hugo insisting on carrying Simon over his shoulder, Jillian and Weinheidt sharing a brief kiss to congratulate each other and Slader would certainly have ruffled his hair to congratulate him. It was a lovely image, but painful. He knew in that moment that it would never happen.

“I don't want to accept it… not without them.” Simon burst into tears, going straight into Slader’s arms, sobbing miserably. The older man tried to console the young knight, embracing the boy.  Grief made it possible for him to be selfish, he should have tried to understand that his majesty, the king, probably asked for Slader to be there. As knights, they were basically not allowed to refuse the king's orders and he should have known better.

He couldn't bring himself to hate him honestly, Slader was all he had left, it was impossible for him to push him away.

The both of them vowed to protect each other then, not knowing how they could handle if they lost more of those who were as family to them; more than just friends or colleagues. The sound of fireworks fell deaf on their ears. They found themselves far too deep into grief to even try and celebrate… the pain far too overwhelming to care about anything else, so all they could do was cling to one another.

[pinlc-candy]

i was watching a DOOM speedrunners video about cheaters and someone in the video made a response to being called out that’s so funny

You humour me greatly with your arrogance and contempt, a flood of accusations born from the poison of envy and smite of disrespect. I feel both disappointment and flattery these thoughts would originate from another player who has demonstrated one of a kind talent and has accomplished the impossible, yet is apparently immune from judgement owing to their reputation, do not think your words hold more credibility just because of who you are, being more well known and what you have accomplished in breaking world records and setting ones never previously accomplished, such as with TNT and Plutonia Nightmare. With that being said I will divulge my thoughts on the serious accusations you have set forth. I won't address the individual gameplay scenarios you've highlighted, as the foundation of your argument arises from jealously, this is clear when you contrast my success with your failure, being deluded into thinking you should have surpassed these trials yet cannot absolutely comprehend how someone else can claim victory on a consistent basis, instead I will address my playing ability. You know nothing about who I am or my history with this game, I am exceptionally talented not only at Doom, but other oldschool FPS along with videogames in general. I make speedruns and partake in Ironman out of passion for the game, it is a personal challenge in testing my playing ability to overcome arduous odds, I play for fun, it's about me vs the game and I hold no strong competitive urge or desire to be known as the best, reputation and status are not important to me but having fun is essential. Are you serious when you can't believe someone can beat an Ironman consistently? It's just playing the game without saving or loading, do you not have a fundamental understanding of the core gameplay and how to the play game correctly? Am I the only one who can play aggressively, with an intuitive and innate ability to bend the game to their will and not panic when in a dire situation, but with tactical genius aware of my surroundings and dexterous reflexes can act in the heat of battle and overcome arduous odds? When you highlight cases of RNG, I honestly don't think about it that deeply, I'm confident in what I'm doing, I'll make a risky move and hold strong with faith. I laugh at your baseless accusations of slowdown in reference to Stardate, I'm sure other skilled players such as Mrzzul and Nevanos could playthrough Stardate casually withour prior practice or saving and get just as far. Also bear in mind that I have died in several Ironmans before, do you honestly think their was demo manipulation there? You also demonstrate your ignorance very clearly when you admit you haven't watched my Ironman demos in full, and by watching I do mean actually studying them and assessing each scenario, bearing in mind my experience and ability at Doom which is extradonary, not skipping to a random moment and making up fabrications based on your own failures thinking oh it's impossible, their is no way any player could accomplish that. I do make mistakes, sometimes crucial ones, this is also reflected if you studied my speedruns which are far from perfect and have flaws such as missing shots, awkward movement and poor dodging, however a key skill I have is not panicing when low on health or when the circumstance is dire. Well guess what, I'm one of a kind, no one can play the game like me, every talented player and speedrunner has their own strengths and weaknesses that make them stand out. I am deluded when you suggest someone must have prior knowledge to stand a chance of victory at Ironman. Well look at Demon of the Well, he's not a speedrunner but is known for making FDAs both blind and familiar, he has an exceptional ability at conquering maps on his first attempt, the most prominent example I can think of is rdwpa's MuMe.wad. Does that mean he cheats? Certainly not, he's a talented player who obviously has a high level of playing ability. You also have j4rio and 0xfooba who have accomplished amazing demos that haven't been set before, with the former tysons that should be impossible and the latter UV-Maxes on some the hardest maps devised and speedrun movies of Sunlust. So why would you think my speedruns are cheated, when their are fellow speedrunners who have demonstrated extraordinary playing ability, do not stream and have surpassed my demos? As I certainly have never accussed anyone else of cheating, but respect their accomplishment and admire their tenacity at conquering very hard maps and goals. I have not shown jealously or malice towards fellow speedrunners who have surpassed my demos but silently congratulate and admire their accomplishment, in some cases publicly such as when Ancalagon went back and re-ran Combat Shock in response to when I beat his old runs. I do not look at speedrunning with a competitive eye, thinking I must have the record and surpass my competitor, instead my view is a cooperative one, it's us speedrunners against the game, building on one another's ideas and talent when a new record is set, complementing each other's unique strengths and weaknesses. My question would be why are you accusing and targetting me specifically? I can see from the depths of your arrogance, you believe with absolute certainty you are correct and I must be a cheater with any form of rebuttal being null and void. Well let me state clearly I have nothing to gain, why would I cheat at Ironman when I have pubically stated previously I do not care about winning or if a fellow player surpasses me, this is just fun to me. For speedruns, what would be the purpose in cheating as it's a personal challenge to me, I want to demonstrate to myself I've got the skill and talent to conquer very hard maps, it's about me against the game and I don't feel jealously at a fellow speedrunner who has beaten my record. I make speedruns out of passion and love for the game and not for admiration or self flattery, as long as Andy accepts the demo for DSDA that's all I care about. I am not going to stream as I do not care for an audience and am not influenced by the accusations of an envious stranger. I only streamed briefly for a short time in the past out of curiosity, but it does not interest me nor do I feel passion for it. I haven't watched Twitch in over a year, I was drawn to it in my spare time during the short period prior to my first full time job after finishing my studies. My life has changed a lot in the past two years and their are far more important aspects in life which draw my attention, I have little free time as well. Also you must be very self-conscious if you honestly think one has to stream their demo to demonstrate they aren't cheating, that just indicates your disrespect and distrust towards other players with exceptional playing ability, you'll never be a talented survivalist like me :) Let me make it clear I don't give a damn what you or anyone else thinks of me, when I am passionate about a subject I will speak my mind truthfully even if it means being brash at times, both online and in real life, I won't be intimidated by anyone and will confront them with assertion and confidence. I'm here for fun, making speedruns and commenting on subjects once in a while which capture my eye. Thank you for revealing your true colors, seething with jealously and enveloped by arrogance, you've lost what respect I had for you. If you've come to your senses you will offer an apology, take a good luck in the mirror before you make such a disgusting accusation against a fellow Doom player, who has not caused strife and discord but shows humility and respect with a care free attitude, or will you continue this charade and repeat history, replicating the case of Okuplok? If you do continue to accuse, it will be solely for my amusement as I will not take you seriously and will likely ignore you. Choose wisely.  

[christophe-delorne]

Gregstophe Week: Day 4

ANGER // SHOVEL & SWORD // APOCALYPSE AU

TITLE: Synthetic Love

WARNINGS: Swearing, smooching.

AGE: Young Adults. ( Early 20s )

NOTES: This is based in the Fallout Universe. You really don't need to know much about the games to enjoy this story since I try not to go into too much detail. Look. I can go into a lot of detail with Fallout, but I'm trying to keep it easy for everyone to enjoy. This is before Gregory turns into huge douchebag mode. So he's a bit of a softie in this story. Thought I'd change it up from my usual.

It was Gregory's first time to breath contaminated air, his first time seeing the actual sun through the haze of dust and the thin layer of contamination that still lingered on the horizon from a war long past. He spent his entire life safe underground, in the clean environment known as the Institute. He'd come from a line of scientists, dated back before the war, lucky enough to survive the nuclear fallout in the safety of their underground labs. Most weren't so lucky, though he wasn't sure who was luckier, the ones who died instantly, or the ones who managed to live and spend generations out here in the wasteland. He pulled his bandanna up from his neck and over the lower portion of his face, in an attempt to filter out at least the dust and grim.

Typically, the institute would send synths up to the surface to do research or gather data, the androids could withstand the dangerous environments of this desolate land. However, he'd volunteered this time to come topside and to do so was no small matter. It wasn't unheard of for a synth to go rouge, there was all sorts of unpredictable factors up here that could damage or corrupt their programming. Mutant creatures attacking, or even the lingering surviving humans who'd grouped up. In order to quell topsiders' rebellious nature, the Institute would use synths to infiltrate their societies, they looked human, could take the place of anyone seamlessly. And that led to paranoia among the wastelanders.

Gregory wasn't interested in that, not any more, he was interested in finding out why this one synth had stopped responding to his- no its' orders. He had to remind himself constantly that this synth was a human, he wouldn't dare let himself be deceived by his own creation. e'd been the chief of processing synths, designing them to blend in with wastelanders until the Institute noticed that his growing interest in synths had become compromised. He'd made one last synth, his masterpiece, one last big 'fuck you' before he was relocated to the research lab. When the synth went rouge a few months later, he'd been sent out to prove his worth and loyalty to the institute.

His synth had travel far to the edges of the commonwealth, formerly known as the New England states of America. What left of it  anyways. Blue eyes stared at the rundown shack before him, surrounded by trees that were ragged looking, nothing like the lush trees within the Institute. Everything looked dreary and rundown. He'd known about it, but to see it with his own eyes was something else. What really drew his gaze was the man churning dirt in what he supposed was some sort of make shift garden, wielding a shovel with ease. One would pass him off as just another farmer trying to make it out here. However, Gregory knew better.

As he made his way closer, the man in the makeshift garden stopped digging, becoming aware of an intruder. Stabbing his shovel into the ground, he turned to look at his new guest. There was a brief expression of surprised recognition before it soured into a scowl, they both knew why he was here. He had to bring C9-25 back to the institute for either to be reprogrammed or destroyed, depending on how cruel the director wanted to be. Gregory could hazard a guess in which choice the man would chose, making this decision harder for Gregory, as it had been intended. Gregory stopped just outside the mangled wire fencing that was more of just a general outline of the garden than really intending to keep anything out.

"The fuck you doin' here?" The voice was harsh, just as Gregory remembered. Callous and rough, a small slight of rebelling against his own superiors.

"You already know the answer to that, Christophe." It was a solemn note, one that hurt to even broach the subject.

"Oh, so its Christophe now." The olive skin toned male wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing dirt across it. Gregory had to appreciate how human like the synth was. The white tank top sticking to his form from the sweat, artificial sweat but so life like no one would suspect a thing. Gregory had taken care to put his heart and soul in creating him- it. Down to the smallest of scars and the crow's feet in the corner of its eyes. It was no wonder why his co-workers had grown suspicious with his obsession over this one synth.

"You've always been Christophe to me." Gregory countered, pleading almost for some sort of understanding.

"Fuck you and your fuckin' lil' group of prissy bitches who hide away safe and sound underground like cowards." He spat onto the ground as if talking about the Institute left a bad taste in his mouth. Gregory tensed as Christophe approached, heavy boots thudding on the freshly churned, contaminated soil. He was close now, too close. He smelled of sweat and earth, of hard labor, something Gregory had never done. Something he appreciated more than he would let on. All his secret desires and cravings had been placed within this synth. So, did that make him a bad person? Christophe had been designed by him, for him. Morally, it was wrong as Christophe had no personality of his own.

"Christophe, please be reaso-" Gregory was about to try to plead his case when he was suddenly seized by the front of his shirt and dragged forward up onto his toes. Chapped, rough lips crashed against his own before he could even realize what Christophe's intentions were. Panic swelled within him and his heart raced so quickly within his chest, it made his mind far too dizzy to calculate a proper response. However Christophe was all too ready to take advantage of finally finding a way to shut Gregory up, pressing his advantage by tilting his head. Damp warmth traced over the seam of Gregory's smooth lips, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, his body no longer seemed to belong to him as Christophe's tongue suddenly invaded the once safe haven of his mouth. He was being swept up in this sudden fiery passion that he'd never experienced before. Certainly he'd kissed other girls, but nothing so wild and reckless as this, it was burning, branding him in his mind so that he'd never forget. It drove away every arguement, every mindless denial until he was left with nothing but his raw emotions. His tongue finally tried to make a press back, to fight back against Christophe conquering tongue, but this only seemed to drive Christophe further into a frenzy.

The synth, much stronger than the average human tried to drag Gregory impossibly closer, needing to feel their bodies pressed closer, to fulfill that secret desire they both had. A noise left Gregory, muffled by their kiss. The fence was digging into his stomach, broken wires digging past clothing and into soft flesh. Finally, Christophe seemed to grow aware of Gregory's pain and let go, leaving Gregory suddenly feeling vacated, Christophe taking all that passionate heat with him within an instant. Swollen lips remained parted, panting in a futile attempt to catch his breath, to remember something sane and reasonable. He was here for a reason, what was that reason again?

"I'm not goin' back, Gregory." That rough voice sounded deeper, drawing Gregory back away from his own internal musings to focus his attention back on Christophe. The synth he was supposed to be bringing back to the institute. If they knew what just happened, he would certainly be punished, perhaps even cast out into the wasteland. Gregory before had never been tempted by his emotions, raised from birth to join the ranks of the greatest minds alive. He was still human though, susceptible to desires and yearnings for things that he knew he shouldn't give in to. He'd failed in that aspect, but out of his failure he'd created Christophe.

There wasn't any other choice, if Gregory didn't bring Christophe back, the institute would just send correctional synths to forcibly destroy Christophe. If Gregory had found Christophe, so could others. There was no alternative to this situation. The Institute couldn't let their secrets, inside Intel just be out in the open, a unknown problem. Any rouge synth usually was either destroyed, had their minds wiped, or were reprogrammed again. Neither were options Gregory exactly liked. He didn't want to think about his creation being destroyed or Christophe forgetting about him. It was odd to feel so strongly about something that was considered a machine, but it hurt to think about the idea that Christophe would roam the wasteland, not knowing what he yearned for.

"You'll certainly be killed if you do not." Gregory tried his best to steady his voice, it was difficult to control his emotions when Christophe had successfully destroyed any sort of defenses he had built around himself. The Institute was a harsh place who prided itself on rational thinking, where emotions were frowned upon and seen as meant for humans with lesser intelligence. To be ruled by them so easily was viewed as shameful and yet here he was, a complete wreck in the time that he needed to have his guard strong.

"I've been thinkin' about that. Let's head west. As far as we can go, until the Institute can't find us, where no one can find us. " Christophe had a stubborn set to his jaw, his green eyes staring down Gregory as if in challenge, waiting for Gregory's protest, expecting it.

The idea of heading out into a world unknown to Gregory was daunting. He was used to a life of clean water and filtered air. Everything was clean and spotless and the only threat was maybe slipping on a freshly mopped floor. He'd seen and heard about the surface, of the mutant creatures that roamed the lands, about human raiders and giant green super mutated humans wrecking just as much havoc. This world was dangerous and Gregory wasn't certain if he would ever be ready to face it. He knew the further west from here grew into more and more desolate wastelands, of deserts and seas of radiation. No one that the Institute knew about had properly mapped out the States.

"Christophe..." He sighed out, already feeling weary by the sheer notion of leaving the safety of the Institute. "You know as well as I that the probability of my survival out here is low to begin with. Boardroom meetings and scientific debates I can face down with ease, but here?" Gregory gestured at their surroundings, it looked like it was free of what Gregory feared, for now.

"Damn it. Have a little more fuckin' faith in yourself, Gregory. I know you, I know you better than any of those damn assholes underground." Christophe ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze lowering to Gregory's lips, as if kissing him again would solve everything. He was right though. Christophe was apart of him, all the intimate details that Gregory put his heart and soul into. He'd never thought he'd be the type to rebel until Christophe came into being, it was the first mark of Gregory's resistance. The spark of his rebellious nature that had laid dormant this whole time, now that Christophe had returns, that spark was being fanned into a flame.

Far too long had it been suppressed, the Director had known the dangers Christophe possessed to the stable underground society. There was no room for independence and rebellion and he'd tried his best to douse the flames Gregory had created. It had been a mistake to send Gregory out, one the Director was not likely to acknowledge. Failure had never been an option, order was absolute. Just thinking about that ideologist churned within him, Gregory did like cleanliness, but he'd created a synth who liked to be dirty. He desired a contrast to excite him, to draw him in away from the boring white walls to the sweat slicked, sun-kissed skin of the man before him.

"I will go with you to the ends of the earth, Christophe, whatever it takes to stay with you."

[elliepassmore]

Six of Crows Review

5/5 stars Recommended for people who like: fantasy, multiple POVs, heist stories, morally grey characters, diversity

Bardugo's writing has definitely improved between writing the Grisha Trilogy  and this duology. There's more diversity of character, better plot continuity, and the stakes feel higher. Not to mention, the world building re: Kerch and Fjerda is amazing.

The novel starts being narrated by a young member of the city guard, and it's here we're introduced to the thing driving the plot: jurda parem. Parem can make Grisha--magic-users, for those who didn't read the Grisha trilogy first (you don't need to and I don't recommend it)--do fantastic, impossible things. Of course, this means the government wants Parem to be kept under wraps. Enter the Dregs, a street gang led by Kaz Brekker, the antihero (antivillian?) with a bum leg and a knack for getting out of tight spots. The Dregs are hired to break into the most secure place in the world, the Fjerdan Ice Court, and kidnap the scientist who invented Parem, bring him back to Ketterdam, and hand him over to the Council to keep him hidden. It's a fascinating set-up. A street-gang performing a high risk heist to kidnap a scientist? Sign me up. But beyond that, the plot opens up so many of the doors Bardugo utilizes for character-arcs and world-building.

Kaz Brekker is not a hero and he's definitely not the sort of person you'd want to run into...probably ever. In the slums of Ketterdam, referred to in the novel as the 'Barrel,' he's known as Dirtyhands. He's a master lock pick and practically leads the Dregs. Due to an accident a few years before the novel starts, he also walks with a cane and a perpetual limp. He's questionably moral, with the question more being 'does he have any?' more than 'you need to reevaluate that particular moral gap.' That's not to say he's necessarily a bad guy--albeit most of what he does is for money and revenge, but--he is one of the protagonists of the story, and he clearly cares for the members of his gang, even if he 1) doesn't show it, and 2) gets frustrated with them a lot. In the beginning of the story he definitely comes across as more uncaring than toward the end, and we sort of get to know why as the book progresses.

Inej Ghafa is a spy for the Dregs, contracted to them after Kaz got her out of a rough situation in one of the pleasure houses, which left some obvious trauma--this all occurs before the novel begins. She's one of the characters with the most straight morals. She's an ex-Suli acrobat who grew up in Ravka before she was kidnapped and brought to Ketterdam, and she uses those skills to scale walls, run across rooftops, and do otherwise gravity-defying tasks for the Dregs. Inej might be my favorite character of the bunch. She doesn't want to kill people, but she's unafraid to when it comes down to it, and has a collection of knives she named after Suli Saints. Her character growth in this book goes from 'not sure what I'll do with my life after this heist' (which will give each member $4 million) to following a Suli proverb "the heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true" (311) and deciding she wants to hunt slavers.

Jesper Fahey is a Zemeni sharpshooter for the Dregs and a notorious gambler more adept at losing than winning. As good as he is with guns, he gets the group into a bit of trouble with the latter bit. Jesper always feels the need to move and the feeling he gets shooting or gambling helps fulfill that need. Despite the trouble, Jesper also saves the group several times using his sharpshooting skills. He's also hilarious and has a pretty big heart, he worries and asks after each of the characters, and I really like his relationships with the others. Bardugo definitely wrote him caring about others well, showing that sometimes there are fault lines in that, such as how he cares so much about Kaz and what he thinks that it sometimes impacts how he feels about himself or when he's so worried about *SEMI-SPOILER* Inej *SEMI-SPOILER END* after they're shot he can barely stand to be in the same room until they're recovered almost completely. There's a secret Jesper is holding onto that largely drives his arc in this book. Admittedly, his arc is more static than the others in this book, it mainly sets up for the complete arc in the second one.

Nina Zenik is a Heartrender Grisha from Ravka who made some bad decisions that landed her working for the Dregs in Ketterdam. She's the most bubbly of the group and loves to eat. A lot of her actions are driven by either trying to right her wrongs or trying to protect her country and people; so she's not exactly moral but she's definitely righteous. She's also a really funny character and the only one who really continuously, blatantly challenges Kaz throughout the novel, though the other characters do so in more subtle ways. I feel that a lot of the success of the heist ties into Nina and her abilities. For one, she has to be able to use her abilities to break in/out of a prison, make Matthias look like someone else, to erase the identifying gang tattoos some of the group has, subdue prison guards, subdue regular guards, basically take out an entire army, and *SPOILER* disguise Wylan *SPOILER END*. She does most of it without complaint, though that's not to say she's a pushover, she's definitely strong willed and opinionated, which, as stated earlier, means she's not worried about challenging the different characters' opinions and actions. A lot of her arc also occurs in the second novel and not so much this one.

Wylan Van Eck is their Ketterdam-born demolitions expert and bargaining chip. He's also decent with drawing and coming up with ideas on the sly. Wylan is definitely the baby of the group in terms of experience, but he makes up for it in his quick-thinking and seeming infinite supply of explosive materials. Surprisingly, despite his lack of a criminal upbringing and being the newest to the group, he doesn't really have many qualms about a lot of what occurs, though when he does he raises a bit of a ruckus about it. That seems to be his main arc in this book, and it's relatively easy to track; in the beginning, he has quite a few issues with pick-pocketing, but later on he's the one to suggest to Jesper to wake up guards before they kill them if it'll make the other boy feel better about it. It's not so much a devolution of morals as much as a rearranging of morals, so to say.

Finally, Matthias Helvar the Fjerdan ex-drüskelle (Grisha hunter) and the crew's way to know Ice Court. Matthias maybe has the most character growth out of all of them. He goes from essentially being a ranked murderer to someone who understands Grisha aren't evil and that the hate spouted by the drüskellen order is wrong. He's another character who has a strong moral compass, though his comes off as more righteous and 'look down my nose' than Inej's does. He comes off as cruel in the beginning, but almost immediately it's obvious he has a heart and a conscience under the drüskellen mask--at least for anyone not Grisha.

The relationships between the characters are all complicated, which makes them feel real. The way they bump and sharpen each other's edges and then soothing them back down makes them feel very much like a family, even though some of them--Wylan and Matthias--are newer members. Each of the characters also has their own intricacies and tics. Each of them also offers great representation for readers--Jesper is black and has ADHD and is bi, Inej is portrayed as looking Arabic or Persian and has PTSD, Nina is fat and also likely bi, Wylan has dyslexia and gay, Kaz walks with a permanent limp and is touch-averse (likely has PTSD too), Matthias has to fight against the hate that was taught to him, and the semi-surprise character who comes in later is portrayed as being East Asian, likely Chinese or Korean--and it's all written as being normal.

Bardugo also did a good job of building Ketterdam and Fjerda as a world I could see and rules I could understand. The way the Barrel was described allowed me to really be in the moment with the characters when they were at the docks or the Slat (Dreg HQ), that I could feel the chill of the ice in Fjerda or the fear of being in the Ice Court prison. You can also tell, from the way Bardugo built the places and the languages, that she paid a lot of attention to history and real countries and languages when creating the world of SoC. Kerch, the language, is loosely based on an older form of Dutch, and Ketterdam is based on pre-/ante-Industrial Revolution trading cities of the Netherlands. Fjerda is likely based on the Nordic countries, though I couldn't begin to say which language Fjerdan resembles, maybe a mix of them. Anyway, the point is that the world feels real, as if you could really crack open a textbook and read about Kerch or Fjerda alongside countries like France and Germany.

The characters were obviously a driving point of the story, but that's not to say there isn't plenty of action, because there is. Likewise, the plot is well thought out and has plenty of twists and turns to keep readers interested and guessing, though you might guess some of the things that occur beforehand.

[chmerkovskiyvalentin]

Q&A With Valentin Chmerkovskiy

BOOK: I'LL NEVER CHANGE MY NAME AUTHOR: VALENTIN CHMERKOVSKIY

1. In your opinion, what were some advantages you had being an immigrant and what were some disadvantages you faced in America?

I guess being an immigrant at a young age gave me an opportunity to be challenged in ways most kids my age didn’t get challenged. Learning another language different from the one I have been speaking since birth, trying to fit in while not being able to afford certain things that had social status, from clothing to vacations, whatever gave you the license to be cool I didn’t possess when I was young.

But what I realized is work-ethic and talent are the coolest things you can have at any age, and immediately the things I didn’t have became my most valuable assets teaching me some of my most valuable lessons.

2. What inspired the title of your book, “I’ll Never Change My Name” and did you always have pride in your name or was it something you had to grow to love?

I always had immense pride in my name, because my name was given to me in memory of my grandfather who passed away a few years before I was born. He was an extraordinary man whose name I wear and it’s always held me accountable, as did my last name.

Both were subject to a lot of conversation throughout my life some good and some a little more hurtful, but never did I feel less than for having a foreign name in a place I called home. It always empowered me. Being different and having challenges because of it always inspired me to be greater!

3. Have you been back to Ukraine in your adulthood? Do you feel that the American views of Ukraine as a whole are misinformed? If so, why?

I have. It’s a beautiful country with some really beautiful people. I can’t speak on American views of Ukraine because I think it’s impossible to make that assumption based on what we see on TV. I would just suggest anyone that hasn’t been, to go and visit. Having said that, to me America is home. America is where I truly grew up. And America is the country I’m most grateful for. Along with France, God knows I love croissants and Rousseau.  

4. You talk a lot about your family and culture, what elements of your family changed when you arrived in the States and what elements stayed the same?

My family has always been my foundation. It's what drives me, holds me accountable, keeps me moving and pushing. When we first arrived there was tremendous uncertainty for all of us. All of the family members had their own individual challenges they faced but it was family that was the constant. We didn't know where the next dollar was coming from but we all knew that when we got home we had each other.

My parents were truly magicians, especially my mom who with very little was always able to provide the family with a warm cooked meal and had us all congregate around the dinner table daily. I do feel that was the piece of our culture we brought to the States and haven't abandoned it still. Gathering daily as a family to check in and push one another built a very strong bond and with folks like mine, I was able to be surrounded by love and support even if outside our home there was very little of it. In terms of what changed... well everything changed.

We become what we surround ourselves with. As we moved neighborhoods and as our circumstances changed, so did our lives and our outlook on it. But no matter what, we always kept our language (speaking only Russian at the dinner table) and our family traditions.

5. How easy or difficult was it for you to find your voice as a writer? And do you feel the “authentic you” was able to come out?

I've had this voice for a long time. I always loved storytelling I just had never been able to put it all down on paper before, not in this capacity at least. The most important thing for me throughout this entire process was to do justice to the reader for spending their money and most importantly time reading my book. I wanted to make sure that it wasn't just me venting or gossiping, but that I was being respectful and accurate, and also entertaining and inspiring all at the same time.

Now, I don't think anyone should seek to inspire others but rather seek to be themselves the best way they can be and hopefully, by sharing their story others can relate and be inspired. I feel like with this book I got to be myself and share what I find important with the world. Hopefully, someone out there drew a little happiness from the read. That’s all I can ever ask for from my work.

6. What was your writing process like for this book?

I looked back at my life at a glance and just started listing moments that shaped my perspective and my experiences. I tried to then draw parallels between my past and my present, and just make some sense of it all. As the process went on, I was able to discover so many connections, so many fun moments, so many moments that made me say, "Aha that all makes sense now." Without reflection, it's hard to be mindful, and as I try to live a mindful life, I reflect a lot on the moments that brought me here. I wrote about it. This is who I am, and here's why.

7. You have such a unique life story, during your writing process did you ever stop and pinch yourself, realizing where you are now?

That "unique life" is exactly why I wanted to write this book. I wanted to share how dynamic life can be, for it's the thing that will make you look back one day and want to pinch yourself too. I’m so grateful for all the hands I was dealt in my life, the losing ones and the winning ones. I'm just grateful I got to play them all.

8. What have you learned most about yourself through working on “Dancing With The Stars”?

Patience haha. I learned how much I love to perform, how much I love to help people. To some degree, I always knew that, but 'Dancing With The Stars' showed me how rewarding it can be when you're doing what you love and sharing it with millions of people.

9. Who was someone that you danced with on the show that completely surprised you because of their dancing talents?

Rumer Willis, cause she was not a dancer. She was not someone that had danced before at all. To see her transform into a dancer was really amazing. It was actually the first time I ever won DWTS was with Rumer. It was one of the most rewarding seasons not because we won, but because I got to help this young woman find her inner strength and beauty. I was able to be a small part of her journey and contribute to her growth, all while watching her family and the world celebrate her. That was very special for me.

10. Can you talk a little bit about the dance studio you opened in Buckhead (an uptown district in Atlanta) and what you hope students get from your studio?

Like with every Dance With Me location around the country, I want it to be a place for people to feel welcome, in what can be one of the most terrifying environments for people... a Dance Studio. That is most important to me, that people are proud to be part of our little community of positivity, inclusion, self-improvement, and fun. Dance is just a vehicle for the bigger picture, living a fulfilling life. That’s all we are. Dance With Me is a place where I want people to find a little help, a little motivation, and a little joy on their path to living a complete and fulfilling life.

11. What’s the best book you have read in 2019 thus far?

The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F*ck. Don't let the title fool you, it’s a book about how to care even more... about the things that truly matter. "The Subtle Art of Caring Responsibly" just didn't have the same ring to it.

12. What’s your best advice for getting over writer’s block?

Just like getting over procrastination and anxiety... JUST DO IT. So insensitive and so simple I know, but sometimes we complicate things into non-existence. Relax. Breathe. And GO. Action is the best remedy for all the blocks in our life.

Force yourself to just take the first step, write the first paragraph and you will see that just one word turns into two and then ten and then you got yourself a story. I like to see the bigger picture in everything I do. What’s the message? What’s the point? What’s the bigger message? How is this different? I mean sure it’s all important but... breathe, relax, and START!

It’s ok if its garbage at first, genius sometimes can come out of garbage, and sometimes not, sometimes it just stays garbage. But, in this short time, we have on earth creating something is better than creating nothing, so create don't worry about the end in the beginning. One step at a time. One word at a time. One breath at a time. Not in that order, of course, make sure you breathe throughout. :)

13. What’s the best advice you have ever received on happiness?

I didn't. It's a constant search. Happiness is earned with action and adventure and movement and ups and downs in life! Happiness is in constant motion, you gotta chase it, find it, and foster it. If you're unhappy, just remember that happiness is just around the corner. But, don't take anyone's word for it, go and see it for yourself. And if you don't find it still, then go to your nearest Dance With Me. I promise you will find happiness there. Nothing like the human touch shared on the dance floor.

14. Do you plan on writing more books in the future?

I do when I have the spark. When I get this dying desire that I can’t breathe without writing it. I couldn't breathe with all of these stories in my head, I had to put them in a book. I had to share. I don't have that now. I'm actually in a state of reclusion to some degree, where the combination of spending the last 7 years on television along with 7 national tours and then writing this book, I feel like I need to step back.

I need to be a human again and live, and in living find inspiration for the thoughts that will turn into words I want to share with the world. I think the next book I write will be fiction.

[moiraineswife]

Autistic!Jasnah: Masterpost

Okaaay, so, as you might have guessed from the title, this post is a long list of reasons Jasnah Kholin is autistic af.  

The short version: Jasnah is autistic because I, a Known Autism, say so. Have a nice day.

The long version (format): A long series of chronological quotes that all follow this pattern: Quote. *Insert ramble about why this is an Autistic Thing* *Possible and probable further ramble about why I’m emotional about that.

That’s literally it, people. Buckle up, I’ve picked through all three books (yes all three) to compose this post for y’all. It’s not going to be short.

To business:

The Way of Kings:

 Jasnah glanced at Shallan, noting her, then returned to her conversation.

Introducing Jasnah ‘I don’t have time for social niceties I’m busy’ Kholin. From the first interaction she’s...Bad at interacting. Iconic.

“Then we shall do an evaluation. Answer truthfully and do not exaggerate, as I will soon discover your lies. Feign no false modesty, either. I haven’t the patience for a simperer.”

Jasnah is both blunt, direct, and honest in her speech as she is in her expectations from others. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with manipulation/lying/tarting up the truth to make it more socially acceptable bc she is a busy autistic lady with shit to do. (really, though, what she’s literally demanding here is the first rule of the autistic’s guide to easy conversation. Clear. Simple. To the point. To frills, no fuss.)

 Jasnah didn’t argue further, and Shallan could see from her eyes that it was of no consequence to her if the king risked his life. The same apparently went for Shallan, for Jasnah didn’t order her away.

People do what people want to do and Jasnah doesn’t waste any time pretending she cares/that it matters to her for the sake of appearances. Again, this woman has a vendetta against typical social niceties and I love it.

“Now?” the king said, cradling his granddaughter. “But we are going to have a feast—”

“I appreciate the offer,” Jasnah said, “but I find myself with an abundance of everything but time.”

Do I need to point out the lack of social niceties again or are y’all sensing a pattern at this point? *King lovingly embraces his darling granddaughter that Jasnah just saved and orders a feast prepared in her honour* Jasnah: ‘Thanks but no I’m too busy to socialise.’

Jasnah was also a rationalist, a woman with the audacity to deny the existence of the Almighty himself based on her own reasoning. Jasnah would appreciate strength, but only if it was shaped by logic.

Jasnah feelings>>>>>>logic. This is a fairly common theme, of Jasnah being ruled less by emotions/sentiment/societal pressures/expectations and much more by logic/her own reasoning. She has her own way of looking at the world, her own rules for how it works, and she won’t be swayed by anyone else’s opinions on how she should feel/behave.

Jasnah turned to look out of the balcony into the dark space of the Veil. “I know what people say of me. I should hope that I am not as harsh as some say, though a woman could have far worse than a reputation for sternness. It can serve one well.”

Jasnah not being very self-aware in how people actually perceive her is also an autistic thing. Shallan notes several times that Jasnah is actually nowhere near as harsh/stern as she’s reputed to me, and, more importantly, she’s nowhere near as harsh/stern as she perceives herself to be. She also fails to note that Shallan actually enjoys the work/the challenge. This also implies that she takes what people say about her at face value and doesn’t have the necessary social skills to refute them.

Shallan tried to judge Jasnah’s mood, but the older woman’s emotions were impossible to read. 

Again, this is a fairly common autistic trait. We struggle to read other people’s body language, but they often struggle to read ours as well. A part of this is probably Jasnah deliberately cultivating this kind of persona, but even so, she’s too unsure of how she comes across to have completely mastered this.

Jasnah carefully removed its contents, neatly lining up the brushes, pencils, pens, jar of lacquer, ink, and solvent. She placed the stacks of paper, the notebooks, and the finished pictures in a line.

Oh look, it’s one of the world’s biggest Autism Stereotypes (which I’m totally guilty of too): lining all the things up neatly, and making them Orderly.

At least with Jasnah one knew where one stood.

Jasnah of the straightforward, blunt honesty and ‘what you see is what you get’ strikes again.

When Jasnah was deeply immersed in one of her projects, she often ignored all else.

And here we see the Autistic Jasnah in her natural habitat: hyperfixating on her special interest.

The rest is under the cut for length! 

Jasnah had elegant handwriting, of course—Jasnah rarely did anything without taking the time to perfect it. 

Jasnah not doing anything unless it’s done Properly and Right according to her? Also Jasnah being indifferent towards things she hasn’t put any time into perfecting (such as drawing).

“I always forgive curiosity, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “It strikes me as one of the most genuine of emotions.”

Again, Jasnah encouraging/reacting positively to genuine/honest emotions because she doesn’t Understand the whole guile/lying/not being honest thing because honestly what is the point?

“Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution.”

Honestly, just, this whole thing. For a start it’s a massive transgression of the Vorin social norms/expectations, especially for Jasnah as a prominent public figure as the sister to the king. For another it’s that internal rules thing again. Jasnah’s world operates according to Jasnah’s principles and Jasnah’s understanding of it, no-one else’s.

But Shallan had caught a handful of occasions, mostly when Jasnah had been distracted, and had apparently forgotten she wasn’t alone.

*Jasnah ignores social expectations so hard she literally forgets other people exist in the world* Also, again, the hyperfixation on special interest.

“And yet, those men are off the street. The people of this city are that much safer. The issue that Taravangian has been so worried about has been solved, and no more theatergoers will fall to those thugs. How many lives did I just save?”

“I know how many you just took,” Shallan said.

Jasnah has a habit of doing this, this very cold, calculated, logical and pragmatic way of seeing the world as well as morality. Shallan considers the lives taken, the emotional aspect of the moral dilemma, the horror of murder. Jasnah just sees it almost as statistics, as four lives taken to save many more. Shallan also focuses on the cold hard facts of ‘I know how many people you just killed’ while Jasnah is engaged in weighing up the probability of how many she just saved. (In theory, the thugs might never have attacked anyone again, so Jasnah might not have saved anyone by her actions, which I think is what Shallan is getting at here. But that’s just...A moot point as far as Jasnah is concerned)

This is also an example of her black and white thinking. There’s more net good in what she did than there is net bad. That’s where her questioning/reasoning stops because it makes sense to her. Shallan exists in the grey area, but I don’t think Jasnah even sees it in cases like this.

But it wasn’t the act itself so much as the cold callousness of it that bothered her.

This is an interesting one, and something I’ll talk about more a bit later, probably, but the way Jasnah comes across vs how she actually is. I totally get why Shallan views what she did as cold and callous, and in a way I suppose it was. It was fully planned and fully intentional. But I think for her it’s this kind of...separation between logic and sentiment. I think Jasnah feels very strongly and very deeply, but she doesn’t often display that to other people, and I also think she believes there’s a time and a place for that. Also, black and white thinking again. It comes off as cold to Shallan, but for Jasnah I think it feels more like common sense.

 “You only needed to kill one of them.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jasnah said.

“Why? They would have been too frightened to do something like that again.”

“You don’t know that. I sincerely wanted those men gone. A careless barmaid walking home the wrong way cannot protect herself, but I can. And I will.”

Again, black and white thinking. (I’m also surprised this moment doesn’t generate more Discourse...Or maybe it does, I’ve just avoided it, either way) This is both a case for Jasnah not being able to predict people’s responses/behaviours, and also black and white thinking/internal rules at play. As far as she’s concerned those men are criminals. She has no assurances that they won’t hurt anyone else again. They’re already criminals, and there’s no chance for redemption or leeway, here. She’s made up her mind. They’re all criminals. They’re all dangerous. They all die.

Jasnah closed her eyes again, handing the brush toward Shallan. “Fifty strokes tonight, Shallan. It has been a fatiguing day.”

A)- routines the ‘tonight’ and the familiarity of this implies it’s something that happens every night. And the ‘fifty strokes’ is either another routine related thing, or an internal rule thing. Either way. Also this is probably a stim thing, since she’s using it to relax/de-stress.

Jasnah tapped her desktop with a fingernail.

Stimming.

“Brightness Jasnah does NOT like people entering her room. The maids have been told not to clean in there.” The king had promised that his maids were very carefully chosen, and there had never been issues of theft, but Jasnah still insisted that none enter her bedchamber.

Definitely, definitely, definitely an autistic thing. Issues with people entering Your Spaces or touching Your Things is a big autistic thing. (especially because the assurances about thieving don’t change her mind) Also the emphasis on not as in ‘this is a thing one absolutely does not do unless one wishes to die’.

“She’d believe me,” Shallan said. “She thinks she’s far more demanding than she is. Or…well, she is demanding. I just don’t mind as much as she thinks I do.”

Again, Jasnah taking what people say of her/how they say they perceive her at face value, and also lack of self-awareness in how people actually respond to her.

Jasnah regarded Shallan, face stiff, impassive. “I have been told that my tutelage is demanding, perhaps harsh. This is one reason why I often refuse to take wards.”

“I apologize for my weakness, Brightness,” Shallan said, looking down.

Jasnah seemed displeased. “I did not mean to suggest fault in you, child. I was attempting the opposite. Unfortunately I’m…unaccustomed to such behavior.”

Two things here: one, I’m like, 99% certain that Jasnah, who has been camped out at the hospital all this time waiting for Shallan to wake up is feeling anything but ‘impassive’ at this moment, in which case this is an example of her body language/facial expressions not matching up properly to her actual internal feelings, which is fairly common. And two: Jasnah’s apology being taken for a rebuttal and her obvious displeasure at it coming across that way when she literally intended the opposite (been there).

Also her general air of uncertainty/discomfort in this setting, which is one that’s obviously social/emotional. Also the fact that she pins her poor apology on lack of practice/familiarity with these kinds of interactions when, in theory, these kinds of things should come naturally to people. So like, lil bit of hinting/implication of scripting social things her, which I think her initial words reek of as well, as she’s said similar things before.

“You make it sound as if you were waiting out there.”

Jasnah didn’t reply.

“But your research!”

“Can be done in the hospital waiting chamber.” She hesitated. “It has been somewhat difficult for me to focus these last few days.”

“Jasnah! That’s quite nearly HUMAN of you!”

Again, a few things here, firstly that Jasnah is othered in a way by Shallan (and this isn’t the only time this happens, either) because of her lack of emotional response/social stuff. Secondly the fact that she’s clearly uncomfortable/struggles with this kind of conversation – the hesitation, the lack of responses are very much at odds with her usual composure and the way she has an answer for literally everything.

Words of Radiance:

She was all too glad to be leaving the stuffy room, which stank of too many perfumes mingling.

Prologue and we’ve already got Jasnah experiencing sensory issues in a crowded room with lots of perfume. What a way to kick things off.

“Many people consider that sort of thing enjoyable.”

“Many people, unfortunately, are idiots.”

Her father smiled. “Is it terribly difficult for you?” he asked softly. “Living with the rest of us, suffering our average wits and simple thoughts? Is it lonely to be so singular in your brilliance, Jasnah?”

A)- Jasnah obviously not enjoying social events/parties (she literally spends all of this one...contemplating the assassination she’s plotting. Like. Mood.)

B)- Gavilar’s comment is...Strangely sad, I think?? And perhaps a bit too on point. (This is very much just my reading of things but)...I don’t know. I see Jasnah trying to make a little quip/a joke here and it being misinterpreted because of her tone. And then, again, there’s that idea of othering that came up at the end of TWOK.

But I think the ‘is it lonely to be so singular in your brilliance?’ I think that....A huge part of that ‘brilliance’ comes from a mixture of Jasnah’s autistic traits: her special interest/her focus in them/her dedication to pursuing them...but also that sense of being other. Of not fitting in. The rest of “us” she doesn’t belong, she doesn’t fit.

And I think this idea of their ‘simple thoughts’ as opposed to Jasnah’s brilliant ones is a little like what we see with Renarin in Oathbringer, where Adolin explains that he isn’t trying to be lofty and brilliant, people sometimes just have difficulty following him. And I think this is what’s happening with Jasnah here (and in other places, she frequently talks about the difficulty she has in teaching, and how her methods are too intense and involved)

And also I think that....The saddest bit about this is that I think she was....Trying to joke here? Trying to fit in with those ordinary people, ‘the rest of us’, and just making a sarcastic joke on the back of her father’s comment about most people enjoying parties and she just sort of ‘well, most people are idiots aren’t they?’ And that’s what prompts this little moment here. So even when she’s trying to fit, and trying to belong, she’s still cast as the outcast, and misunderstood, and othered and it Hurts Me.

 I, she thought, need to write this experience down.

She would do so, then analyze and consider. Later. 

She literally topples into another world, effectively, and is just like ‘hm, I should make some notes on this and analyse them’. And. Yep. This is how she processes the world. By making sense of it, by treating everything according to Jasnah’s rules: it gets written down. It gets analysed. It gets understood. Bam.

Jasnah ignored the eyes of the sailors. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice men. Jasnah noticed everything and everyone. She simply didn’t seem to care, one way or another, how men perceived her.

Jasnah ‘I don’t have time for social expectations’ Kholin strikes again. Jasnah also just doesn’t care how anyone perceives her, social norms and expectations can go fuck themselves .

Jasnah grimaced at the thought. Shallan was always surprised to see visible emotion from her. Emotion was something relatable, something human—and Shallan’s mental image of Jasnah Kholin was of someone almost divine.

Again, the othering idea, as well as visible emotion being startling, as she’s typically so withdrawn/closed off/difficult to read. Yes friend, u guessed it, this is Peak Autism. Also the specific word in it being ‘relatable’ again marks that difference between Jasnah and...Everyone else. Again she’s different, again she doesn’t quite fit.

Jasnah relaxed visibly. “Yes, well, it did seem a workable solution. I had wondered, however, if you’d be offended.”

“Why on the winds would I be offended?”

“Because of the restriction of freedom implicit in a marriage,” Jasnah said. 

Again, Jasnah misreading things/not being able to anticipate how people are going to react to different things. Also her view of marriage as ‘restricting’ says a lot about how she sees it/probably relationships in general.

Power is an illusion of perception.”

Shallan frowned.

“Don’t mistake me,” Jasnah continued. “Some kinds of power are real—power to command armies, power to Soulcast. These come into play far less often than you would think. On an individual basis, in most interactions, this thing we call power—authority—exists only as it is perceived.

“You say I have wealth. This is true, but you have also seen that I do not often use it. You say I have authority as the sister of a king. I do. And yet, the men of this ship would treat me exactly the same way if I were a beggar who had convinced them I was the sister to a king. In that case, my authority is not a real thing. It is mere vapors—an illusion. I can create that illusion for them, as can you.”

This right here is Jasnah explaining passing, without ever using the word ‘passing’. This is how Jasnah sees social interactions. They’re all illusions, they’re all, effectively, lies. They aren’t real to her. How people perceive others isn’t something that she can fit into her box of neat facts and logic. It’s this ever changing, insubstantial thing, ‘mere vapours’. And though she’s talking here about power and authority, the basic principle applies to literally every single social interaction ever. Aka: the secret behind how Jasnah Kholin (somehow) managed to convince ppl she’s allistic.

The orders of knights were a construct, just as all society is a construct, used by men to define and explain. Not every man who wields a spear is a soldier, and not every woman who makes bread is a baker. And yet weapons, or baking, become the hallmarks of certain professions.”

Actual footage of Jasnah Kholin going to war against social constructs and their flimsiness.

It was a picture of Jasnah, drawn by Shallan herself. Shallan had given it to the woman after being accepted as her ward. She’d assumed Jasnah had thrown it away—the woman had little fondness for visual arts, which she considered a frivolity.

Instead, she’d kept it here with her most precious things. 

This is one of my favourite Underrated Jasnah Moments tbh because it says so much about her with such a simple gesture. We’ve established from the past book and a half that Jasnah is pretty bad when it comes to social interactions, and she’s even worse when it comes to displaying her emotions. But she’s not emotionless. She, personally, doesn’t see the value in visual arts, and hasn’t dedicated any time to it herself. Yet she keeps the gift that Shallan gives her. She understands how important this is to Shallan, and she quite literally treasures the art that Shallan gives her, and keeps it with her precious research/notes (and, like, Symbolism with her keeping her sentimental gifts and logic fuelled research in the same place/with the same level of importance/value, except one is hidden, and one is displayed)

And, like, Shall literally assumes Jasnah had just thrown away the picture?? And instead she’s got it kept safe with her most treasured possessions? Like??? The TL;DR version of this point is that Jasnah is horrendous at displaying her emotions/showing people how she feels about them/what they mean to her, but she feels things, goddammit. And now so am I.

What of this Sadeas? she thought, flipping to a page in the notebook. It listed him as conniving and dangerous, but noted that both he and his wife were sharp of wit. A man of intelligence might listen to Shallan’s arguments and understand them.

Aladar was listed as another highprince that Jasnah respected. Powerful, known for his brilliant political maneuvers. He was also fond of games of chance. Perhaps he would risk an expedition to find Urithiru, if Shallan highlighted the potential riches to be found.

Hatham was listed as a man of delicate politics and careful planning. Another potential ally. Jasnah didn’t think much of Thanadal, Bethab, or Sebarial. The first she called oily, the second a dullard, and the third outrageously rude.

She studied them and their motivations for some time. 

Right. Now. Correct my autistic ass if I’m wrong, here, but I’m like 89% certain that ‘taking notes on the basic personalities/literally studying the people around you and making notes on the way they behave so you can actually understand them’ is not a typical allistic thing to do.

Shallan turned back toward him. That pride in his voice didn’t at all match what Jasnah had written of the man.

Jasnah can literally predict the oncoming apocalypse by the power of research, can she pin down some basic Facts about the people she’s observing around her? Nope. I wonder why.

“She wouldn’t let me be a mother to her, Dalinar,” Navani said, staring into the distance. “Do you know that? It was almost like . . . like once Jasnah climbed into adolescence, she no longer needed a mother. I would try to get close to her, and there was this coldness, like even being near me reminded her that she had once been a child. What happened to my little girl, so full of questions?”

Two things: one, this is probably (agonisingly) relating to whatever trauma Jasnah experienced as a child and I’ve got Painful Emotions about it. Secondly, Jasnah being very mature for her age/shucking Navani’s influence because it wasn’t what she thought she needed/wanted is, like, not exactly the most tactful/self-aware/socially conscious thing in the entire universe.

“You’re still human,” Shallan said, reaching across, putting her hand on Navani’s knee. “We can’t all be emotionless chunks of rock like Jasnah.”

Navani smiled. “She sometimes had the empathy of a corpse, didn’t she?”

Oh look, it’s canon low!empathy Jasnah: from the words of her own mother no less.

(Also, small note here, as a low!empathy autistic myself: I really love the way Jasnah is written because it complements my own understanding of empathy which is...Fairly complicated. Jasnah isn’t just like none and done here. It’s not that she just doesn’t feel empathy so she doesn’t care? She isn’t characterised as this brutal, unfeeling, robotic ice queen. There are a lot of nuances and complexities here as to how she relates to those around her and I love it.

She obviously loves her family very deeply, and is driven to protect and help them (in a very practical, logical way I might add. Which is typically how I relate to care/love as well. You want a shoulder to cry on? I’m going to sit there awkwardly, pat you on the head, and hope you stop soon. There’s a practical solution to your current problem? Heaven and earth will be moved to achieve it.) She keeps Shallan’s drawing, even treasures it. And I think that she obviously....Feels her lack of feeling (if that makes sense)

See: the hospital scene with Shallan where she attempts to apologise. She’s...Uncomfortable with the emotional aspect of things, and she’s completely wrong about Shallan’s intentions, and actually her actions as well. There’s a block there with the empathy...But that’s obviously something that doesn’t exactly...Sit right with her? She’s quite self-depreciating in that scene, actually, and it’s clear (to me, anyway) that there’s the sense of her being aware that there’s something...Missing. Something that...Doesn’t quite line up. Something that makes her different and stops her relating to people perhaps in the way that she wants to.

Anyway: don’t equate lack of empathy with lack of love: a novel by Brandon Sanderson. God bless. Intentional or not, this is one of the most relatable low!empathy characters I’ve ever read and I’m here for it.

“Chana knows, I wondered sometimes how I raised that child without strangling her. By age six, she was pointing out my logical fallacies as I tried to get her to go to bed on time.”

Shallan grinned. “I always just assumed she was born in her thirties.”

“Oh, she was. It just took thirty-some years for her body to catch up.” Navani smiled. “I won’t take this from you, but neither should I allow you to attempt a project so important on your own. I would be part. Figuring out the puzzles that captivated her . . . it will be like having her again. My little Jasnah, insufferable and wonderful.”

Again, a few things here: this concept of autistic children being far more mature/behaving like ‘little adults’ is actually pretty common. Also the puzzle-solving thing is just. Relatable.

Oathbringer

“Brightness?” Shallan said. “But … Shardblades aren’t fabrials. They’re spren, transformed by the bond.”

“As are fabrials, after a manner of speaking,” Jasnah said. “You do know how they’re made, don’t you?”

“Only vaguely,” Shallan said. This was how their reunion went? A lecture? Fitting.

Jasnah is believed dead for months on end, reunites with Shallan after who knows how long: immediately starts infodumping to her. Shallan:.......’Figured.’

People were always surprised to see emotion from Jasnah, but Dalinar considered that unfair. She did smile—she merely reserved the expression for when it was most genuine.

Jasnah back at it with the only bothering with emotions when they’re genuine. (Also Dalinar getting all indignant about people not understanding Jasnah/mischaracterising her is my favourite)

“They will try,” Jasnah said, “to define you by something you are not. Don’t let them. I can be a scholar, a woman, a historian, a Radiant. People will still try to classify me by the thing that makes me an outsider. They want, ironically, the thing I don’t do or believe to be the prime marker of my identity. I have always rejected that, and will continue to do so.”

Obviously she’s talking about her heresy here, but with a tiny smidge of tweaking it works well for her being autistic, too. She will always be a little bit different, always not fit, always be defined by being an outsider.

“In the face of such an atrocity, I would consider the sacrifice of one or more Heralds to be a small price.”

“Storms!” Kaladin said, standing up straight. “Have you no sympathy?”

“I have plenty, bridgeman. Fortunately, I temper it with logic. Perhaps you should consider acquiring some at a future date.”

Again on the feelings tempered by logic, thing. (Also Kaladin/Jasnah is interesting because they’re basically....polar opposites, and I enjoy the dynamic. But that’s for another day.)

“If you wish, Captain,” Jasnah snapped, “I can get you some mink kits to cuddle while the adults plan. None of us want to talk about this, but that does not make it any less inevitable.”

“I’d love that,” Kaladin responded. “In turn, I’ll get you some eels to cuddle. You’ll feel right at home.”

Jasnah, curiously, smiled. 

Jasnah: approves of frank, honest comments. Even if they’re mildly insulting. As long as they’re genuine.

They didn’t talk tactics too specifically; that was a masculine art, and Dalinar would want his highprinces and generals to discuss the battlefields. Still, Shallan didn’t fail to notice the tactical terms Jasnah used now and then.

In things like this, Shallan had difficulty understanding the woman. In some ways, Jasnah seemed fiercely masculine. She studied whatever she pleased, and she talked tactics as easily as she talked poetry. She could be aggressive, even cold—Shallan had seen her straight-up execute thieves who had tried to rob her. Beyond that … well, it probably was best not to speculate on things with no meaning, but people did talk. Jasnah had turned down every suitor for her hand, including some very attractive and influential men. People wondered. Was she perhaps simply not interested?

All of this should have resulted in a person who was decidedly unfeminine. Yet Jasnah wore the finest makeup, and wore it well, with shadowed eyes and bright red lips. She kept her safehand covered, and preferred intricate and fetching styles of braids from her hairdresser. Her writings and her mind made her the very model of Vorin femininity.

Jasnah just not caring about social/cultural gender norms. Jasnah does what Jasnah wants. But also, gender roles, and tbh the entire concept of gender, is a social construct, it’s something a lot of autistic folks struggle with. (Also non-binary/agender!Jasnah just, as a fun little aside) 

 “Surely,” she said softly, “if Jasnah had known that I’d just confronted a deep insecurity of mine, she’d have shown some empathy. Right?”

“Jasnah?” Pattern asked. “I do not think you are paying attention, Shallan. She is not very empathetic.”

A)- Jasnah probably didn’t notice and B)- low!empathy Jasnah again.

Jasnah rubbed her temples. “Storms. This is why I never take wards.”

“Because they give you so much trouble.”

“Because I’m bad at it. I have scientific evidence of that fact, and you are but the latest experiment.” Jasnah shooed her away, rubbing her temples.

‘I have scientific evidence of the fact I’m not good at mentoring/teaching/with people in general’ actual quote from Jasnah herself. Also, just, the language here? The mentoring/taking of wards is an intimate social relationship in Vorin culture, but the way Jasnah speaks of it she uses words like ‘scientific evidence’ and ‘experiment’ which says a lot about how she views relationships in general tbh. 

Also, I think her self-consciousness is something that’s interesting to note. This isn’t the first time she questions her teaching abilities/methods, in fact it’s one of her biggest and most obvious insecurities, it’s something that she’s very aware of. She knows she’s bad at this, and it bothers her. 

“Ivory, you think all humans are unstable.”

“Not you,” he said, lifting his chin. “You are like a spren. You think by facts. You change not on simple whims. You are as you are.”

She gave him a flat stare.

“Mostly,” he added. “Mostly. But it is, Jasnah. Compared to other humans, you are practically a stone!”

[…]

“Jasnah?” Ivory asked. “Am I … in error?”

“I am not so much a stone as you think, Ivory. Sometimes I wish I were.”

And again with Jasnah being factual-based when it comes to her decisions ,and emotions based when it comes to her motivations. Jasnah Kholin feels things so deeply I will physically fight you over this matter. Also, given what we’ve seen, it definitely seems as though Ivory/Inkspren/Jasnah’s ideals are concerned with logic/reason/rightness, and that being a defining aspect of her/her order is interesting in the context of her being autistic. 

Renarin still lurked at the far side of the room, mumbling to himself. Or perhaps to his spren? She absently read his lips.

Since, as far as we know, Jasnah isn’t deaf/hoh, the lip reading is something she acquired for other purposes. Probably as part of her paranoia/wish to protect her family, but it’d also probably help with auditory processing disorder. Which is basically where your ears hear words fine, but your brain scrambles them up and fails to make sense of them. Also a lot of autistic folks (self included) tend to watch people’s mouths instead of their eyes (bc eye contact Sucks) and I’m not saying I can lip-read, but if I could it’d definitely make life easier.

But when, before this, had she last heard him laugh?

“Maybe,” Navani said, “we should encourage him to take a break and go out with the bridgemen for the evening.”

“I’d rather keep him here,” Jasnah said, flipping through her pages. “His powers need additional study.”

Navani would talk to Renarin anyway and encourage him to go out more with the men. There was no arguing with Jasnah, any more than there was arguing with a boulder. You just stepped to the side and went around.

Jasnah being completely and utterly oblivious to the hidden agenda/undercurrent to Navani’s thoughts which is ‘Renarin is comfortable with the men/is enjoying himself with them, maybe we should encourage that?’ and just responds to her mother’s words and nothing else. The boulder analogy makes me laugh (but also recalls what Ivory said about her being ‘stone’ which is, again, a kind of othering, a setting apart of the ‘normal’ humans, based on how she emotes/deals with things/processes fact.

I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been dealing with a lot of lesser ardents today. My didactic side might have inflated.”

“You have a didactic side? Dear, you hate teaching.”

“Which explains my mood, I should think. I—”

A lot of autistic folk find it difficult to teach people, largely because, if they explain something in a certain way, away in which they understand, they have trouble rephrasing it/altering it to make other people understand it as well. Can definitely, definitely see Jasnah struggling with this.

Jasnah preferred to work alone, which was odd, considering how good she was at getting people to do what she wanted. 

This shocks me to my very core so it does.

Next to her, Jasnah stood with arms wrapped around herself, eyes red. Navani reached toward her, but Jasnah pulled away from the others and stalked off toward the palace proper.

Oh look, it’s touch!averse Jasnah. (she’s really not very touchy feely at all) Also Jasnah not knowing how to deal with her emotions/grief and withdrawing from people around her. Also I’m calling the arms wrapped around herself as a pressure stim. Fight me.

Jasnah met his eyes, chewing her lip as she’d always done as a child.

Jasnah having anxious!stims (that she probably forced herself to unlearn)

“Forget I asked,” Dalinar said, sharing a look with Navani and Jasnah. Navani smiled fondly at what was probably a huge social misstep, but he suspected Jasnah agreed with him. She’d probably have seized the banks and used them to fund the war.

Jasnah ‘fuck your social niceties, I have a war to win’ Kholin.

Suddenly they were young again. He was a trembling child, weeping on her shoulder for a father who didn’t seem to be able to feel love. Little Renarin, always so solemn. Always misunderstood, laughed at and condemned by people who said similar things about Jasnah behind her back.

Mm, who else was ‘solemn’ as a child? Maybe ‘correcting logical fallacies at age six’ ‘no longer needed a mother when she reached adolescence’ Jasnah. And, like, ‘people mock Renarin for his autistic traits...Jasnah is also mocked for having these exact same traits.’ It’s basically canon, people.

Jasnah fell to her knees, then pulled Renarin into an embrace. He broke down crying, like he had as a boy, burying his head in her shoulder.

Also, the fact that Renarin instinctively went to Jasnah for comfort, not Navani, who eagerly mothers literally everyone around her, or anyone else, he went to Jasnah ‘empathy of a corpse, made of literal stone’ Kholin for comfort and support tells me something. It tells me that these two had an understanding. That Jasnah understood Renarin, and that Renarin understood Jasnah, and that there perhaps a reason for that that has to do with their shared brain weirdness.

This is also the first time, as I recall, that Jasnah responds with physical affection. (And this doesn’t undermine what I said about her being touch!averse, she is, but a)- she initiates this contact and b)- it’s with someone she’s clearly comfortable with this level of contact) 

Jasnah glanced over her shoulder at the gathering army. “And perhaps … this is one time when a lecture isn’t advisable. With all my complaints about not wanting wards, you’d think I would be able to resist instructing people at inopportune times. Keep moving.”

I have said it before and I will say it again, Jasnah infodumping to an exhausted Shallan in the middle of a fucking battlefield is the most autistic thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life.

These had always been right. Until today—until they had proclaimed that Jasnah Kholin’s love would fail.

And, to summarise it all neatly, Jasnah Kholin, empathy of a corpse, heart of a boulder, whose love in the end never failed her. *wipes tear* my beautiful autistic queen is good and full of love and feeling but just being really bad at showing it to people. We do not deserve her.

TL;DR: Jasnah is autistic af. It’s basically canon. Fight me.