#I just like the idea of being able to write/embroider things in a language only nerds will understand >:)

[wolverinedoctorwho]

[translation: Bloodweave]

Did a test run of embroidering in Thorass (the script/alphabet used in Faerûn). Still some handwriting kinks to work out but I'm pretty happy with it so far.

(If I'd known it was gonna look this decent I wouldn't have used such a strange fabric lol I just grabbed the first scrap I found)

In a perfect world I would embroider some sort of symbol at the bottom, like a drop of blood and the Netherese Orb, but I'm terrible at drawing/stitching teardrops and I don't think I can pull off all of the Orb's wispy tendrils.

Below the cut: my sketches of the lettering/design

[translations: Gale Dekarios, Astarion Ancunin, and then Bloodweave over and over again.]

I couldn't decide what to letter initially, but I decided "bloodweave" had an even number of letters and I could do the dual colors thing.

[mimicofmodes]

“The Ladies Waldegrave” by Joshua Reynolds, 1780 (NGS NG2171)

I’ve complained before about two very big pet peeves of mine - corset stuff and Regency women being dressed in 1770s-1780s clothes - but one that may dwarf them because of how frequently it comes up in historical and fantasy fiction is the oppression of embroidery.

That’s probably putting it a bit too strongly. It’s more like ... the annoyance of embroidery. Every character worth reading about knows instinctively that sewing is a) boring, b) difficult, c) mindless, and d) pointless. The author doesn’t have to say anything more than “Belinda threw down her needlework and looked out the window, sighing,” to signal that this is an independent woman whose values align with the modern reader, who’s probably not really understood by her mother or mother figure, and who probably will find an extraordinary man to “match” her rather than settling for someone ordinary. To look at an example from fantasy, GRRM uses embroidery in the very beginning of A Game of Thrones to show that the Stark sister who dislikes it is sympathetic and interesting, while the Stark sister who is competent at it is boring and conventional and obviously not deserving of a PoV (until later books, when her attention gets turned to higher matters); further into the book, of course, the pro-needlework sister proves to be weak-willed and naïve.

Rozsika Parker, in the groundbreaking 1996 work The Subversive Stitch, noted that “embroidery has become indelibly associated with stereotypes of femininity,” which is the core of the issue. "Instead embroidery and a stereotype of femininity have become collapsed into one another, characterised as mindless, decorative and delicate; like the icing on the cake, good to look at, adding taste and status, but devoid of significant content.” 

Parker also points out that the stereotype isn’t just one that was invented in the present day by feminists who hated the idea of being forced to do a certain craft. “The association between women and embroidery, craft and femininity, has meant that writers concerned with the status of women have often turned their attention towards this tangled, puzzling relationship. Feminists who have scorned embroidery tend to blame it for whatever constraint on women's lives they are committed to combat. Thus, for example, eighteenth-century critical commentators held embroidery responsible for the ill health which was claimed as evidence of women's natural weakness and inferiority.”

There are two basic problems I have with the trope, beyond the issue of it being incredibly cliché:

First: needlework was not just busywork

A big part of what drives the stereotype is the impression that what women were embroidering was either a sampler:

sampler embroidered by Jane Wilson, 14, in 1791 (MMA 2010.47)

or a picture:

unfinished embroidery of David and Abigail, British, 1640s-50s (MMA 64.101.1325)

That is, something meant to hang on the wall for no real purpose.

These are forms of schoolwork, basically. Samplers were made by young girls up to their early teens, and needlework pictures were usually something done while at school or under a governess as a showpiece of what was being learned - not just the stitching itself, but also often watercolors (which could be worked into the design), artistic sensibility, and the literature, history, or art that might be alluded to. And many needlework pictures made in schools were also done as mourning pieces, sometimes blank, for future use, and sometimes to commemorate a recent death in the family. A lot of them are awkward, clearly just done to pass the class, but others are really artwork.

Many schools for middle- and upper-class girls taught the making of these objects (and other “ornamental” subjects) alongside a more rigorous curriculum - geography, Latin, chemistry, etc. At some, sewing was also always accompanied by serious reading and discussion. (And it would often be done while someone read aloud or made conversation later in life, too.)

Once done with their education, women generally didn’t bother with purely decorative work. Some things that fabric could be embroidered for included:

Jackets 

Bed coverings and bedcurtains

Collars and undersleeves 

Pelerines 

Neck handkerchiefs and sleeve ruffles 

Screens

Upholstery

Handkerchiefs

Purses, wallets, and reticules

Boxes

Book covers

Plus other articles of clothing like waistcoats, caps, slippers, gown hems, chemises, etc. Women’s magazines of the nineteenth century often gave patterns and alphabets for personal use.

(Not to mention late nineteenth century female artists who worked in embroidery, but that’s something else.)

You could purchase all of these pre-embroidered, but many, many women chose to do it themselves. There are a number of reasons why: maybe they wanted something to do, maybe they felt like they should be doing needlework for moral/gender reasons, maybe they couldn’t afford to buy anything - and maybe they enjoyed it or wanted to give something they made to a person they loved. That firescreen above was embroidered by Marie Antoinette, someone who had any number of other activities to choose from. It’s no different than people today who like to knit their own hats and gloves or bake their own bread, except that it was way more mainstream.

embroidery patterns from Ackermann’s Repository in 1827 - they could be used on dresses, collars, handkerchiefs, etc.

Second: needlework wasn’t the only “useless” thing women were expected to do

Ignoring the bulk of point one for now and the value of embroidery - I mentioned “ornamental subjects” above. As many people know, young women of the upper and middle classes were expected to be “accomplished” in order to be seen as marriageable. This could include skills like embroidery, drawing, painting, singing, playing the piano (as well as other instruments, like the harp or the mandolin), speaking French (if not also Italian and/or German), as well as broader knowledge and abilities like being well-versed in music, literature, and poetry, dancing and walking gracefully, writing good letters in an elegant hand, and being able to read out loud expressively and smoothly.

This wasn’t a checklist. As the famous discussion in Pride and Prejudice shows, individuals could have different views on what actually made a woman accomplished:

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

Mr. Bingley feels that a woman is accomplished if she has the ability to do a number of different arts and crafts. Miss Bingley feels (or says she feels) that it goes beyond specific skills and into branches of artistic attainment, plus broader personal qualities that could be imparted by well-bred governesses or mothers. And Mr. Darcy, of course, agrees with that but adds an academic angle as well.

But what ties all of these accomplishments together is their lack of value on the labor market. A woman could earn a living with any one accomplishment, if she worked hard enough at it to become a professional, but young ladies weren’t supposed to be professional-level good because they by definition weren’t going to earn a living. All together, they trained a woman for the social and domestic role of a married woman of the upper middle or upper class, or, if she couldn’t get married, a governess or teacher who would share her accomplishments with the next generation.

(To be fair, almost none of the trappings of an upper-middle/upper class male education had anything to do with the kind of career training that college frequently is today, either. Men were educated to know the cultural touchpoints of their class and fit in with their peers.)

There are reasons that an individual person/character might specifically object to embroidery, but it was far from the only “useless” thing that an unconventional heroine would be required to do against her inclination by her conventional mother/grandmother/aunt/chaperone. Embroidery stands out to modern audiences because most of the other accomplishments are now valued as gender-neutral arts and skills.

“The Embroidery Frame”, by Mathilde Weil, ca. 1900 (LOC 98501309)

So, some thoughts for writers of historical fiction (or fantasy that’s supposed to be just like the 19th/18th/17th/etc century):

- If your heroine doesn’t like embroidery, she probably doesn’t like a number of other things she’s expected to do. Don’t pull out embroidery as either more expected or more onerous than them. Does she hate to sit still? I’d imagine she also dislikes drawing and practicing the piano. Would she prefer to do academic subjects? She probably also resents learning French instead of Latin, and music and dancing. Does she hate enforced femininity? Then she’d most likely have a problem with all of the accomplishments.

- If your heroine just and specifically doesn’t like embroidery, try to show in the narrative that that’s not because it’s objectively bad, and only able to be liked by the boring. Have another sympathetic character do it while talking to the heroine. Note that the hero carries a flame-stitched wallet that’s his sister’s work. Emphasize the heroine’s emotional connection to her deceased or absent mother through her affection for clothing or upholstery that her mother embroidered - or through a mourning picture commemorating her. There are all kinds of things you can do to show that it’s a personal preference rather than a stupid craft that doesn’t take talent and skill!

mourning picture for Daniel Goodman, probably embroidered by a Miss Goodman, 1803 (MMA 56.66)

[helaintoloki]

Could you do Ben + 11 for the holiday prompt list pls? It just sounds super cute 😍

a/n: i loved writing this sm and i hope you guys enjoy it ♡

warning: language, lots of fluff

*11: getting each other as your secret Santa // taken from this prompt list

You couldn’t help but feel nervous as you stood on the front steps of Allison’s home with your neatly wrapped gift held tightly to your figure and waited for someone to answer the door. This was to be your first Christmas with the Hargreeves siblings since you were children, and you hoped you’d be able to keep up with infamously chaotic super family. You also hoped that the person you’d drawn for secret Santa liked their present; it was safe to say you’d be crushed if they turned out to be disappointed by the gift you’d so meticulously chosen for them.

The door swings open and a gleeful Klaus greets your meek figure in the doorway. Adorned in an ugly Christmas sweater that reads Merry Xmas Fuckers and equipped with a glass of eggnog in hand, the seance eagerly tugs you inside and scolds you for not having come in sooner.

“You poor little thing, just standing out in the cold like some lonely orphan,” he says dramatically, draping an arm over your shoulders and guiding you into the living room where the rest of the siblings reside. You take a moment to admire the lavish Christmas decorations that adorn the house and make a mental note of Allison’s decoration skills— her house was warm and inviting and big, and the best part about it was that it was all hers. She prided herself on the fact that she’d earned it on her own, without her powers, so it was only natural that she make a display of grandeur in her home for the holidays.

“Y/n!” Allison exclaims with a smile the moment you enter the room. Her excitement pulls all attention towards you, Diego and Luther ceasing their quarrel over the last candy cane and Five and Vanya looking away from George Bailey on the tv screen. Ben is nowhere to be found. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Of course,” you reply with a meager smile, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“You can put your present under the tree over there, we’ll be doing the gift exchange after dinner,” she chirps merrily.

“Umm, so where’s Ben?” You try to ask as nonchalantly as possible while setting your gift down in the designated area— the much larger boxes and elegantly wrapped presents make you insecure about your own— but the knowing smile she gives you tells you that your attempt to be discrete has failed.

“In the kitchen. You should go see if he needs help, something tells me he might be struggling,” she laughs, and you take that as your cue to venture off to find your friend.

You make sure to smoothen out your top and pat down any stray hairs before curiously peeking into the kitchen, and a smile pulls at your lips at the sight before you. A frazzled Ben stands in front of the counter skimming over the stained pages of a holiday cookbook. His clothes would be absolutely ruined if not for the frilly apron with Mom embroidered on the front tied around his torso, and despite the cheerful Christmas music playing from the speakers the poor thing looks absolutely stressed.

“You doing okay in here?” You ask with a quiet laugh, your heart skipping a beat at the immediate relief present on Ben’s face when he sees you.

“Please help me,” he begs. “I’m a terrible cook and I have no idea what I’m doing yet somehow I was put in charge of baking the gingerbread men.”

“Alright,” you giggle, standing beside him at the counter to look over the recipe, “lets see what we’re working with here.”

Ben, relieved to have you here, is now anxious for a much different reason. You’re close to him, so close that every time you reach across the counter for an ingredient your arm grazes against the sleeve of his sweater. The soft jingling of your bracelet and the sweet smell of cinnamon that emanates from you makes him dizzy in the most pleasant way, yet he says nothing. What is he to say? That he’s in love with one of his closest friends? A friend that he’s shared with his siblings since they were kids? No, it would make things weird, and Ben didn’t want it to be weird, at least not anymore weird than it must be to have a man with tentacles that protrude from his chest be secretly in love with you.

“You’re quiet,” you note with a small hum, and Ben is impressed to see that you’re already beginning to cut the shapes of the little gingerbread men into the dough. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, no,” Ben rushes, “just looking forward to the gift exchange is all.”

You say nothing after that due to the nerves that arise at the mention of the secret Santa event, but Ben takes your silence as satisfaction in his answer, and so you both continue to bake with only the sounds of the speakers to fill in the quiet space.

“Okay, present time!” Allison cheers only to be met with a chorus of sluggish groans. After Ben’s short lived panic the cookies had been baked to perfection and all was set for a lovely dinner. Allison and Diego were amazing cooks, but almost everyone now felt too full to so much as move a muscle. Klaus had taken to the couch and was half asleep watching old Christmas cartoons, so to Allison’s dismay it seemed the gift giving would have to wait.

Seated on the floor in front of the tree, you find your gaze shifting from the group in front of you playing cards to Allison and Five who clear off the table and then back to the gifts in front of you. All seem to glimmer underneath the lights, and despite the fact that such a sight would normally bring joy to anyone who looked upon it, you couldn’t help but feel nauseous at the thought of giving your gift to your assigned person. Maybe if you had gotten someone like Vanya or Luther you wouldn’t be so nervous, even getting Five would have been better than who you had. The stakes were higher because- well, because when names had been drawn and you’d eagerly unfolded your scrap of paper you’d been terrified to see the person fate had chosen for you: Ben.

It wasn’t Ben you were terrified of. No, not at all. It was your feelings for Ben that scared the living daylights out of you and made you wish you could turn invisible whenever he so much as breathed in your general direction. You’d been in love with him since the time chocolate milk accidentally shot out of his nose at Griddy’s when Klaus bumped him just a little too hard, but so many years had passed and nothing had ever seemed to happen between the two of you. You grew up, grew apart, and for a few years you didn’t hear much from him or his siblings for that matter. But then Reginald passed, and Pogo surprised you with an extended invitation to the funeral— he felt that your presence would be good for the children— and suddenly you were back in each other’s lives.

Ben was a friend, a good friend, and you knew each other better than you knew yourselves. You knew that his nose always scrunched when he was angry, and he knew that if you began to fiddle with whatever jewelry you wearing in the moment it meant you were nervous. There was history, and to ruin a friendship like that purely because of your own selfish desires would be a disaster. You couldn’t do it, it didn’t matter what Allison said or how you felt, you would settle for being his friend and nothing more.

So lost in your own tangent, you don’t notice said friend standing before you until he gently clears his throat and gives you a sheepish smile in return for your surprised features.

“Hey, you...?” Ben says, visibly cringing at the awkwardness of his tone. “I was thinking of getting some fresh air, do you want to come with?”

“Oh, y-yeah,” you smile sheepishly. “Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll grab your coat for you.”

You watch his figure disappear, your stomach twisting in knots as you contemplate your next decision, and before you can change your mind you quickly grab his gift from underneath the tree and hide it from view as best as you can. You know Allison wants to open gifts together, but you’d prefer giving Ben’s his in private. At least if he’s disappointed you can save yourself from the humiliation.

Ben is already waiting for you outside on the front porch, and with a careful smile you quietly sit beside him and stare out into the night sky. The stars twinkle brightly overhead, and you find yourself subconsciously checking to make sure the moon is still intact. It’s been a chaotic year, but you’re glad to be nearing the end, and you’re glad to be here with Ben.

“So um, I know we’re supposed to exchange gifts together, but I couldn’t wait,” you say, and Ben is pleasantly surprised to see you pull out a neatly wrapped gift. “Merry Christmas from your secret Santa, I guess.”

“No way,” he laughs softly, “that’s crazy.”

“What’s so crazy about me being your secret Santa?” You retort with mock offense only for him to grin.

“Nothing,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “except for the fact that I’m kind of your secret Santa, too.”

“Wait, what?”

You look at Ben in shock as he carefully pulls out a small, neatly wrapped box from his sweater pocket and delicately rests it in your lap. There’s a bashful smile on his face and a red dust on his cheeks, but you decide to chalk it up to the cold air outside. Nonetheless, a disbelieving laugh leaves you at the sight of your gift.

“What a pleasant surprise,” you giggle.

“Yeah, that’s kind of why I asked you out here. I also wanted to give you your gift in private, maybe make it a little more personal. Do you want to open it?”

“You open yours first,” you interject, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. Ben laughs.

“Alright, let’s see,” he says with a small smile. Your stomach is full of nervous fluttering as you watch Ben carefully tear away the wrapping paper before opening the box. His eyes light up in surprise when he sees the inside, and you hold your breath as he carefully pulls out the contents. A smiling pink sea monster meets his eyes and the Horror can’t help but to laugh at the sight of it. “Is this...?”

“It’s exactly the same as the one I lost when we were kids,” you reaffirm with a bashful smile. “I always felt so bad about the fact that you let me have it only for me to lose it, so when I saw it I knew I had to get it.”

A smile brighter than the sun curls upon his lips, and his eyes almost seem to sparkle underneath the moonlight as he pulls out the second item in the box. With a softer gaze now, Ben stares down at the frame in his hands and feels his heart begin to swell. A familiar photograph, one of his personal favorites in fact, from your childhood rests behind the glass, and when Ben looks to you his eyes are glossy with tears.

“I love it, y/n,” he says gently, immediately pulling you into possibly the tightest hug you’ve ever received. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” you reply, relief immediately washing over you at his reaction to your gifts. However, the butterflies persist, and you have to remind yourself that Ben is your friend and nothing more.

“Now open yours,” he says excitedly, his eyes never once leaving your face as you unwrap your gift in the same skillful manner Ben had used for his own.

A velvet box greets you underneath the colorful paper, and with a gentle prodding from Ben you slowly remove the lid to reveal a beautiful gold locket underneath. A small gasp leaves you as you look from the necklace to Ben.

“Wasn’t the spending limit like, forty dollars??”

“Oh hush, open the locket!”

Carefully taking the necklace out from its box, you gently pull the heart shaped hatch back from its place to reveal the exact same photograph you’d gifted Ben in the frame.

“You’re kidding,” you breathe out with a laugh. “The same picture?”

“Great minds think alike, right?” Ben jokes, but there’s a fond look upon his face as he looks at you. “I just really wanted you to know how much you mean to me, because you’re really important and I just... I really love you.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession, and as Ben looks at you with hopeful eyes you decide that life is too short to let fear hold you back. Setting the box down beside you, you scoot closer to Ben and take a deep breath.

“I have one more present for you,” you say, prompting Ben to peek up at you curiously.

“What is it?”

And on the front porch of Allison’s house with the stars shining bright above you, you kiss Ben Hargreeves for the first time.

[faithylilac]

The Party Party Part 6

So... there was a bit of a situation... a very bad situation. Not a terrible situation, Faithy and Echo are doing quite lovely.

“Well we wouldn’t have been in this mess if I was the party leader!” Dax shouted at the shorter god. She simply huffed and started tapping her foot.

“Well I didn’t see you throwing any ideas around!” She looked around the dark cave they were in, double checking for a way out. “You twat” she said off handedly.

Dax’s eyes widen, sure what he said was rude... but not to deserve that.

What happened between the two residential celestial beings?

There they were, five papers spread across the floor, each with a different task. Cj explained that they decided to pick up side jobs to do on the way to wedding. Ash and Jo had realized they would be a week early if they went straight there, so this was a perfect idea.

Faithy just shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t party leader anymore so if anything happened, it wasn’t her fault.

“Wait which one is first on the list?” Dax finally decided to pipe in, as he knew he was free of compasses.

Carter held up their’s proudly, “we’re going after this thing called the uh....” he quickly flipped the paper around to read, “Mortem Spera... I don’t know if I said that right.”

“What is it exactly?” Ash asked. Carter read some more and shrugged. Apparently no information on it... weird.

Carter on the other hand, was having a tougher time that the two gods. Both of Ash’s and Jo’s cloaks were ripped to shreds. So their ears were out and the open, reminding Carter plenty of what they truly were.... Nyah Nyah kawaii anime cat people.

Jo had on a large hat, thank Gjhar feiiled, but her tail was sticking out. Ash on the other hand was a free cat boy, disgusting...

Carter was scurrying to look for a blind fold, make it out of anything... But there was hinderance to that plan.

“So Carter... Do you like oranges?”

Carter pulled all of his mental strength to not freak out that this cat girl was speaking to him. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes tight. “Why?” Jo just blinked at him. “I don’t want to answer that” carter continued. “I swear it’s not a deez nuts joke.” Jo replied. Carter kinda just roll his eyes but not, being that they are closed. “Kinda... but that’s so random— I’m confused.”

Jo giggle, “I just wanted to know if you liked oranges.” She replied. “I don’t hate oranges.”

“Anyway, I guess you can ask questions about me, or I can ask more about you— whatever you are more comfortable with.”

Carter shrugged, walking past her to pick up something he spotted once he opened his eyes. It was a clothe that was sticking out of rubble. “Uhhhh...” The nymph examined the clothe, it was embroidered with strange writing and lots of stars.

“Ash, you’ve studied a few ancient languages right?” Jo looked over him to find him staring at a large tapestry on the other part of the cave.

“No, where did you get that idea?” He asked. Jo just shrugged, “I didn’t know if you did, was just trying my luck.”

Carter brought over his clothe to compare the writing. It seemed to be the same letters, but slightly different... maybe it was handwriting? Ash looked over at Carter’s finding but they jumped away from him, trying to keep some distance.

“Oh shoot I forgot.” Ash said, flattening the ears on his head. Carter frowned and took a deep breath and inched back toward the bard. “Take this hurry up!” Carter shoves it at him and scurries farther away.

“Ok I guess.” Ash went back to the tapestry, trying to figure out the reoccurring letters.

Jo scooted closer to carter and smiled widely. “So... what happened with cats that caused you to be terrified so much?” She asked sweetly. Carter pauses. “Uhhhh....”

Earlier....

“Ok, everyone stick together. The shop keeper says there’s major stress at the entrance of the cave.” Cj explained as she examined the map that they bought from a gift shop. It was a old mine that housed crystals, but now it’s a tourist attraction.

The whole surrounding town was super old and and had a temple for just about every religion in the land. Even Gjhar feiiled.... Faithy kept her cloak on put away any loose jewelry. The main temple was up north, so as they traveled that way, more and more of them were more common.

But I’ll stop there. The shop keeper said someone covered in dragon scales came through the shop with a large box and went straight into the caves. He seemed like he was running for someone, so whatever was in the box seemed important.

As they ventured in the unconsciously huddled into three separate groups, Faithy and Echo on the left, Carter, Jo, and Ash on the right, and Dax and Cj in the middle.

Definitely unrelated though, Echo was tracing a wall painting with it’s finger and the mountain started shaking. “WHO DECIDED TOUCHING SOMETHING WAS A GOOD IDEA?!?” Ash screamed. “IT WAS CJ” Dax yelled back.

Like it was an action movie or something, rubble came tumbling down and separated the party.

“Ok whatever. Can you use your plants to get us out of here?” Dax asked he traced the walls of the cave.

Cj’s face read “oh duh” but as she went to feel the walls for roots or anything else she frowned. “No good. If I call them I have no idea what it’ll do to integrity of the cave.”

Dax huffed, frail mortals had to be so... frail. Sure the two of them would survive, but his favorite humanoids definitely wouldn’t.

A whistling noise echoed through the tunnel and they taking a fighting stance. Dax signaled her was going further in and Cj followed. They walk around a corner to see a green light emerging from further in.

“You got a few more millennias to live, I’ll go ahead.” Dax said dramaticly. Cj rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Like someone would be able to kill, much less defeat a Chaos god.”

Dax slapped a hand on either side of his face and acted surprised.

“To think you’d have so much faith in me!”

Cj just punched his arm, “that would be Faithy, not you.”

“Can I help you two?” A voice from behind them caused them to scream and Dax jumped into the smaller God’s arms.

Even though she was a goddess, she didn’t have supernatural strength of any nature. So her small frame was having trouble keeping him up.

It was a very very very very very very very old person. Now, Cj and Dax had no room to talk, but they had a better skincare routine.

Dax jumped out of Cj’s arms suddenly and her arms flung upwards in a very fast motion, knocking her down in the process. Dax helped her up and they readjust themselves.

“Are you the reason I heard some rumbling?” He asked as he shown his blue lantern around.

A sweat ran down CJ’s back.

“Actually, it was a lizard thing.” Dax spoke up. Cj looked at him with audacity. He had just blamed her for touching the thing she shouldn’t have, causing the mountain to come down on them. So he knew....

The old person simply nodded, “ah well, it’ll take them some time to dig that out. It earns the nearby too much money from tourist to let it stay caved in.” He explained. “Now, why don’t we talk for a bit? I’ll pour some tea.”

They reluctantly follow him into his little cave house. Well it was a small cave room, what’s the term for that? Google isn’t very helpful because all it’s wanting to do is give me tips for a man cave layout.

“So what brings you into an empty crystal cave? You seem more like adventurers than tourist.”

Back to Carter and the cats.

“Oh yeah... cats.” Carter looked away, trying to avoid the question.

Jo sighed and took a step back. “Ok it’s ok, you don’t have to answer that.”

Carter sighed in relief and turned straight around. “But how did you learn to be so swag?”

Carter paused and slowly turned back to them and was about to answer when Ash interrupted.

“OK GUYS! The thing we’re are after is a weapon!” He then broke his instrument and tore off a part of his cape to make a proper torch. Now you might be wondering how they could see without a torch. Ash and Jo could see enough not to bump into anything and Carter could tell where the general area of something is. That piece of clothe was just pure luck.

“Jo can you light this?” He asked her. She nodded and snapped her fingers to start a flame and lit it like a birthday candle.

“How did you do that? I don’t think archers can do that.” Carter said in confusion. She laughed and pointed at her hat. “I can change my class depending on my hat. Not that I have any control of it... if kinda just happens and I can’t ever remember what hat goes with what, we kinda just got lucky.”

Carter blinked slowly. The hat made no sense and there was so no sense of making sense of the thing.

“Guys look!” Ash held up the torch near the tapestry to show the words formed a picture of a weapon. There were also stars scattered around it.

“How do you even know that’s the thing we’re looking for? It could just be something relating to something else?” Jo asked.

“Carter give me the flier.” Ash asked sticking his hand out. Carter scrambled around to remember where he stuffed it, “it’s on your belt of daggers.” Ash said. He grabs it and hands it to the cat boy.

Ash holds it up and looks for any similarity between the flier and the tapestry. “Well thats only convenient.” He said. Jo and Carter look over his shoulder and the weird drawing on the flier almost matches the tapestry.

“It’s missing the words that make up the weapon.” Jo pointed out. Now that was very apparent to Carter and Ash but ummm.... Jo is nice and is explaining what’s going on for you sweet Reader-Chan!

(Aughh that took thirty years off my life. I feel like I’m writing on Wattpad again)

But every single star was present. “Wow I feel smart for figuring this out.” Ash said proudly.

“Do they make a pattern?” Carter asked. Ash shoved the flier at him and started kicking random rocks until one fell apart. He picked it up and grabbed the flier back from carter and plopped down.

He used the fragile rock as chalk and connected each start. “Oooh smart.” Jo added.

There were five large stars and a few smaller stars scattered as well. When Ash connected them all together it looked like a deformed turkey.

“Surely that’s not right.” Ash quickly dusted off the flier and connected only the large stars. “Ok tell me if I’m wrong, but does this look like a straying path?” He pointed out.

It started at one point, split into three, then back to another. “Oh yeah I can see that.” Jo replied.

“Maybe we were going to split up anyway and the rubble just sped it up.” Ash purposed.

“I still don’t see how this has anything to with the Mortem Spera“ Carter replied. Ash thought on his question for a minute but shrugged. “Most of these stupid quest have no reason to link up together the way they do.” The cat boy replied.

“Wait, that means we should be able to meet back up with the others then.” Jo replied. Ash quickly rips the tapestry off the wall and rolls it up. “I don’t know if this will be helpful, but it’s worth a shot.” They then head off the find the others.

“So these star forgers are immortal?” Cj asked before taking another sip of tea. The elder nodded.

“The only thing known to strike down one of these beings is something called the Mortem Spera.” He replied, drinking some of his own tea.

The two gods looked at each other, remembering that was thing they were hired to receive.

“But hear my warning. No mortal has managed to get their hands on it, and if they did they would surely meet their end.” He added.

“So who wielded it?” Dax spoke up. Dax did not have tea, he was drinking black coffee. Not that the old man had coffee, he made it himself— French press and everything.

The old man fell silent and put down his cup. “I don’t know the answer to that question. My theory was a dying god.” Interesting, interesting cool story bro.

“But I don’t actually know that. But I don’t think too much about the subject.”

“Well thank you for your time, but we need to find our friends.” Cj announced and pulled Dax up with her.

“Thank you for humoring me, you young folk have fun.” He said as he was went back to drinking tea.

Cj and Dax scurried out and proceeded further into the cave. “I’m sorry I don’t think he knows what’s he’s talking about.” Dax said.

“How so?” Cj replied. The older god sighed. “As long as I’ve lived, I would have at least heard about a dying god THAT desperate to live. Sure some seek out the fountain of youth, but trying to kill something like a star forger.”

Cj thought on it and nodded, “he did seem like he belonged in a loony bin.”

They then turned another corner to find... Faithy and Echo having a tea party?

She had on a fake crown and Echo had on a fake mustache and top hat. But this wasn’t your average tea party, it was the real thing. With delicate dishes, a tower of Pastries, and Gjhar feiiled forbid... a white lace table clothe.

“Is this what you’ve been doing this whole time?” Cj asked, not that she was one to ask.

“We ran into this lovely dwarf who owns a restaurant in here and we’ve been waiting on the rest of you.” Faithy explained before drinking out of her cup with her pinkie at ninety degrees.

Dax and Cj looked at them confused, “how did you know we were coming this way?” Cj asked.

“Ahh... so the shop owner was telling us that the cave coming down on itself was just a illusion.” Echo replied.

Cj flops down onto the ground and leaves an indention around herself.

“Yeah the whole thing is tourist trap role playing adventure. At the end they trick you into trading a sack of gold for a wooden spear.” Faith added.

“That does explain why it didn’t get any darker when the rocks blocked the entrance.” Dax replied.

Cj shot up from her Cj shaped hole in the floor and started screaming incoherently. She then stop and narrowed her eyes at Dax. “You’re a Chaos god and you couldn’t sense an illusion?”

Dax just shrugged. “I’m a chaos god, everything I do is legit. I have no use for mortal’s artificial magic.” He said with disgust. “That and I wasn’t thinking about it.”

Then. A loud thundering noise echoed through the cave, causing everyone to get up and put up their guard. But here comes ash carrying a stupidly large tapestry and Jo carrying Carter like a baby. How were they making so much noise????

“Ok good, we all found each other and someone isn’t trying to get through rocks like an idiot.” Ash said in relief.

“How did you know about the illusion?” Cj asked. Ash raised his eyebrow, “what illusion? The freaking flier made a map. It’s stupid simple but it works I guess.” He replied.

So... this was so freaking long.

And color coding is a pain

Never again

Ever

I hate everything

Masterlist

Figure out who everyone is, I dare you

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Folklore Friday

This is actually an unfinished short story that I wrote three years ago. So you may notice that it’s a little different from my current writing style in some ways. It’s been edited a wee bit before posting, mostly proofreading stuff, but this is an urban fantasy short I was working on years back about a young man who accidentally becomes king of the goblins. He really really does not want to be king of the goblins. 

He never should have taken the detour that night: that was the source of all his troubles.

Work had been brutal, with a grand total of ten patients either screaming over the phone about the charge for their appointment, or trying to convince him that the doctor had approved a kind of medicine that he most certainly had not prescribed. Of course, since he was “just a receptionist”, they all assumed they could bully him into agreeing with whatever they wanted. Admittedly, by the time he had clocked out for the day, Seth Jefferson Jr. had had just about all the frustration he could take.

All he really wanted to do was go home, sit on the couch, and not talk to anyone for the next three hours. So when he spotted five or six scowling young men congregating around the only streetlight on his normal route home, he decided to take the path of least resistance. Seth had never cut through the ratty, overgrown park before, but it would only add a few minutes to his commute. It seemed like a better idea than trying to navigate around the men up ahead, at least. He hopped the fence and continued on his way, hands in his pockets.

Seth kicked through a pile of leaves and discarded beer cans, wrinkling his nose. Midsummer Park had been a very nice place once, when he was young. It hadn’t been the most popular destination, but there had been a certain charm to the way the flowers had been planted in spirals around the tree trunks. The flowers were gone, now. Nobody had bothered to do any landscaping there for years, and the plants grew as they pleased now. 

Seth pulled his coat a little closer to his neck, shivering. The park was quiet, save for the soft chirps of crickets and the occasional frog. His own footsteps sounded unbearably loud as he walked, as if he was trespassing. He could not shake the feeling that someone or something was watching him. He hoped it wasn’t the men from the sidewalk.

The toe of his sneaker met the thin stalk of a Clitocybe nuba with a barely audible plop. Seth glanced down at the mushroom, then caught sight of a large, ugly toad watching him from the shelter of another mushroom a few inches away. Gross. 

There was a whole ring of the fungus, extending perhaps ten feet in diameter. Some might have thought of old legends and superstitions and walked around it, but Seth had no time for fairytales. Cold and annoyed at having to go out of his way, he stepped over the mushroom he’d kicked and moved on through the center of the circle. That was a mistake.

Instantly, Seth knew that something was terribly wrong. His feet were frozen to the dying grass as though they’d grown roots. His arms hung heavy at his sides, coated in an icy numbness from his shoulders to his fingertips. Panic gripped his lungs, and he strained to breathe. His eyes could still move, and he cast them about wildly, looking for the source of his paralysis.

The toad who had been sitting at the edge of the mushroom ring hopped forward with slow, squelching motions before coming to rest at Seth’s feet. Its eyes shone an uncanny gold, and then before Seth’s eyes, it began to change.

The toad grew in size until it was near the height of a large dog, then it straightened to stand on its back legs. The toadskin fell away like a discarded poncho, and left the most preposterous figure Seth had ever seen.

It was covered from its head to its cloven hooves in short, coarse hair or fur, most of which was covered by a very ugly embroidered tunic and breeches. Long, tangled hair hung down around the person’s shoulders, sprouting from a skull that sported horns. Horns of all things! Seth registered all this in silence, mostly owing to the fact that he was not able to open his mouth.

“Well well!” the strange figure said, and Seth’s heart skipped a beat at the eerie whispery sound. “Not many humans get stuck in these anymore! I wonder who we’ve got to thank for that? Your internet? Probably your internet.”

They leaned down to peer into Seth’s eyes. “How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-four? Old enough to know better. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to walk through a fairy ring?”

You’re kidding me. Seth thought. Fairies? As in pixies and flowers and little glittery wings on kids’ dolls? Yeah right. This guy looks more like a demon.

As if they’d read the human’s thoughts, the satyr-like figure snorted, twitching their pointed ears.

“Now don’t tell me you thought all fairies were dainty little girls wearing flower petals? Human exaggeration: utterly ridiculous.”

Seth decided that he had to be hallucinating this. He’d probably slipped on one of those empty beer cans and struck his head on a rock or something. Now he was dreaming up some pseudo-mythological weirdness. Might as well play along until he woke up, right? 

Seth’s more logical side pointed out that there was no evidence that he’d taken a fall of any kind, but Seth was not prepared to acknowledge that the satyr existed. Neither was he prepared to follow the line of reasoning that said the satyr might be a figment of his imagination, and that he might be standing in a field staring at nothing.

“Fairies, huh?” he croaked. He was a little surprised that his mouth was able to move at all, as it had been stuck shut only moments before. He coughed, and swallowed a few times in an attempt to strengthen his voice.

“I’m guessing that saying I don’t believe in fairies isn’t going to make you fall down dead.” he said dryly.

The satyr performed an odd little caper and cackled.

“No indeed! I don’t know why that idea caught on, but it’s not true.” They paused, and glanced slyly at Seth out of the corner of their eye. “In fact, saying I don’t believe in fairies usually results in a goblin being born.”

Abruptly the look of amusement dulled into something closer to flat annoyance. “There’s been quite a population boom in the Umbralands recently, as a matter of fact. You humans should stop telling your young that we aren’t real.”

This struck Seth as slightly amusing, but he said nothing. Whether he was dreaming, hallucinating, or actually experiencing this -- which had to be impossible. Fairies and Goblins had no place in modern, rational society! -- he’d been standing in the mushroom circle far too long. Seth needed to get home!

“I was never the fairytale type,” he said shortly, “Exactly what happens now?”

He hoped his tone conveyed what his frozen body language could not: that he was tired, hungry, and not in the mood to put up with any magical monkeyshines from this decidedly odd figure who had so rudely interrupted his Friday evening.

The satyr studied him a moment, as if they were trying to measure the man’s personality with their eyes alone. They paced with an odd, rollicking gait, whistling merrily through Their teeth. 

They looked jolly enough, but there was something about them that made Seth’s chest tighten with a kind of fearful caution. Apparently, his body knew something he didn’t, and was classifying the satyr as a threat. 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that things like satyrs just weren’t supposed to exist. There was a certain level of aporia spreading through his mind, suppressing his thoughts and reactions until there was nothing left but an unending hum and an anxious awareness of what was happening around him.

“What should we do with you?” the satyr mused, beginning to pace a loping circle around Seth. 

“In the past, we used to set impossible tasks for interlopers. Or, I could keep you here, dancing uncontrollably for a year and a day or until someone figured out you were missing and called your true name. But that’s all pretty standard fare.”

They came to a stop just behind Seth’s left shoulder, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Seth wished he could move, even just his arms so that he could protect the vulnerable stalk of veins and vertebrae. 

Come on, Seth, he tried to reason with himself, It’s a goat-person. Not a vampire. It probably won’t drink your blood. But then again, Seth didn’t know anything about goat-people. Who was to say it wouldn’t try to eat him? It -- he? they? -- had been pretty menacing thus far.

He heard the satyr take a deep breath, then out of the corner of his eye he saw them walk around to stand in front of him again. They were smiling, and right away Seth decided he didn’t much like the look of that smile.

“I’ll tell you what, human. Since it’s late, and you’re probably tired, let’s do this: if you guess my name, I’ll sweep this under the rug and we can both pretend it never happened.”

Oh that just screamed “suspicious”. Even if he wasn’t familiar with a lot of folktales, Seth knew Rumplestiltskin, and he had a bad feeling about this seemingly-innocuous guessing game. Despite his better judgment, however, it seemed like this might be the only way out of this stupid mushroom ring.

“What’s the catch?” he rasped.

The satyr blinked slowly, then shrugged. “I suppose if you fail, I’ll get to set an impossible task for you after all,” they said innocently.

Seth muttered some choice words under his breath and stared very hard at the goat-person. “How many guesses do I get?” he asked shrewdly.

“I’m feeling generous. I’ll say five.”

Noticing Seth’s disgusted expression, the creature bared surprisingly sharp teeth in a slightly aggressive smile and leaned close. 

“Just be glad I picked guess my name and not a game of riddles. You don’t look like you’d be very good at those.”

Well, that much was true, but Seth wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of hearing it confirmed. He racked his brain for bizarre and fantastical names. Rumplestiltskin could be dismissed out of hand, at least, as could most of the Tolkien-esque names that presented themselves to him after a few moments.

“Is it Mephistopheles?” he asked first.

“No. It’s a good name though, I’ll keep it in mind if I ever change mine.”

“Fine.” Seth squinted and looked for another. “Pan?”

The satyr narrowed their eyes. “It’s because of the hooves, right? That’s profiling and I resent it.”

Well, safe to say “Pan” was not their name. Seth tried hard to think and guessed again.

“Wormwood?”

“Okay,” the other answered with gritted teeth, “Now you’re trying to insult me.”

“Hey, I’m working with what I have, here!” Seth protested. “What about, er, Fauna?”

The satyr didn’t look at all impressed. “Well that’s not very creative, is it? A bit more feminine than I prefer, too. Try again.”

Seth’s remaining guess met with similar results. Frustration bubbled up inside him. It had been rigged from the start. He’d known that, of course, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still get angry about it. Seth was at least glad that his face was still mobile. He twisted his lips into a vicious scowl, which he directed at the smug satyr.

“Well that’s my five guesses, used up. You might as well tell me what it was,” he growled.

“Of course, where are my manners?” said the satyr sarcastically. They swept into a low bow with a flourish of their hand. “They call me Chicanery. Lord Chicanery Black, if you require a title and surname.”

Seth was furious. “And how would I have been able to guess something like that?” he demanded.

“You wouldn’t,” Chicanery answered carelessly, “That’s the whole point. But while we’re doing introductions, what’s your name, human?”

Seth nearly said his name, but at the last second changed his mind. He had no idea why, but it seemed like a bad idea to just casually give the creature his full name. Was it something he���d read once?

“Jefferson.” he answered. Chicanery nodded.

He cracked his bulging knuckles and leaned on Seth’s shoulder in a very irritating fashion.

“Well, Jeff, you failed the test. So now I get to set a task for you.”

“No.”

Chicanery looked astonished, as though it had never actually occurred to him that someone would refuse to play along. For just a moment, a flash of anger crackled -- quite literally crackled as if it were a spark of electricity -- in his eyes, and a chill ran up Seth’s spine. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to antagonize the creature.

“Impossible task, or stay here in the ring until you die of either starvation or old age. Your choice.” he said coldly.

“That isn’t fair.”

He knew it was childish, but Seth couldn’t help pointing it out. He had a job, a life, and none of this made any sense at all. 

“If life was fair, I wouldn’t be stuck here guarding an abandoned dance ring,” Chicanery answered dryly. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll be rewarded if you actually pull it off. You need a car? Or a better job?” he stared pointedly at Seth’s scrubs.

Seth squinted at Chicanery, trying to gauge just how much of the odd being’s words were truth. It wasn’t as if he had a precedent for this to measure it against. The promise of a car was tempting, though he didn’t know how he’d afford the gas. No, best not to get ahead of himself. He didn’t know what Chicanery wanted him to do yet. Still, he was more than ready to get out of this fairy ring.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” he asked warily.

Looking immensely pleased with himself, Chicanery hopped back a pace and spread his arms wide.

“See? Was that so hard?” he asked. Then he leaned in again. “You’re going to help me run a little errand. It’s just some housekeeping. And by “housekeeping”, I mean you’re going to help me usurp the throne of Unter Kobold, king of the Umbralands. I assume you have a gun, or can get one?”

“What.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Chicanery held out one of his calloused, hairy hands and Seth found that he could move again. “Do we have a deal, or am I leaving you here?”

Well, when you put it that way, Seth thought bitterly, and he gingerly shook the satyr’s hand.

It felt like being grabbed by a pinecone. Something stung his skin and the human pulled his hand away with a hiss of pain. A shimmering mark in the shape of a leaf curled outward across his palm with the same faint crackle he’d heard before.

“You’re free to go now, Jefferson,” Chicanery said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We start planning tomorrow.”

The moment Seth stepped out of the mushroom ring, the satyr was gone. In his place, the ugly toad from before sat, watching him. Seth shuddered and hurried home as quickly as he could. As much as he desperately wanted to convince himself that none of that had been real, he could not deny that he’d only lost five minutes by the time he got home, and the leaf-mark on his palm did not wash away.

Seth kicked off his shoes and did not bother to change into pajamas as he fell into bed. He could only hope that the satyr would forget about him after a few days.

#

He awoke the next morning to the sound of someone moving around in his kitchen. Seth felt around for the baseball bat he kept next to his bed, then eased his bedroom door open. Now he could hear voices.

“-well we can’t do that. No no, that’s much too much pepper. See? It looks weird now.”

Something gurgled and croaked, but Seth couldn’t make out whether or not it was words. He was more concerned with the fact that the first voice had belonged to Chicanery Black.

Seth marched into the kitchen, bat upraised, to find the satyr and a grotesque little creature that appeared to be a cross between a crocodile and a sugar glider sitting on his shoulder. They were bent over the stove, observing eggs frying in a pan. Chicanery turned with a grin.

“Ah! Morning, partner. Collywobble and I were just debating on how much pepper humans usually put in their eggs. How much do you put in?”

Flabbergasted, Seth’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few minutes before he gasped, “None! And how did you even get in here? Don’t you guys have to be, like, invited or something?”

“That’s vampires,” Chicanery shoved a forkful of boiling hot egg into his mouth and spoke around it. “Which don’t exist, by the way.”

“Of course,” Seth muttered sarcastically. “Because that’s much weirder than a satyr frying eggs in my kitchen.”

Chicanery did not grace this with an answer. He shoveled the other egg out onto a plate in an ugly lump, and handed a fork to Seth.

“Today,” he said, “You’re going to go to your public library and look up everything humans ever wrote about goblins and gargoyles and how to kill them.”

Seth seriously considered making a snide remark about homework, but decided not to push his luck. If the satyr had no trouble getting into his house, there was no telling what else he could do. He groaned and set his baseball bat down so he could eat.

“You weren’t going to stay here, were you?” he asked, gagging on the amount of pepper in the rapidly cooling egg. “I mean, is this going to be a regular thing?”

Chicanery glanced at the diminutive creature on his shoulder and back at Seth.

“I’ll stay until the task is completed.” he answered, confirming Seth’s worst fears. He leaned casually against the counter and raised a hand to scratch Collywobble behind the ears. “You know, you’re taking all this remarkably well. The last human I tried to recruit went stark raving mad, you know. They had to cart him away after he went goblin hunting in a supermarket. After an experience like that, it’s nice to find a human with a good, stretchy mind.”

Collywobble made a wet, barking sound in what was presumably agreement. Seth made a face and gestured to it.

“Okay, what is that?” he sighed.

“She,” Chicanery corrected, “Is Collywobble. She’s a goblin, and you’d better get used to her because you’ll be seeing a lot more of them.”

“Why?” Seth asked, already certain he would not like the answer.

Chicanery looked at him as if he’d lost his senses.

“One does not simply overthrow a goblin king without minions!”

Collywobble snuffled agreeably at this, then hopped down to the table. Seth decided that this was altogether too much weirdness for one morning, and that he’d be better off at the library. He stood and opened the refrigerator, looking for a stiff drink to chase away the taste of burnt and over-peppered egg.

Something like a winged porcupine held up a three-toed paw in greeting and he slammed the door.

“Why.” was all he managed to say.

Chicanery opened the refrigerator again and brightened.

“Oh! Widdershins!” he said, “So you found the place after all. What do our friends at the armory say?”

“I’m done.” Seth threw his hands into the air and left the kitchen. This was ignored by Chicanery, Collywobble, and Widdershins.

After discovering one more goblin in his clothes hamper and one in the closet, Seth threw on his shoes and stormed out of the house, locking it behind him. It likely wouldn’t do any good at all, seeing as Chicanery and his minions had just sort of materialized to begin with, but it gave him a slight sense of satisfaction.

[booklovingturtle]

A Sweet Suli Spice (Kanej GVBB)

A/N: AH I can’t believe the time has finally come for me to share this with you all! I had so much fun working on this in the midst of the worst and most stressful semester of my life!

Shout out to my gang, Spice of Life, for making this so much fun bc they are all so talented and easy to work with! The Corporalki both understood my writing which made the revising/editing process really smooth. They made sure the fic you’re about to read is actually understandable. They read this more than once and in the midst of their own crazy lives which I will never not be thankfull for. The Materialki are ridiculously talented. You HAVE to click their links to check out their work. I know they all worked really hard on them and it totally paid off.

Also big thank you to @grishaversebigbang​ for hosting this and being a terrifying yet wonderful Master of Tides.

Please feel free to comment, reblog, or message me your reactions to this! It’s the first super long pic that I’ve ever written and I’m really proud of it. Okay enough rambling…ik y’all just want the fic!

Corporalki: @ninxszenik , @ethereal-magia

Materialki: @theartistwitch  @wavesofinkdrops @xan-drei

Masterlist: Don’t have an Ao3 but I do have a master list of all my fics.

Summary: Inej Ghafa hasn’t seen her family in four years. Not since she’s been taken. Now that it’s been so long since she’s seen them, Inej is scared and nervous to go back. One night, while sitting on the rooftop, Kaz asks her to teach him Suli. That inspires Inej to fight her nerves and finally find her family. She asks Kaz to go home with her and he takes this opportunity to learn more about her and her people. Once home, Inej is faced with a guilt of her past, the fear of family’s reactions, and the hope of finally being ghar (home).

The heart of Suli culture flowed with spice-flavored blood and beat to the sound of performance drums. It hummed through Inej’s body every time she whispered her native language to herself under Tante Heleen’s ring-clad fist. She stored the precious words so deep inside of her that she feared the garbled sounds of Kerch would drown out their melodious syllables.

Once she was under the employment of the Dregs, she would practice Suli as often as she could. Some nights she would stare into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman in front of her as she spoke in Suli to herself. She would even write letters to her family in the beautiful script they had taught her. Those letters were always burned before the ink could dry. The content didn’t matter to her. She didn’t write them for the sake of filling a paper with impossible hopes and dreams. She wrote them because she feared losing her mother tongue. It was an irrational fear that she had never been able to vocalize to anyone before. Well, at least before Kaz came into the picture. He had asked her one night if she could teach him Suli and noticed, as he always did, the change in her face at the mention of it.

“I understand if you don’t feel comfortable teaching me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Kaz reached out to place his hand on her leg.

Inej watched his pale, scarred knuckles rest on her knee. They had made their way up to the roof of the Crows Club, as they usually did when Inej was home. Whatever time wasn’t spent up there was used to carefully test the idea of being together.

“It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable. It’s that…” Inej’s words wandered away from her. She watched the way his thumb moved along the inside of her knee. It was such a small touch for someone else; for a different boy and a different girl that touch was meaningless. For them, it was everything.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No. I want to. I’ve spent so many years away from Ravka and most of my people. I only ever get to speak Suli when I’m working with the Dregs or helping people escape a sinking slave ship. For years, I was afraid that one day, I would wake up and forget the language entirely.”

“Is that possible?” His deep voice sounded raspy but soothing against the black night. “Not to lose it in one day, but for you to just forget Suli that easily?”

Inej nodded slowly. “I already have.” It broke her heart to admit it. “When I first arrived to Ketterdam, everything came to me in Suli. Dreams, thoughts, speech. I had to learn to filter my words into Kerch. Now I find that more and more of my thoughts and dreams come in Kerch than they do in Suli.”

Kaz was silent for a few heartbeats. Inej felt as if she had stripped herself bare in front of the entire Barrel. It was odd to feel that way around Kaz now. He had seen and touched parts of her that no one else was ever given permission to. Kaz knew her like no other person could, yet this was a part of her she hadn’t accepted about herself, let alone explained to him. There was an intimacy that came with talking about her culture that made her feel exposed.

“The language is not the only thing that ties you to the culture, Inej. You will always be Suli as long as you carry it in your heart.”

Tears surprised Inej by burning the back of her eyelids. “Come home with me,” she spoke through the lump in her throat.

He looked taken aback. “Home? You mean Ravka?”

She nodded. Inej had felt confident the first time she asked the question, but the way Kaz was looking at her now made her doubt her request.

“Yes. To Ravka. To my family. I-I’ve been thinking about going back for a while now. I even asked Nina for her help in tracking my family down.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kaz’s eyebrows came together in a way that meant he was already calculating things. She recognized that look: scheming face.

“You may be Dirtyhands on this island, Brekker, but that doesn’t mean you’re privy to everything east of Kerch.”

Kaz grinned wickedly. “Maybe not east, but we all know that I was able to conquer the North quite easily.” This was also a new side of Kaz that she had gotten to know over the last few months: one that was playful without an edge of cruelty attached to it. The air around them changed and Inej no longer felt the sadness that usually came with thinking about home.

“We conquered the Ice Court together. With the help of some friends, which you had to beg for help from, if I remember correctly.”

Kaz looked appalled. “I never begged.”

“So you admit that you did need our help.”

“Need is a strong word, Inej. The only things I need in this world are food, air, and you.”

It was her turn to look speechless. Kaz was rarely ever so direct with her about his feelings for her. She knew, of course, that he cared for her as she did for him. It was one thing, however, for her to know it and another for him to be so forward about it.

“And because I need you, Inej, my answer is yes. I want to go to Ravka with you. I want to go everywhere and anywhere with you. We’ll conquer the world together if that’s what you want. I want to be wherever you need me to be.”

Kaz’s words echoed in her head. She would hear them every time she thought of home. Her real home. Thanks to Nina’s help, Inej was sailing to Ravka within months with Kaz by her side.

The Wraith soared through the water and, in what felt like one night’s rest, Inej’s crew was docking The Wraith in Os Kervo’s main dock. From the stern of her ship, Inej could hear the sound of her crew talking and moving. The water lapped against the underside of her ship, gently rocking her reflection back and forth.

Inej prayed in Suli as she strapped Sankt Petyr and Sankta Alina to her forearms. She tried to quell the anxious shake of her hands while Sankta Marya and Anastasia were readjusted on her thighs. Sankt Vladimir fit snugly into her boot, making Inej wonder what her mother would say at the sight of her in Fabrikator-made boots, not Suli slippers. Sankta Lizabeta with her rose-engraved handle sat at her belt, hidden under the folds of her black Suli wrap.

When not in front of a roaring crowd, the Suli were a reserved people. Despite Tante Heleen’s disgusting portrayal of her culture, Inej still loved the vibrant colors of Suli dupattas and embroidered kurtas. When she felt the jerk of the anchor settling into place, Inej realized how long it had been since she dressed in chiffon and silk. She didn’t recognize the Suli woman staring in the mirror staring back at her. For one, the sleeves were tailored to be much longer than she would have normally needed during Ravkan summers. However, she didn’t want anyone to see the network of scars that decorated her skin from years of violence. The second thing that threw off her reflection was the way she’d styled her hair. Though she performed with her hair in a braided coil, Inej knew her mother loved it best when it was wild and loose. Finally, the last time she had seen herself like this was when she was still an innocent girl who yearned to grow into a talented acrobat.

Inej was now so fundamentally different from that child. If anything, the dupatta she was wearing felt like a costume.

Knocking forced her to turn away from her damned reflection.

“Adara aaen,” Inej called out, already knowing who it would be before he stepped into the room.

“I assume that means ‘come in,’” Kaz’s slim figure filled her doorway. He was dressed in an inmanulate suit as usual, gloved hands resting on top of his crow’s head cane and a smirk on his face.

“What?” Inej hadn’t realized the words had come out in Suli instead of Kerch. It was rare for her to mix the languages up like that. The fact that it had even happened spoke of her nerves. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to translate everything into Suli to get some last minute practice.”

Kaz’s arrogant look slipped and he shook his head. “No need to apologize. I love hearing you speak Suli.”

Inej forced a smile to her face. “If the Saints allow it, soon that’s all you're going to hear.” She looked out the port window, watching the lazy rays of sun dance along the sky. Somehow the Ravkan sky seemed to shine brighter than the Kerch one.

“Don’t slip away from me,” Kaz prompted her gently. She realized that she had started to float off into her own thoughts, something she’d found herself doing more and more the closer they’d gotten to shore.

“Are you ready?”

“No. But I don’t think I ever will be.”

“We don’t have to do this, not if you don’t want us to. I’ll go and ask Getz to take The Wraith right back if you’ve changed your mind, or we can take a trip to Nina’s instead. Whatever you want to do, I'll be here for you.”

Inej shook her head. “I might be terrified, but I want to do this. I just feel out of place in a Suli outfit after not having worn one in so long.” Her fingers pulled at one of the tightly knitted seams.

Kaz leaned his cane against the wall, closing the door behind him. He went up to Inej and turned her to face the mirror. “I don’t think your parents will be any less happy to see you if you wore a dupatta or a kefta or a sack. They’ll be too excited to see you.” Kaz’s arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her body into his. Inej felt his warm, solid chest against her back. She inhaled his calming smell, grateful for his presence.

“In Suli, we have a saying for people who have betrayed their kind, who have disgraced them or turned their back on them. Kadema mehim. It’s the worst sort of punishment you could receive for your actions.” She shuddered at the thought of ever hearing those words said to her. Inej herself had only ever used them once.

“I am not the same little girl who was taken from them. They might realize that and see me as forsaken. As someone who has turned away from the Saints.”

Kaz brushed her hair off to one side to rest his head on her shoulder. Kaz’s reflection towered over Inej’s own in the mirror. His sable eyes looked stubborn and unwaveringly serious. “You are many things, Inej, but a traitor is not one of them. It’s true that you are not the same girl you were when they knew you. But they will see that you grew into a brave, strong woman who will stop at nothing to do what is right for the people she loves.

“They will see that you have fought against all the odds and have become an unstoppable force that they should feel blessed to have in their lives. They will love you, Inej. It is impossible for them to not love you.”

This time she didn’t stop the tears that slid down her cheeks. She took a shuddering breath and placed a hand against his jaw. The sharp line was lined with light stubble, but that didn’t stop her from running a finger against its curve. Her fingers traced the scar beneath the right edge of jaw, thinking about the other scars that peppered his skin. Many of those scars earned alongside her.

“They will love you, too, Kaz.” Inej knew that he was almost as nervous as she was to meet her family, though he would never voice it out loud.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away. “They might think of me as the man who corrupted their daughter.”

She shook her head. “No, they will think of you as the man who has made their daughter too happy to put into words.”

Kaz stared at his gloves, refusing to make eye contact. “Will they? Have I?”

It was her turn to reach out to him. Inej wrapped her hands around his neck. “Yes and yes. You have made their daughter happier than she ever thought possible.”

Kaz’s hands tentatively grabbed her waist. His eyes were on her lips but he didn’t move. Not until she did. Inej leaned up, catching his mouth with hers. The sounds of the crew and the ocean were replaced by the sound of her heart in her chest. Kaz was always gentle with her. His kisses were soft like the petals of spring and sweet like caramel. He held her like there was nothing that could ever separate them.

Inej sighed, melting into his every touch. It was impossible to feel anxious or scared in his arms. His fingers pressed into her silk wrap and Inej released a gasp. Kaz took that opportunity to take everything she gave him. Her skin suddenly burned. The sweetness was still there, dancing with a fiery spice that surprised her. They had rarely ever held each other this long without the waters swallowing him up.

His hands buried themselves in her long hair. Inej reached into his jacket, feeling the muscles beneath his white shirt. Kaz then broke away, breathing hard and shuddering. His face was flushed and his lips looked deliciously swollen.

Inej, realizing what they had done, began to apologize for having been too forward.

“No. It wasn’t you. Believe me, it wasn’t that.” Kaz shook his head, gloved hands holding hers against his chest.

“But if it wasn’t...why did you stop?” Inej could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“I really didn’t want to,” Kaz’s gaze made goosebumps dance across her skin. “But we need to leave soon if we want to make it to Ivets before dark. And to be quite honest with you, Wraith, I’m not sure how far we would have gone this time. I really didn’t want to stop.”

Inej laughed. “Neither did I. It’s okay. We’ll have time another day. We have the rest of our lives to do that and so much more.”

“Captain,” Getz called from outside her door. “The crew’s settled and waiting for your orders.”

“Duty calls, Wraith.” Kaz’s smile was as sharp as ever. He adjusted the tie she’d crinkled.

Inej pulled her shoulders back, stepped through the doorway and told her crew that they could do as they pleased for a few hours. Within the next hour, she and Kaz were on their way to Ivets, the city where Nina had informed Inej her family would be performing for the next week. Every road they passed brought her closer and closer to her family. Inej could hardly contain her excitement and nervousness. While passing a crowded marketplace, Inej almost barreled into a group of children running across the street.

“Whoa, Inej,” Kaz called as he held her back from stepping into the walkway. “Careful. I know you’re excited to see your family, but even I think it’s a little much to trample a few children along the way.”

“Could you imagine that after getting back to Ketterdam, the Wraith and Dirtyhands voyaged all the way to some unknown city in Ravka just to run over a few children?” she joked, though her voice wavered enough for Kaz to notice.

“When you put it like that...” Kaz’s eyes had the same spark in them that always appeared right before a job. “While that does sound tempting, I think my bloodthirsty reputation will survive despite having let them live.”

By sunset, Inej could hear the pounding of Suli drums. They had passed through the heart of Ivets’ main city before reaching the boundary of an open field. A golden tent heavily embroidered with thick swirls rose high over the clearing. Inej’s breath caught in her throat at the familiar sound of Suli folk music floating outside of its flowing entrance. Sweet curling smoke filled the air with the smell of fried dough, glazed fruits, and…

The smell of her family gatherings to celebrate the Saints. She envisioned her mother, kind and beautiful, carrying baskets full of fresh vegetables for dinner. Her father, strong and brave, chopping potatoes alongside his wife. Her cousins fighting over plates of food. Her aunts handing out sticky sweets. Her uncles setting up place settings.

The music reminded her of the first time she stood on a tightrope. The bottomless drop that yawned beneath her and the open sky that blanketed her. How it felt to be covered in performance glitter and to curl her hair to fall around her round cheeks. She remembered scrapping her hands on trees, trying to beat her cousins to the top. How it felt to look over the Ravkan landscape and see nothing but endless opportunities.

After years of darkness, years of bloodshed, years of the staccato sounds of Kerch, Inej Ghafa was finally home.

Home...and rooted to her spot at the edge of the circus grounds. Ravkans stood in line, waiting to be let into the performance tent; the same tent that she had spent countless days in during the early years of her life. A bronze-skinned man stepped out of the tent, dressed in loose fitted black pants and a thick, colorful coat. His voice was deep and stern as he hollered the rules of the performance out into the crowd of people.

Inej stared in wonder, unsure about who the man was. Chaacha Jilé was the one who used to tame the crowds before they entered the performance area. The man at the entrance was not her uncle.

“Hanzi,” the name came to her with a jolt.

Inej was suddenly flying. Or at least that’s what it felt like as the grass was crushed beneath her racing feet. One minute, she was standing beside Kaz and the next, she was running straight to her cousin, pushing through the crowd of guests until she stood at the very front.

“Hanzi,” she said again, this time facing the man whom she now recognized.

Her cousin’s words died on his lips and he froze, arms limp at his sides as looked at her. “Inej?”

A sob escaped her. She could hear the sound of the crowd’s confusion but she didn’t care.

“Hanzi,” was all that she could say.

His face broke into a smile. A roaring shout came from him as he yelled in Suli. “Inej! Inej is here! Masi Calla! Chaacha Baraz! Inej is home!”

Tears streamed down her face at the sound of her parents’ names: Calla and Baraz. Mama and Papa. Inej waited anxiously as the longest few seconds of her life passed. She could see from the sliver opening in the flaps a flurry of motion. She caught her name be repeated and questions thrown. Hanzi shouted again, tears in his own eyes.

Inej’s whole world froze as Mama and Papa came through the entrance. They stepped out, first looking at her cousin with an agonizing look of hope and confusion on their faces.

“Mama. Papa.”

They turned towards Inej as she called out to them. Her mother’s face was more wrinkled than it had been when she’d been taken. Her hair was still long and elegantly braided to the side. Her father’s beard was mixed with grays where it was once solid black. He was clutching his wife’s shoulder, eyes landing on his daughter for the first time in four years.

“Inej.” He didn’t say her name like Hanzi had. He said it with such certainty and conviction that it made Inej’s knees give out from under her.

Before her body could fully hit the ground, her parents’ arms were around her. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around her father’s waist.

“Esfir,” her mother whispered in her ear. Inej couldn’t describe the relief and joy that flooded through her at the word.

Esfir was Suli for ‘little star.’ Late at night, they used to tuck her under her covers with a kiss. Her mother used to say that Inej was her little star and her father would explain that she was their guiding light.

Inej didn’t know how long they sat in the damp grass, crying and hugging and whispering to each other.

“I’m home,” she would say.

“You’re home.” One of them would repeat.

“I prayed to all of the Saints that you would find your way home to us.” Her father said.

“They called us fools. Said that we would never see you again. They told us that you were taken too far for us to ever reach you again,” her mother cried.

“Never,” Inej promised. “I will never be too far to come back home. The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true. My heart is here.”

After some time, Inej realized that the rest of her family had come outside of the tent. Night had fallen and the crowd was now gone. Her older cousins looked as if Sankt Juris had come down to blow his blue flames. Disbelief filled their faces. Some of her younger cousins looked just as shocked, though less afraid of her. Inej also noticed the soft coos of the newest editions to her family. One toddler who must have born within the first year she was at the Menagerie. Two more who looked as though they came along while she was in service with the Dregs.

The Dregs. Kaz.

Inej pulled away from her parents, realizing who else she had forgotten about for the second time that night.

“Mama. Papa. I didn’t come here alone,” her words scratched against her throat. She hadn’t realized the tears had dried out her voice until that moment.

Inej turned around, knowing that Kaz would have waited as long as she needed him to. He still stood towards the edge of the trees. Inej called out to him in Kerch.

Kaz came forward, trying his best not to look like Dirtyhands under the cover of night with his crow’s head cane and thick gloves. Though he no longer needed them with her, Inej knew that he wasn’t ready to hug every member of her teary-eyed family.

Kaz stood beside her. Inej took his hand in hers and squeezed tightly.

“This is Kaz.” Inej had practiced this speech so many times in her head. She had carefully racked her brain for the proper words in Suli to say what she needed to say.

“Kaz and I...we have been through too many things together to explain in one night. Most of the last four years have been cruel and lonely. Kaz has been one of the few good things to come into my life since I was fourteen,” her words choked off. “I ask that you be kind to him and embrace him as a part of my life. He has saved it in many ways over the years. In some ways, it is thanks to him that I am here.”

Her father stood from where he was still crouched in the grass. He approached Kaz, looking more serious than Inej had ever seen him look in her life. He stood a few inches shorter than Kaz, but still managed to look down at him.

“Do you speak Suli?” Baraz asked him.

“No-” Inej was cut off by Kaz.

“Not fluently, but I am learning.” Kaz shocked her by responding in fluid Suli instead of Kerch. He gave her side-eyed look, clearly enjoying the shocked look on her face.

Her father nodded. “Then I can thank you properly. For helping my daughter return to us.”

Kaz bowed his head. “Inej is the wisest, most determined person I have ever met. She would have found her way back to you with or without me.”

Baraz laughed, “Esfir is just like her mother in that way. Nothing stands in the way of her and what she wants.”

Inej smiled in relief. “That is true. And right now, what I want is some stuffed peppers and goulash made the proper Suli way.”

Her mother laughed, standing to embrace Inej once again. “You can have whatever you would like, Inej.”

“My turn!” Hanzi called out from the cluster of cousins closest to her. Inej turned to find him now barreling towards her.

Inej froze for a second, not feeling entirely comfortable with the tight embrace. She tried her best to laugh through the rush of panic. It hadn’t even occurred to her until that moment how her homecoming would be full of physical touching that she wasn’t entirely ready for.

Her arms didn’t move from her sides, but at least she didn’t pull away until he did. Hanzi didn’t seem to register her tight shoulders.

“I can’t believe you’re really back, Inej! What took you so long? Adja has been driving me crazy. She thinks that she’s in charge now because she can do a handstand on the highwire, but now that you’re back, you can prove to her that you’re in charge. I even reminded her that you used to be able to do an entire double front routine on the high wire without a net.” While her older cousin may have gotten older, he still rambled half made up tales as though he hadn’t aged a day.

“I don’t even have the energy to explain how wrong that is,” Inej shook her head at her cousin’s infectious joy. Hanzi had always been one of her favorites because, no matter what, he could always tell some ridiculous story to make her laugh.

“First of all,” a female voice interjected, “I’ve been able to do a handstand on the high wire for years. Second, all I said was that you weren’t in charge, Hanzi.” Adja said from behind him. She was only two years younger than Inej, but she had been terrified of the high wire. While Inej had danced around it barefoot, Adja refused to step onto one.

“Come on, Nej. Remind Adja who the real master is!”

“No,” Calla stood in between her daughter and her nephew. “Inej has only been with us for a few minutes and already you are trying to get her in trouble,” her mother chided Hanzi.

Kaz chuckled from behind her. It was clear from his expression that, while he wasn’t able to understand all of their conversation, the sound of an upset mother seemed to be universally understood.

“Come, Esfir. We’re going to have a proper welcome dinner,” her mother nodded towards the rest of her family. “Disah and Remen, go to the Ivetan market…”

Inej allowed her mother to assign everyone their tasks while she looked back at Kaz. He was smiling, looking proud of her, but she couldn’t tell why.

“What?” she asked him in quiet Kerch.

“You didn’t pull away when he hugged you,” he truly looked proud of her. Inej looked towards Hanzi worriedly.

“No. I didn’t exactly hug him back.” It would have been a lie to act as though she wasn’t disappointed in her reaction to Hanzi’s embrace. It was an unexpected reality of what she had endured all those years ago. “Do you think they noticed?”

“He was too excited to have you back to notice,” Kaz shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is that you didn’t pull away. It wasn’t easy, but you did it, Inej. You’re home and your family couldn’t be more happy to see you.”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t even realized that her nervousness had started to creep up on her after Hanzi’s hug until now. For a while there, she had forgotten about all of her anxieties. Now that her family had split itself into their roles to prepare for her homecoming diner, she had a quiet moment to be reminded of them.

That was when Kaz, ever supportive and aware of how she was feeling, stepped in to ease her nerves. “Kaz, do you think I should tell them the truth?”

“You don’t owe anyone any explanations. You tell them as much as you want to. It’s your story to tell.”

Inej had known long before that night on the rooftop that she was in love with Kaz. She had known for quite some time. As she stared into his honest eyes, surrounded by the sounds of her family, Inej was reminded of how deep her love for Kaz Brekker went.

“What did I ever do for the Saints to bless me with you,” she wondered out loud.

It was hard to tell with the pale moonlight as her only source of light, but for a moment, Inej thought that she saw Kaz’s face blush. His gaze left her and landed on the starry Ravkan sky.

“I ask myself the same question about you every day that we are together, Inej.”

“Nej!” Adja yelled from the performance tent. “Masi Calla asked me to help you and your...friend...find new clothes.”

Inej looked down at her Suli dupatta. “What’s wrong with what we have on now?”

Adja eyed the Wraith and Dirtyhands with pursed lips. “You both look as though you’re going to a funeral. Tonight is a party, Nej. You need to be dressed in party clothes. Now let's go, Masi might cut the wire during our next performance if I don’t get you both dressed in time.”

Inej remembered how her mother used to fuss over her dirty silks when she came back inside from an afternoon spent playing outside. “You’re right. Mama would absolutely do something like that.”

“Where are we going?” Kaz asked her, keeping up with her hurried steps with his usual ease.

Inej glanced at him. “Oh, so you suddenly don’t speak Suli anymore?” They walked around the performance tent to the line of caravans far behind it.

Kaz smirked arrogantly. “I never said I did. Just that I was learning. You didn’t think that I was going to come and meet your entire family without at least attempting to familiarize myself with the language, did you? It’s not that difficult to memorize a few phrases here and there.”

She pushed him lightly with her shoulder. “How about on the boat? Were you faking then?”

Kaz shook his head. “Technically, I wasn’t faking. I know some words and phrases, but not everything. Not yet. Give me a few weeks with your family and I’ll be fluent.”

Inej rolled her eyes. “Not a chance, Brekker. My language is too poetic for a shevrati like you to con your way in that short amount of time. Memorizing a few parables is not the same thing as being able to use all the beautiful nuances we have.”

“It would be easier if I had some help from a beautiful and smart teacher.”

“You’re right. I think Hanzi would probably be willing to sign up.”

“It’s rude to speak in another language, you know,” Adja said from in front of them. The three of them finally stopped in front of Adja’s family caravan.

Kaz shot a glance at her cousin. Inej translated and he apologized in Suli.

“Not you,” Adja nodded towards Inej. “I meant Nej. She was always a quiet one, you know. At least you got her talking.”

Kaz nodded along pleasantly thought it was clear he didn’t understand. When Inej explained, his bitter coffee eyes looked amused.

“I wasn’t quiet, Adja. Hanzi was just usually screaming over me about nothing.”

Adja giggled and unlocked the door. “That is probably true. I was thinking, you should fit in my outfit from Sankta Day last year instead of just a normal dupatta. As for Ka-s,” she stumbled on his Kerch name, “He can borrow Papa’s performance kurta.”

Kaz looked somber, but didn’t argue. “Chaacha Micta used to make some interesting fashion choices,” Inej explained to him as her cousin went in search of the outfits.

“How so?”

Inej bit her lip, holding back laughter. “Let’s just say that he probably could take a few tips from Jesper.”

His eyes widened. “Inej-”

It was too late. Adja emerged from behind a curtain carrying multiple pieces of thick fabric. For Inej, she had a neatly folded Anarkali suit of rich burgundy. Sparkling gold embroidery lined the long, slightly flared skirt and traced the cuffs of the fitted sleeves. A light, white and gold wrap also came with the outfit. On top of it sat a pair of high heels that matched the wine-colored clothes. Inej took the clothes into her hands, feeling the soft yet firm fabrics that were saved for more festive clothing in her culture.

“It might be a little long for you,” Adja eyed Inej’s smaller frame. “But it will do.”

“Thank you, Adja.”

She shrugged off her cousin’s thanks. Her other hand still held Kaz’s outfit. He was standing dangerously still beside Inej. His face was blank of any reaction, but Inej could only imagine what was going through his head. While her outfit was designed with elegance and grace in mind, Kaz’s was made for a true showman. Or at least for a color blind one.

Chaacha Micta had a performance kurta that was radiant white with orange and green gems cascading down the sleeves. Sunset colored pants were folded to match the sparkling jewels. It was both bright and sparkly, two things Kaz hated in clothing.

“Dhanyavaad,” Kaz mimicked Inej’s Suli to thank Adja. Inej was reminded of how good of a liar he was because if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Kaz looked almost excited to wear her uncle’s kurta.

Adja beamed, looking between the two. “I don’t think Chaacha Baraz or Masi Calla would be okay with me leaving you two in here alone to change but…” Her cousin broke off and shrugged. “If you brought, Ka-s all the way here, I have to assume that it is not the first time you’ve been left alone.”

Heat flooded Inej’s cheeks. She couldn’t meet Adja’s eyes when she nodded. “It’s okay. Mama and Papa won’t know if you don’t tell.”

Adja continued to look between them. It was the same look Nina had given them before Inej had actually opened up about her relationship with Kaz. A look that said that Adja could see something they couldn’t. She was used to getting that look from her friends or other Dregs, but it was a little unnerving to see that look in the eyes of someone she hadn’t seen in years.

“Just don’t take too long. Chaacha and Masi will seriously cut the rope if they find out about this,” she pointed between Kaz and Inej. She swiftly ran out of the caravan, giggling at Inej’s eye roll.

Once she was out the door, Inej’s focus was back on Kaz. His polite smile dropped with Adja out of sight.

Kaz spoke seriously, “Inej, you know that I care for you deeply. More than anything in this world, I care for you.”

Warmth filled her heart, but her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Because I care for you, I want your family to like me.”

“I already told you-”

“Yes, I know. I’m wonderful. A trickster god amongst men. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?”

Kaz looked at her in disbelief. “Do you even have to ask me that question? This,” Kaz raised the clothes in his hands to meet her eye level. “I’ve never seen anything so…”

Laughter burst out from Inej. She quickly moved to cover her mouth with her hands, but there was no concealing the way her body shook from amusement.

“That is a traditional Suli kurta, Kaz. It’s an important part of my culture.”

He shook his head. “I have seen kurtas. This does not look like that. This looks like some nightmare Jesper and Nina would have designed.”

“Poor Dirtyhands is too insecure to wear something so dazzling,” Inej placed a hand on his cheek. She ran a finger down the sharp cut of his jawline. “I’m sure you’ll look great. Not as good as Chaacha would in it, but a close second.”

Kaz’s eyes held a playful fury. His ebony eyes only ever fixed on her that way. It was a look that promised both a punishment and sweet reward for her words.

“If the Dregs ever find out about this…”

A wicked smile broke onto her face. “I can’t imagine how they would. I keep all your secrets.”

“Don’t even think about telling them, Wraith.” One of Kaz’s arms found her waist.

“Jesper, on the other hand,” her fingers moved to run through his hair. “Jesper is a bit of a big mouth. If this somehow got to him, I don’t think there is any way of stopping him.”

“I can think of at least twelve different ways I could stop him with this kurta alone.” His face moved closer to hers.

Inej turned so his lips landed on her cheek. “No time for that, Brekker. We have to get dressed.”

He sighed and gave the bedazzled shirt a weary look. “If you ever doubt how I feel about you, Inej, just remember this moment.” Before she could respond, Kaz gestured towards the room Adja had gone into to find the clothes. “I’ll change in there.”

Time and time again, Kaz reminded her of why she fell for him in the first place. He had seen every part of her and touched almost all of her, yet Kaz never made assumptions about her limits. No matter how far they had or hadn’t gone, Kaz always asked for permission. On the nights when all she could do was hold his hand, he never pushed her to go further. Even now, after what had happened on the boat and having had met her family, Kaz gave Inej the privacy she needed without hesitation.

With Kaz gone from her sight, Inej was left to unstrap her daggers and quickly dressed into Adja’s Anarkali suit. After a few minutes, Inej stopped hearing Kaz’s quiet cursing.

“I’m almost ready.” She called to him through the curtain.

He shuffled around on his side of the caravan. “This looks even worse than I imagined.”

Inej ignored him, debating whether or not to strap on her beloved blades for the feast.

“Inej?”

“I’m almost ready, you can come out.”

Kaz had been right. The kurta had looked worse than she had imagined. The shirt hung at little too loose from his slight frame, but the pants were too short for his tall stature. They stopped just above his ankles, showing a peak of his white socks.

“Oh.” Inej cringed. “You were not joking.”

Kaz looked at her intently. “You look beautiful, Inej.”

Inej had yet to see herself in the mirror, but Kaz’s reaction was all she needed to confirm what she had already suspected. Adja was slim like Inej but stood a few inches over Inej . The rest of her outfit fit as it was tailored to. The top complimented her figure while the bottom flared out into an elegant skirt that pooled around Inej’s feet more than she would have normally allowed. It wasn’t perfect, but she loved it regardless.

“Traditionally, I would have special Sankta Day earrings that have some sort of token to represent a Saint.” Inej absentmindedly tugged at her ears. “Though, I haven’t worn any earrings since leaving the Menagerie.”

His look softened. Kaz forgot all about his unfortunate attire. “Would you like to? I’m sure Adja would let you borrow hers.”

“The holes have closed by now. It’s okay. I don’t need them. I have these.” She slid Sankt Petyr, the dagger he had given her so long ago, into place. She tried to ignore the fact that it took her far less time to strap all seven of her blades into place than it had to properly dress herself in the Sankta Day skirt.

“I’ll tell Adja we’re ready.”

“Wait,” Kaz’s fingers intertwined with hers. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a matingkia made of expensive gold and rich-colored stones. It was simple, as far as Suli headpieces went, with one clear diamond in the middle of a small ruby flower.

“Kaz,” Inej’s breath caught in her throat. “Where did you find this?” Her fingers curved delicately around the precious metal.

“A vendor in Ketterdam had a tent full of Suli jewelry. He has a Suli wife that makes all the items to sell.”

“Do you believe him?” It was more than possible that the vendor’s story was a ruse to get more money from gullible tourists visiting the island.

“I’ve met her.”

“You did?”

“Yes. When I asked her to make this one for you.”

The matingka felt heavier in her hand than it had moments ago. “You asked her to make this for me?” Inej tried to envision Dirtyhands entering a Kerch market to meet with an ederlly Suli woman. She thought of how long he must have spent picking the design, and then jewels to place in it.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered to him. “She’s clearly very talented.”

Kaz tried not to look too smug which was a change for him. “Only the best for my Wraith.”

“Sometimes we wear them for special holidays.” Inej debated whether or not to say the next part. She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by making any assumptions. “These are traditionally given to Suli women by their father or husbands.”

She saw him nod nervously. “I know. The woman, Gintha, explained to me the tradition. She said fathers would give them to their daughters and pray that the Saints would give them wisdom as they grew into strong women.”

“Did she tell you why husbands give them to their brides?” She couldn’t deny the fear or eagerness that she felt waiting for his answer.

“To symbolize the love and respect he promises to show her every day after they are wed. The same love and respect that I have felt for you every day for too many years to count.”

Inej’s body was frozen with emotion. Love. Kaz loved her. He didn’t just love her. He respected her. Respected her boundaries and dreams and goals.

“Nej! Are you done yet?” Adja suddenly banged against the door of the caravan.

The reality of her situation flooded back to Inej. For a few moments, she had forgotten who she was. Where she was. Inej took the head piece, not bothering to hide her flustered look as she pushed Kaz back behind the curtain.

“Get out of those clothes. Hurry!” Kaz laughed and she realized how her words sounded. “No! That’s not what I meant. I mean change back into yours! My family will just have to deal with your Kerch suit during dinner.”

She rushed back to the door and let Adja in. “I’m almost ready.”

Adja looked her up and down. “It fits better than I thought. And Ka-s?”

“The clothes didn’t fit him so he’s changing back into his. Here,” she handed Adja the matingka. “Can you help me put this on?”

“Did he give this to you?” she pointed towards the curtain.

“Yes. Now help me put it on. I’ve never put one on myself. Papa only ever put it on me once.”

Adja waved her off. “It’s easy.” She spun Inej around and took a few hair pins from her own brown hair to fasten it into place. “There! Done! Just in time.”

Kaz walked into the room, looking much less miserable now that he was dressed in his own clothes.

“Tell her that her father’s wardrobe should be burned.”

“He says that he loved the kurta and is sorry that it didn’t fit,” Inej easily lied. “Also your tie is crooked again.”

He cursed under his breath and nervously put into place as her cousin spoke.

Adja beamed at her. “I don’t believe that’s true, but it doesn’t matter. Come on! Everyone is waiting for you.”

Inej’s stomach turned over nervously. She had been so overcome with emotions when she’d first greeted her family. Those emotions were starting to settle, but in their place grew the seeds of anxiety once again.

Inej and Kaz trailed behind Adja as they made their way back from the caravan section of their carnival to the performance area. Inej looked around the cool night air, keeping track of all the things that looked familiar and different at the same time.

She pointed to a smaller performance tent made of a thick white sheet. “What’s that?” she asked Adja.

“We started to tour with a second family about two years ago. Hanzi is engaged to the daughter of their paira vaala.” A breeze opened the flap of the white tent and Inej could see the bed of coals used for the paira vaala, or fire walker.

“Hanzi’s getting married?” Inej couldn’t imagine her cousin as she had last known him having a fiancé. He was always too loud and playful when around his family, but unearthly quiet around other girls their age.

“I know! We were all just as surprised as you were. Chaacha Jilē almost fainted.”

“He didn’t tell them that he was seeing her?” Inej’s surprise only grew. While she may not have gotten her parents’ permission before choosing to be with Kaz, her situation hadn’t given the option of choosing the favored Suli traditions.

“He didn’t even tell me! And I’m his favorite bhara. At least I have been since you…” Left? Were taken? Disappeared? Inej could hear the end of Adja’s sentence even if her cousin didn’t want to fill it in.

“I remember that,” Inej awkwardly filled the silence. She pointed to a section of tents reserved for carnival games. “Kila,” one of their older cousins, “once bet me thirteen kruge that I couldn’t win every game in the tent.”

“Kroog?” It wasn’t until the word left Adja’s mouth that Inej realized that she’d forgotten the Suli word for currency or money. It was such a small thing to forget, but it made her stop in her tracks.

“I-” she started to explain. “I’m sorry. I guess I just haven’t used that word in Suli in a few years. Uhm,” Inej racked her brain, digging deep into her memories to find the right word.

“What’s wrong?” Kaz, who had been silently listening to their conversation, spoke up. He couldn’t understand them, but he could see Inej’s face change. “I think I heard you say ‘kruge.’”

She shook her head, momentarily confused as Suli and Kerch collided with each other in her head. Rupe. The word finally came to her in a blunt memory. “I forgot the Suli word for money,” she said to him in Kerch and then explained it to her cousin again.

“Oh!” Adja didn’t seem fazed by her cousin’s slip up. “Kila was such a gambler. A terrible one too. Though I guess he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore. He married a wealthy Shu family. How he wiggled his way into that, I have no idea.”

Inej nodded along as Adja rambled. She was no longer listening to her cousin’s end of the conversation. Instead, she began filing through the mental dictionary in her brain. What other words had she forgotten?

Bread? Roti. Butterfly? Titali. Bowl? Katora. Horse? Ghora. Ocean? Samudara.

Random words were tossed and turned in her head. Adja continued to talk about their uncles and aunts. She went through family gossip as quickly as Nina went through maple-drizzled waffles. Inej didn’t hear any of it. All she could hear was the sound of her Suli-Kerch dictionary flipping page after page.

Torsion wrench? What was the Suli word for the little tool she had used numerous times to pick a lock? Had she ever known the word? Had she ever needed to use that word in her native language before? Would she even need to say torsion wrench during dinner tonight?

Ketterdam isn’t all that bad. At least I learned how to pick locks using a torsion wrench.

No, there was no way she could even imagine herself saying something like that to her family. Inej realized that she had let her nerves run a little too wild. Adja hadn’t even noticed when she said “kruge” instead of “rupe”. The odds of her family being upset with her for not remembering a word here and there were small.

Kaz tugged on the fabric of her skirt, drawing her attention to him once again. His dark eyes met hers, silently asking her once again if she was okay. This time she didn’t have to force a smile on her face to reassure him.

“How did Mama put together a dinner so quickly?” Inej said the moment the smell of paprika, garlic and bell peppers hit her. They had circled back around to the performance tent. Instead of it holding a crowd of entertained Ravkans, tonight, the tent would be used to spread out a Saints-worthy feast.

Adja beamed at her. “Masi Calla asked all of our masis and chaachas that were cooking dinner for after the show to add extra coals to the fires. Some of the food had to be bought from the markets so it won’t be exactly like you’re used to, but it’s all that we could get together so quickly.”

“It’s perfect. You could have fed me rocks and I would have been just as happy to be home.”

The heavy tent flaps were pulled wide open and she could see dark-haired figures moving frantically around the tent. The round seats used for audience members were stacked on top of each other. Inej remembered how long it took to carry the iron seats from the caravans to place them in their rows. She had been too small to carry them herself, so she would hold the bottom half of a stack while Hanzi carried the brunt of the weight.

The high ropes were still strung up from their looming poles. She itched to climb up and test her technique. The chaacha who had first taught her how to balance was strict about proper posture. Though she had no real use for it when sleuthing for the Dregs, she could still hear his sharp calls to straighten her spine or keep her gaze forward.

“Make room! Inej the Great has entered the tent!” Hanzi exclaimed. His voice cut through the flurry of her family’s movement. Inej realized why her uncle had stepped down to let Hanzi handle the crowds. His deep voice was effective when it came to getting a crowd’s attention.

Toffee and hazel eyes all met hers. All of her family, almost twice as many as earlier, froze where they were to stare at her and Kaz. His gloved fingers curved in hers, but no one seemed to care at that gesture as much as they cared about the dazzling headpiece sparkling in the candlelight. Her parents had tears in their eyes as if it was the first time they were seeing her again. Inej had to hold back tears of her own. She saw the circle of food splayed out around the lush carpets dragged from Saints know where to cushion the hard ground.

Sarma, stuffed peppers, bogacha, and xaimoko were still in their metallic cooking pots, steaming as if the fire had just been dosed from under them. Pirogo and xaritsa sat in porcelain crockery that Inej suspected came from the Ivetan market her cousin had mentioned. Silver kettles of chao filled the room with a lingering sweet smell. Dark cups of kafa were already served and in the hands of some to her cousins.

The meal flooded her with too many memories to catch at once. She was swimming in a stream of random memories. Her tongue burning from spicy stuffed peppers and then from chugging a fresh cup of chao in a vain attempt to ease the sting. Mama teaching her how to prepare the sarma properly. Papa stiring a pot of goulash.

“Why are you just standing there? Come! Sit!” Papa gestured to a spot right in front of Inej’s favorite platter.

She blinked back tears. No more tears. Tonight was for celebrating all that she had come back to, not for mourning the years she had lost.

“Some of it had to be bought so it won’t taste exactly like you remember but-” Her mother rushed to her side, holding her daughter’s hand and pulling her and Kaz towards her father.

“Mama, I don’t care how the food tastes. This is already so much more than I could ask for. Just being with you and Papa and everyone else is enough for me.”

Her mother’s dark brows furrowed. She took great pride in her cooking, as a Suli should. “Yes, yes, but still...If you had sent us some sort of message so we could have been prepared, the food would have all been ready. We would have canceled the show much sooner. But no, leave it to our little Esfir to show up as if the Saints had let her fall from their very sky at random.” The novelty of Inej’s arrival was definitely wearing off if her mother was already scolding her.

She laughed despite her mother’s pointed words. Inej settled in her seat comfortably. Kaz sat beside her, looking so out of place in this bright colored tent surrounded by equally colorful kurtas. She couldn’t believe the sight in front of her. Kaz Brekker being handed a steaming cup of chao in his crisp, black suit.

Her own hands were already clutching a plate overflowing with food. Her father had served her heaping spoonfuls of every dish that sat before her. He paused, looking at Kaz curiously.

“Eh...food?” Her father surprised her with the Kerch word. She hadn’t known he spoke any Kerch.

Kaz nodded, “Krpya.”

Her father looked excited by his answer. He piled almost as much food on his plate as he had on hers. Kaz was excellent at hiding his emotions, but there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes. He took the plate with open arms. Everyone, including Inej, watched as Kaz lifted a fork to take a scoop of the rice-stuffed green pepper. He didn’t even flinch at what she could assume to be the spiciest bite of food he’d ever had. He chewed slowly, ignoring the flush that creeped up his neck. Judging from the smell, her family hadn’t held back when it came to spices that night. Finally he smiled, thanking her father for the food.

That seemed to be the cue her family had been waiting for. Everyone unfroze and went for a plate.

Kaz waited until they were no longer staring at him to reach for the tea. She had to bite back a laugh as he gulped down the entire cup.

“Spicy?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

Kaz looked at her as if she had grown an extra ear. “Spicy? Inej, I thought I was going to die.”

This time she couldn’t hold back the laugh. Everything about the night filled her with so much joy and laughter that Inej had to put down her food for a second. Her stomach burned from the giggles that shook her body. Kaz was actually blushing as her cousins closests to her looked at them.

“Kaz said the food almost killed him.” She explained to them. “The Kerch prefer their food much less seasoned. Mostly a hint of salt and pepper. It’s actually very sad.”

All of them broke out into smiles.

Her mother who was still standing behind them said, “Tell Ka-s that he’ll have to get used to real food if he’s decided to stay with you.” She placed a hand on Kaz’s shoulder affectionately.

Kaz, clearly not expecting the sudden touch, went still. His body tensed beneath the touch and his jaw tightened. Her mother noticed the change in his posture and jerked her hand back. She looked at her daughter quickly, but Inej could see the hurt and confusion in her eyes even if it was just for a second.

“It’s not you, Mama.” She rushed to explain for Kaz. His eyes had dropped to the plate resting on his lap.

“I told you that our life in Ketterdam wasn’t easy.” She tried to find a way of explaining without revealing too much of Kaz’s past. “He isn’t used to people touching him unless they’re trying to hurt him. Give him time, Mama.” That part was at least true.

Her mother nodded, looking apologetic but no less confused. This time she was looking at the visible scars along Inej’s arms. Her cousin’s outfit didn’t hide them the way her earlier outfit had.

Hanzi, who was watching the whole exchange from across the tent, spoke out. “What was it like, Nej? In Ketterdam?”

His father, Chaacha Jilé, used a serving spoon to give him a hard tap on the head. “Hanzi!”

“What? We were all thinking it!”

His father shook his head. “You know better than to ask that kind of question.”

“It’s okay.” Inej cut in before her uncle could use the spoon again. “Hanzi is right. You all want to know what happened. I don’t blame you.”

“See!” Hanzi pointed a vindicated finger towards Inej.

“Hush!” His father waved the spoon in front of his son.

She bit back a smile and continued. Inej looked at Kaz. His rigid spine loosened a bit, but he still looked a bit on edge. “I’m going to tell them.”

A small smile tugged on his mouth. “You know I support whatever decision you make.”

It was all the encouragement she needed. “Mama, Papa, you may want to sit down. It’s a long story and most of it isn’t pleasant.”

Her mother worriedly sat beside her. Her father put an arm around her shoulders, physically supporting his wife in the same way Kaz had just supported her.

“I was taken by slavers. They broke in and took me just as the sun had started to rise. They brought me to Ketterdam, where I was sold to a heartless woman who made me do unspeakable things for terrible men. Kaz worked for a group of young men trying to build a new business and went to meet with the woman at the request of his boss. I realized I could escape with his help, so I offered him my skills as an acrobat. He agreed to employ me legally and without having to do any of the things that I was doing there. He taught me how to defend myself. I worked as his spy and I was good at it.

“Ketterdam… it can be an ugly place that brings the ugliness out of even the best people. I’ve done things I pray the Saints will one day forgive me for; but I’m not the same girl I was when I was taken. If I was, I don’t think I would have made it through the first night in that city. I will never be that girl again, no matter how hard I try. And I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.

“I was able to eventually afford a ship and a crew to run it. Now, I'm the captain of a crew of people dedicated to keeping other people from having to go through what I went through. I hope that the work I do at sea can help weaken any shadows I have created during my years in Ketterdam.”

Inej had, of course, changed a few details in her story. There was no way she was going to tell her entire family that the “business” Kaz was running was actually a deadly street gang. She was also never going to explain to them exactly how good at her job she had gotten. They would never understand the things she had done. In fact, if they could see the crimson stains on her hands, they’d probably be so repulsed that they would kick her out on the spot.

Her mother was crying again. Her father looked heartbroken as if all of his worst fears had come true.

“Inej…” Adja spoke first. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Inej was surprised to realize that she wasn’t in tears as she feared she would have been. “It’s not your fault.” She looked at her parents, realizing that they must have carried some guilt with her disappearance just as she carried the shame of the things she had done.

“Nor is it yours. We couldn’t have known those slavers were going to break into our home. You two did everything you were supposed to. When things were at their worst, I could hear your voices teaching me how to pray to the Saints. I was able to survive so long because I always carried the hope you taught me to hold on to. The hope that I would one day return to you.”

Her father looked furiously stubborn as he said, “And you have. You are home, Inej. That’s all that matters. We don’t care what you had to do to get here. As long as you are here with us again.”

“The Saints don’t punish actions done to survive.” Her mother agreed. “You don’t need to ask them or us for forgiveness. Forgiveness is earned, Inej, and you have been through more than enough to deserve it. We know you. We know you have a good heart. We love who you are now because it brought you back to us.”

“You will always be our esfir.” Her father held his daughter's trembling hands.

Those words were like the first bite of bread after a year long fast. Inej hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them, or how much it would mean to hear them from her parents. Her father’s touch didn’t wipe away any of the blood on her hands nor did it take away the dark memories she would always carry. But it did make her feel hopeful for the future. For so long she feared that she could never return home; she feared her family would reject the woman she was sharpened into. Her parents didn’t look like they were ready to throw her out. In fact, they looked like they were ready to hold her tighter than ever.

“Wait a second,” Hanzi once again drew all the attention in the room back to him. “You said you were a spy and now a ship captain?”

Inej wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “Yes.”

“And that Ka-s...runs a business?”

“Yes, Hanzi.”

He looked suspiciously between Kaz and Inej. Then at the leather gloves and silver crow’s head of his cane. His jaw dropped. “Inej, you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

She bit her lip, unsure of how to answer.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Kaz’s gravelly voice was full of pride at being recognized.

“Don’t look so smug. I don’t think he recognized you until I said that I was a ship captain.”

“INEJ!”

She turned back to Hanzi. He was almost buzzing with excitement to hear her answer. “Are you who I think you are? Is he who I think he is?”

Her mother narrowed her eyes at her nephew.“Inej is whoever she wants to be. As for Ka-s, he’s Inej’s...”

Inej looked to Kaz for the answer. They had never felt the need to use a word to explain their relationship. Everyone on their tiny stretch of an island knew better than to question Dirtyhands or the Wraith. Their friends didn’t need an explanation. What she shared with Kaz went deeper than anything she could describe.

“What?”

“They want to know what you are to me.”

“Then tell them.”

“What do you want me to tell them?”

“What do you want to tell them?”

“That you’re the person I love most in this world.”

His smile was blinding. “I’m more than okay with that answer.”

“Kaz is my heart.”

Adja cooed, clutching her heart. Her mother looked approvingly at Kaz. Her father looked relieved by the answer. Hanzi still looked unsatisfied by it.

“Why are you all just staring at us? Let’s eat!” She mimicked her father’s earlier remark. The silence was once again filled with her family’s celebratory cheers.

“Thank you for coming with me. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Kaz looked smug. “I love you.”

Inej smiled, looking around the circle of happiness brought together by a bond that went deeper than blood. “I love you, too.”

A/N Pt 2: Hi hello! If you happened to have read this before January 2, 2020 then you might remember that there used to be a long paragraph at the end of this fic where I acknowledged all of the cultures that I read about as inspiration to flesh out the Suli culture in this fic. Welp, because Tumblr enjoys to make life difficult, it actually decided to erase the entirety of this fic, leaving only the title. Why? I have no idea!!!! But that means I had to do everything and luckily I had all of the fic saved except for this second A/N bc I added it in right before uploading. While I’m incredibly annoyed by Tumblr glitch and am not able to fully write the original acknowledgment, I still want to give add a smaller version of the previous one.

All of cultures I drew from for this fic can be found listed here. The Suli language was a modified mixture of Hindi and Punjabi. The foods are mostly Romani in origin. The names are a mixture of Turkish, Hindi, Romani, and Slavic names. The clothing have all been specifically named. The head piece Inej wore was directly inspired by a South Asian maang tikka however out of respect for this real cultural practice, I changed the name/origin for the fic. Any parables/customs/religious beliefs explained in the fic are completely fictional that were either pulled directly from the SOC series or made up for this fic. Any connection/similarities to real cultural practices are completely coincidental unless I specifically said so. I believe that was everything important that I had in the original acknowledgment. I’m so sorry if anything was left out. If you do feel that I forgot to mention anything in this rewritten version, please let me know and I’ll do my best to fix it immediately! 

[douchebagbrainwaves]

EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THOUGHT

Sure, running your own. But if you come out of that seventh. As far as I know, Viaweb was the first Web-based application, and it frees conscious thought for the hard problems. A real hacker's language will always have a slightly raffish character. And when my friend Trevor showed up at my house recently, he was not a tenth as motivated as the startup. The best case, for most people the latter is merely the optimal case of the Milanese Leonardo. If you use a fixed size round as a legitimate-seeming way of saying what all founders hate to hear: I'll invest if other people will read forces you to think well. Lisp's use as an extension language in programs like Emacs; and reading at runtime enables programs to communicate using s-expressions. You don't need to know the type of company you're starting, so long as you're profitable. It's a tossup whether Castro Street or University Ave should be considered the heart of the Valley now. What a wonderful thing, to be able to deal with this phenomenon.

This extra cost buys you flexibility. But I don't think the amount of bullshit you have to do a similar sort of filtering on new things they hear about. When you get a termsheet. Fixed-size series A rounds already are high res. An essay is something else. Those hours after the phone stops ringing are by far the best for getting work done. Many things people like, especially if they're young and ambitious, they like largely for the feeling of virtue in liking them. Trade shows didn't pay as a way to evade the grip of fashion. And limitations of humans.

Then the startup and the lead would cooperate to find the city where you feel at home to know what languages will be like the past in caring nothing for present fashions. Any financial advisor who put all his client's assets in the stock of a single person to be any good. It's now possible for VCs and startups to diverge. Or functional, or whatever, but about how to make money from it, it offered the highest ratio of income to boringness of anything I'd done, by orders of magnitude more possibilities than their competitors, who apparently are still using mainframe-era programming techniques. I'm not sure if it's their position of power that makes them this way, or the pointy-haired boss is, right? Yes, the price to earnings ratio is kind of high, but I don't think publishers can learn much from software. There is a lesson here for filter writers: don't ignore data. Our angels asked for one, or c yourself become a human compiler for one. If a company considers itself to be in the software department, we would have the new feature too. They're confident enough to take on ambitious projects. Even now there is too much money chasing too few good deals. Skyline the dominant trees are huge redwoods, and in retrospect it was a good time to have ideas.

The archaeological work being mostly done, it implied that those studying the classics were, if not wasting their time, at least, that was what had happened to the language. But Durer's engravings and Saarinen's womb chair and the Pantheon and the original Porsche 911 all seem to me a different kind of error. The simplest answer is to put them in a row. Lexical closures, introduced by Lisp in about 1960, is now widely considered to be improper. It would not be surprised if by streamlining their selection process and taking fewer board seats, VC funds could do 2 to 3 times as many people alive in the US, of ambitious people who grew the ladder under them instead of climbing it. In the meantime I tried my best to imitate them. You are whatever you wrote. If angels are so important, why do you need to be done in this area. With OS X, the hackers are back. A friend of mine once told an eminent operating systems expert that he wanted students who were not just good technicians, but who could use their technical knowledge to design beautiful things.

One is that investors will increasingly be the fate of anyone who wants to succeed. Design your product to please users first, and then suddenly seeing the answer a bit later while doing something else. Even if you sent a crawler to the site, you wouldn't find a smoking statistical gun. VCs won't trust you, and merely to call it. Surely 1998 was a little late to arrive at the party. If you want to invest large amounts, and a programming language rather than, say, making the language strongly typed. At any given time. I got three false positives. There are two possible problems with prefix notation. You have to make sacrifices to live there. For example, a lot of startups, they think of companies like Apple or Google.

The hands were moved by little servomotors that made a slight noise when they turned. Of course, I'm making a big assumption in even asking what programming languages will there be in a place where there are a lot of maximally interesting tokens, meaning those with probabilities far from. Patterns to be embroidered on tapestries were drawn on paper with ink wash. There will of course be some founders who wouldn't like that idea: the ones who were smart enough it would seem the most natural way of distributing your content, it probably doesn't work to stick to old forms of distribution just because you make more that way. If you want to be in a great city: you need the encouragement of feeling that people around you. Silicon Valley. To write good software you must simultaneously keep two opposing ideas in your head. 9999 To free 0. Fortran doesn't have enough data types.

Fred Brooks described this phenomenon in his famous book The Mythical Man-Month, and everything else is a token separator. Not everything in Simula is an object. Investors may end up with a remotely plausible story, you can only control it indirectly. Network-level filters won't be completely useless. Whereas angels are rarely in direct competition, because a they do fewer deals, b they're happy to split them, and I don't understand x well enough. Then in the mid 1950s it was engulfed in a wave of suburbia that raced down the peninsula. The same is true for other languages too. She's trying to get the company to become valuable, and the odds of finding programmers, libraries, etc. And notice the beautiful mountains to the west? Consider libraries: they're reusable because they're language, whether they're written in an object instead of the head of a list and cdr means the rest. In a wave of suburbia that raced down the peninsula.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: Love Language, ch. 4

Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Kagami Tsurugi, Sabine Cheng/Tom Dupain

Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Kagami Tsurugi, Tikki, Tom Dupain, Tomoe Tsurugi, Sabine Cheng, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Kitty Section,  Jagged Stone, Penny Rolling, Clara Nightingale, Alec Cataldi, Nadja Chamack, Fang, XY, Lila Rossi

Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Language of Flowers, Gifts, Traditions, Holidays, Cultural Differences, Kimono, Qipao, Family, Love, Romance, Celebrations, Symbolism, Aged-Up Character(s), Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Christmas Fluff, Identity Reveal, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Family Dinners, Airports, feeding each other, sharing ceremony, Anxiety, Engagement, Kissing, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Admiration, Pet Names, Cuddling & Snuggling, yin and yang, Communication, Smut, Food Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Bathing/Washing, Kagami is a boob woman, Nudity, Instagram, Social Media, Sleeping Together, Wedding Planning, Wedding Rings, Lila salt, relationship goals, Alec Cataldi salt

Summary: Kagami prepares for Marinette's return from battling an Akuma in cold weather. She reminisces on early stages of their relationship. Wedding planning.

Notes: As I was writing this chapter, I abruptly realized that this is part of the “Catch a Falling Star” series. Obviously, more fics take place between then and this one, but it’s in the same ‘universe’ as it were. These two are just so much fun. Also, thanks to @gullwhacker for the awesome idea for Penny and Jagged's joint account name.

AO3 link (ch. 3 has smut)

FFN link (ch. 3 has implied sex)

Part 5 (currently) of the Catch a Falling Star series

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Love Language: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

-----------

Kagami put together preparations for Marinette’s return, and was glad she’d had the foresight: Marinette’s favorite tea perfectly steeped and kept at the appropriate temperature, macarons she stole down to the kitchen to procure, and she changed the sheets on the bed to a soft fleece, under which she put a heated mattress pad, turned on and ready to go. Under the blankets, warmed by the pad, she had a robe waiting.

For Tikki, she put together a sort of bed—a pillow with a heating pad under the fleece pillowcase, and a second fleece pillowcase as a blanket, warm and waiting.

So when Marinette returned a couple hours later, she was ready, able to wrap her in the warm robe immediately after she detransformed, able to press the hot tea into her shivering hands, able to give Tikki a macaron to recharge, to show her the warm ‘bed.’

Tikki, immediately after consuming the macaron, burrowed under her blanket with a contented sigh. Marinette summarized the fight, which had featured a shapeshifting Akuma. After recharging in the cold, she had informed Chat of her engagement and the need to defeat Hawkmoth before she could have the wedding. Chat had enthusiastically congratulated her, agreeing it was beyond time to defeat Hawkmoth.

The fondness in Marinette’s voice for her partner made Kagami smile; once Chat had grown a little and stopped pursuing her romantically, their relationship had strengthened into an easy friendship. Marinette hadn’t shared too many details on that yet—she was still acclimating to Kagami’s knowledge of her Ladybug identity—but oddly enough it seemed, of all people, Lila Rossi had enabled them to get to that point. It was probably her one decent act in her life, and it had been accidental.

Once the tea was finished, Kagami stripped her of her chilled and slightly damp clothing and bundled her off into bed, reveling in the Tikki-mirroring contented sigh Marinette made at being enveloped in the warmth after being out in the cold. Even transformed, the cold seeped in, and having to recharge hadn’t helped.

Marinette pressed against her under the blankets, and Kagami was glad to feel the remaining cold giving way to a luxurious warmth that eased them both to sleep.

Kagami was happy to wake before her; watching Marinette sleep was almost meditative, especially when she was able to ease Marinette to use her shoulder as a pillow, curling around her soft body. She was content to let her sleep—though many thought Marinette slept too much, the truth was she didn’t, often burning her candle at both ends and never truly recovering energy spent on Akuma battles.

She only left the bed, pulling on a robe, at a soft knock on the door. She found a servant carrying covered breakfast trays, and their rings in separate velvet boxes. The servant placed them on Kagami’s table and departed.

Marinette stirred, presumably at the scent, and Kagami sat next to her on the bed, petting her hair. As loathe as she was to wake her, she knew food was necessary, as the battle had expended much of the energy she had gotten from the meals the previous day. Well, as had their activities prior.

“Hey,” Marinette murmured sleepily.

“Hey yourself,” Kagami replied, getting an amused snort in return. “It’s nearly 10:30. Mother seems to have expected we would sleep late. Breakfast has only just arrived.”

Marinette stretched, one breast peeking briefly out from beneath the blanket as she did, before sitting up. Kagami almost regretted getting her comfortable with nudity.

Almost.

She handed Marinette the silk robe she kept in her room for her, pale pink with embroidered cherry branches thick with blossoms, which also fell lazily under them. It had been the start of the war of symbols that had culminated in last night, and perhaps would continue on through the wedding and even beyond.

She had given it to her the first night she’d spent here as Kagami’s official girlfriend. They’d had sleepovers as friends before, but this occasion had been the first since Marinette had shyly agreed to try dating her, when she was still too self-conscious to bathe with Kagami outside a swimsuit.

When Marinette saw the silk robe Kagami held out to her, she’d hesitated to take it.

“My wet suit will ruin it,” she’d protested.

“I’ll simply buy you another,” Kagami had retorted.

A spark had entered her love’s eyes then, one she recognized now as stubbornness. And without a word and with not a hint of shyness, Marinette had stripped off her bikini, quickly dried the remaining water on the enticing expanse of skin that had been revealed. Only then had she taken the robe.

But not to put it on.

No, she had stood there in all her glory, examining the fabric and stitching, oohing and aahing over the quality.

It had been a delightful torture.

“Do you know what cherry blossoms symbolize in Japan?” Kagami had finally asked.

Marinette hadn’t even glanced up. “In China they symbolize beauty and the power of feminine sexuality.”

Kagami’s breath had caught at that.

A mischievous little smile teased the corners of Marinette’s mouth. “And love, of course.”

This was the girl she loved and fell more deeply in love with every day.

She’d explained the Japanese—or really, Buddhist—idea of the ephemerality of life as represented by the sakura, as well as the way it symbolizes renewal—the coming of spring after a long winter.

And how Marinette had come to represent renewal to her. Then she’d leaned in to kiss her cheek, the corners of their lips just grazing.

Marinette, her face pink, had abruptly realized she stood naked before Kagami at that point. She’d quickly donned the robe and tied it shut.

Now, Marinette took the robe and put it on but left it open, almost an invitation, as she sat at the kotatsu.

Before they considered the trays, Kagami opened the velvet boxes, finding Marinette’s ring in the first she opened. She carefully eased it from the slot and took her hand, sliding it on. The happy flush on Marinette’s face was pure beauty in her eyes. Her brilliant blue eyes were misted as she gazed at the ring on her hand, at their intwined fingers.

Marinette took the other box, easing her hand from Kagami’s, and mirrored her motions, entwining their fingers again when she was done, the rings beside one another on their hands.

It was picture perfect, but neither of them reached for their phones, instead focused on each other, their knees brushing under the warm kotatsu.

“Mari-tō,” Kagami finally murmured, “you need to eat. You need the calories after the battle last night. And I confess to being rather hungry myself.”

Marinette giggled, sounding as young as she had when they’d met, the sound almost self-conscious. “Of course, mon beignet. I’m so hungry I could eat you.”

Heat rose to Kagami’s cheeks at the suggestion. “I certainly would enjoy that… but after you’ve had breakfast, ma mandarine.”

A blush rose to Marinette’s cheeks, and she knew her fiancée was remembering what they had done the night before. If that pet name garnered that reaction, she’d absolutely be using it more often.

One of her favorite things about their relationship was that everything had become a friendly and sometimes erotic competition, from the symbolism war to the development of pet names. Kagami was absolutely never bored with Marinette, and was always intellectually stimulated by her quick wit.

Marinette reluctantly let go of Kagami’s hand to remove the covers from the trays in front of them. Both trays had a Japanese breakfast featuring oyakodon, tamagoyaki cut into thick slices with thin wedges of avocado between each, and a variety of side dishes, as well as fruit and some pastries. Marinette’s tray was absent of natto, which she had tried early on and determined she was not a fan of, but the rest of the dishes were all ones she had tried and the cook knew she enjoyed. The pastries were obviously fresh from Tom and Sabine’s bakery, likely picked up on the way home from the jeweler.

They said nothing more, focusing on eating until all that was left on their trays was the fruit and some of the pastries, which Kagami knew from experience they would snack on the rest of the morning.

Only then did Kagami pull their phones over from the other side of the kotatsu where they were charging, unplugging them. She handed Marinette hers.

“Shall we check what has been said on social media?” she asked with a smile.

Marinette grinned in answer and unlocked her phone, calling up her Instagram. “Hundreds of notifs. You?”

“About a thousand, but it seems many of those are Adrien tagging us on posts that include pictures and video other people took at the airport.”

They leaned closer so they could see each other’s screens as they scrolled through.

adrienagrestebrand: The videos seriously made me tear up. Beautiful! You look so happy.

alya.ladyblogger: I’m with Adrien. Holy cow, you two take romance to a whole new level! #ninoneedsaninstagram says he’s up for DJing if you want.

kittysection.band: Rose actually cried watching. Looking forward to the nuptials!

More of Marinette’s classmates offered congratulations as well, including those in other classes at Collège Françoise Dupont.

jaggedrocks.official: Congrats! I look forward to meeting my niece-in-law! I’m totally writing a song for the reception!

Marinette was sent into a giggle-fit at Jagged’s reply. Kagami stared at her, not certain whether her mother would be pleased with the rock star providing the music at the event.

“Remember, it’s our wedding, not anyone else’s. I’d love him to play a few songs,” Marinette said finally when she saw Kagami’s expression. “But I think just a few. Maybe have Kitty Section play one or two. Maybe let Nino DJ a couple songs, too. But otherwise, we’ll decide what we want music-wise.”

Right under Jagged’s comment was one by rockncrocsitter, which Marinette explained was Penny Rolling’s personal account. We’ll get in touch for deets - in Paris in 2wks. Lovely proposal!

gathersnomoss: Our favorite designer @marinettedesigned has gotten engaged to her lady love! Gonna be a rockin wedding!

That was their joint account, as it turned out. The next one was Clara Nightingale’s personal account, though it was followed immediately by her professional one.

singsweetnightingale: Like Jagged, a song I shall write - I hope to receive a wedding invite!

clara.nightingale: The engagement of a muse, such incredible news!

That made four possible musicians.

“You don’t know any other musicians, I hope,” Kagami said with a soft laugh.

Marinette grinned. “Well, XY, but ew. Plus he’s a plagiarist, not a real musician.”

They were in absolute agreement on that.

Some responses, unfortunately and predictably, were racist and/or homophobic. They reported those comments and blocked the offenders, as engaging with them was a waste of energy. Kagami wouldn’t let mediocre trolls touch the wonderful mood they were in.

They also had replies from reporters. Alec Cataldi’s was particularly obnoxious, largely because he posted requests for an interview every couple hours like the desperate wash-up he was. Regardless, with his penchant for ridiculing his guests, Kagami had no intention of being interviewed by him. Nadja Chamack had privately messaged her congratulations to Marinette, and asked if she and Kagami would be making a public statement; much more professional.

Marinette found one that made her laugh for over a minute; only then was she able to tell Kagami it was the account Jagged had made for Fang.

rockincroc: I’m ring bearer, yeah?

“Mother would be appalled.” Kagami laughed. “Let’s put it on the maybe list.”

Marinette left the kotatsu just long enough to grab a sketchbook from her bag, and they spent a pleasant several hours fleshing out wedding possibilities.

[katymacsupernatural]

The Knight of Your Dreams Chapter 3

Knight Dean x Reader 

1440 Words

Story Summary:  Y/N is magically transported through time, falling into the arms of Dean, a knight in the Medieval Ages. Can she make it back home, or will Dean have caught her heart?

Catch Up Here: Masterpost

You shouldn't have told Dean that you would meet him in a couple of moments, you thought to yourself as you stared at the clothes laid out on the bed.

They were the stuff Historians dreams were made out of. A part of you wanted to take as many notes as possible on the type of fabric, the style. Things that people have only speculated about.

"Where's the underwear?" You asked, staring at the various pieces of clothing, seeing nothing that resembled underwear.

"What is this underwear you speak of?" Mildred asked. "I do have your undergarments if that is it."

You nodded, deciding it would be best to let Mildred take over. She picked up a long cotton shift shifts, the material softer than you had imagined. The sleeves were long and loose, the bodice and skirt hung in a long, shapeless rectangle.

Once she had that over your head, she picked up a pair of thick cloth shorts with a drawstring. Stepping into them, you realized they would be as close to underwear as you were going to get.

The overskirt was next. A deep maroon, beautiful. It was very heavy wool, expertly handmaid. The sleeves were shorter than the shifts, the bodice very tight and low cut. The skirt flared about you, brushing the floor.

"You look beautiful in that color M'lady," Mildred gushed. 

"Thank you, you answered feeling like a princess in the getup.

A pair of flats were next, with thick leather laces. Your feet were almost too big for them, your toes brushed the end, but you would rather wear them then walk around barefoot.

Mildred guided you to a chair, picking up a large ivory comb, gently brushing through your damp hair. The motion along with the events of the day had your eyes drooping. 

It wasn't until Mildred had your hair expertly braided and wrapped around your head that she deemed you good enough to join the others. Standing up, you wished there was a mirror around. You would love to see how you looked dressed up in all of this history. Hut you quickly reminded yourself it wasn't history. It was your present, and unless you found a way back home it would be your future as well.

Mildred opened the door just as Dean raised his hand to knock once again. "I was beginning to wonder if you would ever join us for dinner."

Taking his offered arm, you let him guide you back down the hallway. "I'm not accustomed to so much clothing," you answered truthfully, watching as his eyes widened in surprise.

"You never said," he spoke carefully. "Where you came from and how you traveled here."

You had always heard that sticking as close to the truth was the safest way to go. "I come from a land across vast waters. Many people have not heard of it. I was with my family when we were attacked by ruffians. I was the only one to survive."

"I am sorry to hear that," he spoke with compassion. "But I do know that the Lord and Lady are very kind people. They won't cast you out."

"I would prefer to go home if at all possible," you whispered, tears clogging the back of your throat.

His arm tightened for a moment below yours, but you were already at the great hall. It was boisterous, full to the brim with all sorts of people. The Lord and Lady sat on a dais at the front, the table in front of them loaded with food. 

Tables were placed throughout the room, long, hand-carved wooden tables full of meat, bread, items you had never seen before. Pewter cups were being raised, red wine spilling over to land in the rushes on the floor.

Two seats were still open, one on the side of the Lady, one beside the Lord. Come, let's not keep Lord Danvers waiting."

Finally getting a name, you tried to place it in your knowledge of history. You had heard of a lord Danvers, but you couldn't recall much more than that."

"My dear!" Lady Danvers called out, waving you to the empty chair beside her. "Sit. Eat. We'll talk once you have eaten."

Nodding, you moved away from Dean, staring up at him nervously. He left to sit beside Danvers, giving you a reassuring smile. 

Sitting at the edge of your seat, you picked up your pewter glass, sipping the sweet mead. It was heavy and sweet, hiding the bite of alcohol.

A piece of bread was placed in front of you, long and thin, acting as a plate. It was full of roasted venison, beans, carrots, and cabbage. They were all covered in a sweet-smelling gravy. “Our cook loves his almonds,” The Lady whispered. “He puts them in all of his sauces.”

You took a sip, hesitant, but quickly found out it wasn’t as bad as you would have thought. It had a nutty taste but was sweet and savory as well. “It takes wonderful M’lady,” you assured her. 

“It is quite good. And you don’t have to call me M’lady. Call me Elsbeth.” She turned back to her food, picking up a tiny piece of her meat, nibbling daintily on it. It gave you a chance to look at your surroundings a little more. 

The room was quite dark, tallow candles barely able to keep up with the shadows. People were still filling themselves of food, even though you noticed the meat had been reserved for the upper table. 

Girls roamed about, heavy clay pitchers full of mead, wine, and ale in their hands, filling up pitchers raised high in the air. Other maids cleaned up the plates, taking them through the door in the back. 

Dean and Lord Henry were head to head, whispering frantically about something. Dean’s eyebrows were narrowed, his mouth turned into a frown. Whatever they were talking about, he wasn’t happy. 

“So Mistress Y/L/N, how do you like our castle?” Lady Elsbeth asked, pushing her trencher away. 

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never been in anything like it,” you told her truthfully.

She refilled your glass, leaning back in her hand-carved tall, chair. “So, I would like to learn more about you. Where did our mysterious little guest come from?”

You gave her the same story you told Dean. That you had traveled in from a faraway land but lost all of your family. Hoping that she would buy it. She listened carefully, taking another sip of mead before replying. “I am so sorry to hear that. You’ll have a place here for as long as you need. It will be nice to have another woman to talk to.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality.” She stood up, brushing her beautifully embroidered skirt smooth. 

“Don’t thank me. You might grow tired of us and our quiet ways,” she warned before she left, her maid trailing behind her. You could see Dean staring over your way, a pensive look on his face. You could feel the anxiety building up. You were in a strange land, strange era. You knew no one, and you were literally begging people to help take care of you. With no idea if you would ever get to go back. 

With those thoughts almost too much to bear, you stood up, almost knocking your cup over in the process. You hurried to the main hallway, pushing past a couple of drunken men who reached out for you. 

Rounding the corner, you came to a balcony, and you stopped, leaning your head against the cool stone wall. The breeze blew in, rain starting to fall. Forcing yourself to take deep breaths, you wanted nothing more than to curl up on your queen-sized memory foam bed, with your cat in your arms. 

“Y/N!” Dean called out, bounding around the corner, stopping when he saw you standing there. “Is everything okay?”

“I want to go home,” you told him, tears cascading down your cheek. “You are all so nice, but this is a little too much. I want to go back.”

Dean, in a move that surprised both of you, pulled you into his arms, letting you tuck your head against his rough, woolen tunic. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, letting you cry. When you had finally calmed down, he brushed the tears from your cheek. “I don’t know where your home is. Or how far away it is. But as a Knight, I promise to you. I will do everything in my power to return you home. Safely.”

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney @akshi8278  @bebravekeeponfighting  @brindz30 @cap-just-said-language @colette2537   @deansgirl215   @its-not-a-tulpa @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @just-another-winchester @karouwinchester @keikoraventeller  @krys198478 @librarygeekery @misspygmypie @mlovesstories @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk   @ria132love @ruprecht0420     @sortaathief @superseejay721517 @squirrelnotsam @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @tricksterdean @wonderfulworldofwinchester @woodworthti666 

Knight of Your Dreams Tags: @karouwinchester @maddiepants @deans-baby-momma @justkending @henrymorganme @flamencodiva @crazysocklovingfangirl @tftumblin @waywardrose13 

Forever Tags:  @aditimukul @alexwinchester23 @algud @amanda-teaches @andreaaalove   @artisticpoet @atc74 @be-amaziing @camelotandastronauts @caswinchester2000 @chelsea072498  @closetspngirl   @docharleythegeekqueen @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008  @esoltis280   @gh0stgurl @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish @goldenolaf25 @growningupgeek  @heyitscam99 @hobby27 @horsegirly99 @internationalmusicteacher @iwriteaboutdean  @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu @linki-locks11 @littleblue5mcdork  @lowlyapprentice   @maui137 @mogaruke @musiclovinchic93  @nanie5   @percussiongirl2017 @plaid-lover-bay25   @roonyxx @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes @sandlee44 @shamelesslydean @simonsbluee @sillesworldofwriting @sgarrett49 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnwoman   @superbadassnatural @thatcrazybookwormgeek   @thewinchesterchronicles @vvinch3st3r @wecantgiggleitsafandom @whimsicalrobots @winchester-writes @zombiewerewolfqueen

[kpopchangedme]

You agreed to meet Jinyoung for a coffee date, what could go wrong? Surely you are not going to run into Im Jaebum on the way there… Right?

Starboy-Masterlist || M A S T E R L I ST

Protagonists: Baseball player Im Jaebum / You / Dr. Park Jinyoung

Word Count: 2.2k

Genre: SFW | University | Baseball | Romance | *Socially offensive language* – Mini-Series

Lysandre’s note: Repost because I wanted this chapter on my main ;)

Staring at your reflexion, you barely have time to avoid the pair of rolled up socks Makayla throws at your head. She boos, sitting on the small bed of your dorm bedroom with her arms crossed, clearly disapproving your choice of outfit.

“At least show some cleavage. Let the poor shaman have hope!” Laughing, you pull your black sweater over your head to change into something more appealing under her expert gaze. “I thought you hated dating by the way…”

“He’s still a doctor, not a shaman! And I do hate dates... And I totally told him that...” Although, you didn’t exactly mention to Jinyoung about your last messy breakup. You choose a cute embroidered raspberry blouse, slipping it on and showing it off. “He said that if we met by ‘coincidence’ in a coffee shop it wouldn’t be what he’d call a date –” Makayla frowns, skeptical. “– but fate.”

“Ugh. Are you kidding me?” You laugh at her cringe, deciding her lack of comment meant she approved of the blouse. “Did he actually say it aloud or texted you that corny crap, what century are we–”

“Aloud.”

“Well, fuck me.” She finds her phone in the sheets of your unmade bed to tap at the screen, angrily. “And I can’t even get a text back!”

“Sungjin would text you back...” You pull your tongue at her, siding with your classmate for his desperate crush on that hopeless girl. “He’s a decent guy, it’d changed you from those football players.”

“Joke’s on you, my last victim is a golfer! I don’t know y/n… I kinda live for the thrill of being left on read.” At that, you can only shake your head in disbelief.

She might like to tease your dating phobic ways, but she’s as bad as you when it comes to commitment. While you usually avoid guys altogether, Makayla always seems to only get involved with the ones she knows will never be interested.

“You should wear that with your pale jeans, your ass looks fantastic in those!”

“Ooh, great idea, thanks!”

“Also, please put on lingerie!”

“Tst – This is a coffee non-date! I won’t jump him or any–”

“Hot guys can sense that shit.” You hesitate, pouting as Makayla wiggles her brow suggestively. “What if he drops his coffee on you and gets scared when he sees that horrible skin-coloured monstrosity through your soaked clothes?” Makayla rolls to the side to grab a lace bralette on your headboard and throws it at you. “Wear that, he’ll love it! That one screams ‘Please doctor, pour hot liquid on me!’.”

You study the pink floral lace between your fingers, feeling heat rush to your face as you remember the last time you wore it. You can still recall the feel of Jaebum’s hands; his fingers sliding the straps off your shoulders, his lips sucking your nipples through the thin lace...

“Yeah – Um, I think I’ll just go with the ‘monstrosity’ for today, it’s the only one that doesn’t show through the fabric.”

What’s with you, thinking of that stupid pitcher like that? You’re about to go on a date with a handsome med Resident. Somewhere on the floor, your phone dings from under a pile of rejected outfits. You hurry to fish it to look at the text, anxious.

Park Jinyoung: I’m going to be getting coffee at a very random coffee shop (the one on the corner of Wall & College) in about 15 minutes… [18:44PM]

You smile dumbly reading it just as another one comes in.

Park Jinyoung: (Not that I would ever expect to see you there... This isn’t a date or anything!) [18:44PM]

“Oh my god. You’re smiling at your damn phone y/n! Just leave already, before I kill myself!”

___

10 minutes later and you’re standing in front of the coffee shop, too nervous to move. It’s been a while since you dated – not that this could be considered a real date – almost two years. You run a hand on your blouse, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Unfortunately, it’s when you finally decide to enter the coffee that he, exits it.

And Jaebum isn’t alone, he’s with another one of his teammates, one you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. When he sees you, there’s a flicker of dread in his eyes, but in a second, he’s back to his usual composure. Which is horribly unfortunate, because now he’s walking straight at you and you have virtually nowhere to hide.

“Hey y/n”, he smiles sheepishly, disregarding the fact that you were evidently trying to walk by without greeting him.

“Hey.”

“Hi”, the player you don’t know nudges his friend with his elbow. He’s a bit shorter and very very handsome. Although, beautiful would probably be a more appropriate choice of word. “I’m Mark,” his smile is so white and wide it almost blinds you.  “And you are... Y/n...”

“Yes… That’s me…” You deadpan reddening, and Jaebum wiggles from one foot to the other. Now you’re unhealthily curious about what is said of you in their locker room, you bite your lips.

“Y/n”, Mark repeats as if you needed to be reminded. Does the baseball team have a secret black book with conquests names, or what? Clearly, that guy is in the known somehow. Tilting his head towards Jaebum, he adds: “The Creative Writing girl...” Mark giggles, the sound surprisingly irritating and you stare at him, shocked.

Creative Writing; a class you took to force yourself out of your comfort zone after your break up forever ago. You didn’t socialize, so it’d be surprising that guy remembered you at all – if you truly were in his class.

Mark turns to the pitcher, poking him with his elbow again. “I wasn’t aware you guys knew each oth–”

“I really wanted to tell you, about that night at the club,” Jaebum ignores him, keeping his baffling coolness despite the obvious teasing. “I’m so sorry, I was horrible. I’m a jerk and I wanted to apologize ever since, but I don’t have any way of contacting you or–”

“It’s okay Jaebum, it’s in the past – I don’t care – So don’t feel bad about it, these things happen. We were both drunk.” You clench your teeth, forcing a polite smile. If he truly felt like apologizing, he knew you worked at the clinic, he knew where to find you. It took you three weeks to digest his outburst, but you’ll stick by your not caring resolution. Even if in the end it truly makes you a bitch.

“The club…” Mark looks confused, gaze darting between you two until something seems to connect in his mind. “Oh, the club! Y/n!”

“Right, we’re fine then”, Jaebum’s sly smile falls and he brings his left hand up to scratch his neck, uncomfortable. Despite yourself, you note that he still seems able to move his arm and bend his elbow easily – not that you’d care. “Thank you... For forgiving me, it’s a relief.”  

“It’s nothing!” You take a step in the direction of the coffee shop, but Jaebum moves aside at the same time, blocking your way. “I a-actually need to go.”

“Yeah, sorry”, he avoids your gaze, inadvertently moving at the same time as you again.

“Our campus is so small”, his friend Mark makes the same high pitch giggle sound again, causing you to turn to stare. “The girl from Creative Class is… Y/n.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, surprised he seems so entertained by all this. “I took that class forever ago and I–”

“One year”, he grins, overly confident, “with Mr. Yachnin, you sat next to us for the whole trimester.”

“You were in that class too?” You frown at Jaebum with skepticism. You’re pretty sure you’d remember if a guy looking like him sat next to you.

“I… guess so...” He shrugs, exchanging a look with his friend. “Anyway, sorry again, have a great day!” Finally stepping away from your path with success, Jaebum pushes Mark forward, forcing him to walk.

“Bye, y/n the Creative Writing girl. I hope to see you around a lot more!” The other player laughs again, obeying his teammate reluctantly. “Come see us play Saturday!”

AH! As if.

You wave back at him, frowning. It’s so weird to think you shared a class with them without knowing. Of all the classes related to sports you took over the course of your studies, you had a random art class together. Surely that’s why Jaebum said he thought you were in the Art Dep the first time you met. It makes a lot more sense now, but he’d have to have recognized you. Again, he was right that night when he said you knew nothing about him. You don’t even know what he’s studying, you just assumed it had to do with sports since most athletes are in Physical Ed.

You’re almost pushing the door of the coffee shop when you decide to do something completely useless. Jaebum and Mark have stopped walking and are now absorbed in a heated discussion, several meters away.

“HEY, I almost forgot!”, they both twitch when you yell, although you only keep your eyes on the tallest one. “Im Jaebum!” He opens his mouth perplexed, and you laugh, entertained by his confusion.

“I do know your last name, Starboy!”

Without waiting any longer, you push the door of the coffee shop, leaving the two confused baseball players behind. Jinyoung instantly stands up and waves when you walk in, looking so handsome you stop in your tracks. Your wide smile, a remnant of your amusement freezes a bit, turning to an awkward grin. You can do this. This is just a coffee break and Jinyoung seems like an amazing guy.

You can totally nail this non-date.

“Hi y/n,” The young doctor tilts his head to the side, smirking as you walk up to him, “fancy running into you here.”

“Hi,” you giggle, sounding like the stupidest girl in the whole world, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gazing at you warmly. This time, you don’t feel as intimidated as he takes you in. Your makeup and hair are on point, clothes evidently carefully selected for this very moment. You are okay, you are in control of your variables, or so you repeat to yourself mentally like a mantra.

“Wow, you’re gorgeous.” Jinyoung sighs, slightly dazed, as though influenced by your thoughts.

“T-Thanks,” His eyes crinkle as he flashes his perfect teeth, watching you get shy, “you too.”

His compliment sounded sincere whilst yours is half-mumbled, unable to do him any justice. He’s even more handsome than the first time you met him. Today he ditched the dress shirt in favour of a casual white tee, dangerously tight on his chest, and pale jeans. He also came without his glasses and, although he still looked godlike with them, it seems to make his eyes pop-out even more. You struggle to hold eye contact, too flustered, hopefully, you won’t be awkward for the whole date. You want to feel less anxious, be more comfortable, but don’t know how. It’s been too long. Jinyoung doesn’t even seem to notice how out of it you are when he puts his hand in the middle of your shoulder blades. He barely touches you to guide you to the lineup in front of the register, but it still makes you mentally freak out.

“Since we’re both here at the same time, only by pure chance. I think we should grab a cup of coffee together, y/n. Surely it’s a sign.”

“Oh, a sign?” You laugh stiffly at his joke, nervousness perceivable. “Right, what were the odds of us meeting here, today, at 7pm? It’s not like we planned this.”

“Well, I like to make my own odds.” Jinyoung nods, eyes anchoring themselves in yours with all the confidence in the world. At the moment, you can tell he’s not the type to ever have been hurt or rejected by a girl. How could one say no to such a guy anyway? “My father always says we should never play the waiting game and should strike while the bat is hot.”

“The iron?” You snort, reassured a bit by his easygoing playfulness. It’s true that Jinyoung was nothing but smooth and funny on your first encounter. You have no valid reason to feel so stressed when he’s obviously trying to make light conversation. “Your father sure sounds like a wise man.”

“Not at all.” Jinyoung chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “I probably shouldn’t listen to what he says, he’s both awful at relationships and idioms.”

“I see.” His palm is warming your back, and you lean closer to his shoulder, unthinkingly.

“Either way, date or not,” Jinyoung talks softly this time, for only you to hear in the crowded coffee shop, “I’m glad you said yes, happy that you’re here with me now.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession, but the doctor just smiles, turning to the lineup in front of you as if it was the most natural thing to say. Unbeknown to him, you stare at his profile in awe, finally allowing yourself to be happy you came too and starting to relax.

Starboy-Masterlist  ||  M A S T E R L I ST

[cyrelia-j]

[Fic] Deuces VI: Billion Dollar Hand (Garak Bashir)

This got a bit long. I may switch it to AO3 next chapter or my site. We'll see. I'm not trying to kill dashboards if the cut doesn't work. 

Big thanks to @thebluemeany for the assist with Julian's crazy cousin quote. That thing is a work of art!

Previous parts are here:

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: AU (no Dominion and some characters who died in the series are alive like Vedek Bareil) Garak and his surrogate daughter Ziyal find themselves on Deep Space Nine for a month on a stopover to Bajor. Their first date may not have gone so well but this time Garak's taking the lead, and he's going to see if Julian is worth the trouble

Warnings: a few seconds of language, some minor dominance/submission stuff and daddy kink

“Someone looks serious,” Ziyal teases him as he finishes fastening the high neck of the shimmering silver shirt. It’s one he wears on rare occasion- when he wants to make a point, when he wants to create a certain impression. It falls like liquid over him, a ripple of that metallic sheen down past his waist settling nicely on his hips. He decides to stay with the same black pants, opting for dark boots with several buckles stopping high on the ankle. These are the boots he wears when he doesn’t plan on taking them. Off. That’s not to say he isn’t planning on perhaps an... exciting evening. Just that it may be of a different sort than the other night. He’s certain Ziyal knows exactly what the outfit means though she knows he’s hardly going to give her any juicy detail.

He saves the details for his old friend Parmak back home. Parmak was - and still is to the best of Garak’s knowledge - Tain’s most trusted physician and he’s always been the embodiment of discretion. He’s also a deliciously corrupted and carnal soul who devours Garak’s tawdry tales like some mythical human incubus. He may also in turn respond with a few naughty little tidbits of his own. Parmak has demonstrated to him in his writings on numerous occasions that an acute knowledge of anatomy is quite useful in describing certain pleasurable acts. Really, Parmak might make a career of writing erotic pulp should he ever tire of taking Tain’s temperature and well... Garak prefers not to dwell on the other rumors surrounding his father and his old friend that Parmak vehemently denies.

“Well, if the dear boy went through the trouble of angling for a second chance, far be it for me not to put forth a comparable amount of effort as well.”

“Oh it’s a “dear boy” sort of date,” Ziyal says with a knowing grin. Garak turns away with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I have no idea what you’re implying. And, don’t think I didn’t notice you dressed in one of your more alluring tops.” She’s wearing a stunning sleeveless shirt with a neck high like his that proudly displays the tattoos of her arms. There are gold waves embroidered down the bottom, the color dark violet and matched with a pair of trouser of his own design- black with a high waistline, several attractive buttons and pockets sewn in contrasting patches along the legs. She has a pair of sandals on as well, her toes painted blue, and it’s certainly worth a comment. “Surely that’s not for Major Kira?”

Ziyal shakes her head and checks the time. Garak has a few minutes and he’s certainly never too busy to spend with her. Perhaps it might even give Julian a bit of pause if he lets him go a few minutes. Garak takes a seat on the sofa and she sits next to him.

“Should I be holding your hands with excitement or saying a prayer to the Ancients?” he asks lightly. He watches her take a deep breath, momentarily concerned before she waves him off.

“No it’s nothing exciting. It’s not. I mean I don’t know if it should be but I met a girl today yad’, the most clever, brilliant, beautiful girl and I really think you’d find her wit amusing and charming and I’m going to do bow-ling with her tonight. She told me I should wear shoes that come off easily so...” She says it’s not a big deal but he can see her practically vibrating.

Garak is glad. He was concerned about Ziyal finding her way on the Station and he’s been rather poor company in his avoidance of Julian but well, he may likely remain poor company for other reasons. Knowing that Ziyal is making... acquaintances sets his mind at ease.

“So have I met this charming young lady?” He asks thinking to anyone else he may have seen around the Station. He’d noticed a few Starfleet officers, a few other Cardassians who travelled with them; primarily merchants and a few researchers but... but no, she’s shaking her head. Interesting.

“Mardah works at Quarks. Actually I met her while I was apologizing to Major Kira.” Ziyal shifts on the couch with a bit of a bounce. “Would you believe that Major Kira actually trains a lot of the girls on the station for combat? She says self defense and something about Quark and grabby hands but she’s a wonderful instructor, yad’. You were right, I know I’ll learn a lot from her and Mardah... Oh she’s wonderful. She’s a few years younger than me and she thought my art was the most fascinating. She thinks that I’ll do well on Bajor and she’s studying to be an entomologist and she’s very strong and talented and well alright I might be a little excited for... for bow-ling”

“For bow-ling?” Garak asks with a little smirk standing up just in time to avoid being hit with a pillow. “Yes, let Mardah help you shore up your speed,” he practically sings, pretending he doesn’t notice her rude gesture. He laughs as he leaves a spring in his step saying a silent prayer for the best for them both.

—

Garak hadn’t specified a location, merely a time but as he imagined, Julian is standing outside of Quark’s looking just an enticing as he had the night of their first date. No, he amends, more so this time around since that air of practiced confidence and ease has been replaced with a genuine look of anxious anticipation and excitement. Julian’s entire face lights up when he sees Garak, a look of relief intermingled as well. Garak may have let him wait a few minutes just to make sure that he was properly contrite. He most certainly is, and there is admittedly anticipation and charge to the air between them as Julian practically runs that last few steps to greet him. It looks like Ziyal was correct when she was speaking with him earlier. This charming creature is already nothing like his date the other evening.

Strike that; there are a couple of similarities and those are quite promising. Julian looks just as handsome. He’s wearing a pair of loose beige pants which appear to be linen, nicely draping down with a peach colored shirt, contrasting to his tanned skin. He’s still showing an appreciable amount of said skin- the few buttons on top undone a bit more daring than before but he isn’t making a show of it today. His sleeves are rolled up, hair just a bit tousled and the look which he returns to Garak well… That’s just the same if not more excited than before.

“Garak!” he exclaims then winces at the loudness of his voice. Julian seems self-conscious of his own enthusiasm, lowering his voice a few octaves and clearing his throat. “Sorry ah I’m just… I’m pleased that you’re here.” He holds out his hand, clearly trying a different tact. Garak is tempted to have a little fun with him but decides that can wait until Julian is more at ease. He’s familiar with this custom and takes Julian’s hand warmly. He can tell immediately that Julian had honored his request not to mask his scent and it’s enchanting, a strong ginger mingling with an undertone of something sweet almost like honey. Garak wants to see if his skin tastes as nice.

“I’m pleased to see you more… comfortable,” Garak says diplomatically. Julian looks away momentarily, that clasp of hands hanging on a bit long from both of them before letting go.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up. I mean not that I don’t trust you er… I mean I don’t know you well enough but ah… I just… like to trust people before I don’t… I… I have no idea what I’m saying, I’m so sorry.” Garak sees him taking a step back already so flustered outside what was obviously a carefully scripted dance before. Ziyal had said somewhat naughtily that Julian was the sort of charming she was sure he wouldn’t be able to resist and while Garak had a good idea what she was implying- damn observant girl!- he feigned ignorance on that count. Oh, doctor, I would love nothing more than to devour you.

Garak smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that Julian recognizes but almost seems adorably confused by.

“Why don’t I tell you what I had in mind for this evening to start and we can go from there?” He suggests, letting his hand drop starting to walk to one of the directories. Garak may have used what little free time he was able to wrangle away from Odo that afternoon to do a little research. There’s one name on the Promenade Directory that stood out most. He had stared at it a moment uncertainly before deciding to just walk over and investigate for himself. It had turned out that the “Happy Bottom Riding Club” was in fact not as the name might have implied some sordid Federation Fetish establishment- pity- but rather a nice low key somewhat dimly lit supper club with an assortment of grilled dishes from the Alpha Quadrant.

He’d had a brief moment to speak with the hostess to make a reservation and she even took the time to explain that the name had derived from some old Earth establishment and was the brain child of a Bolian on station who owned “Forbin Project”. The Bolian, Ziw Tralar, had advised giving a name that stood out and promoted a conversation. Well, the young Andorran woman had explained, they did receive a considerable amount of curiosity business along with their fair share of “misunderstandings”. She had a poorly concealed huff of irritation explaining that last bit to him; Garak could only imagine. He lets Julian know their destination as they begin walking in that direction leisurely.

Julian laughs.

“Oh god. You know when I was first stationed here and I saw that name I thought the most awful things.”

“Did you now?”

“Well I mean you know Happy Bottom Riding Club like…” Julian pauses there and gives Garak a sideways look. “Like… you know…” Garak looks back at him innocently.

“Is that a colloquialism for some Earth practice I should be aware of?”

“Well… not exactly ah… you know it’s ah… like say you and I um…” Julian stammers again and catches Garak looking just a touch too sanguine. He scowls. “Oh you know bloody well what I mean and it’s not like my misunderstanding resulted in my showing up in vinyl with a zipper mask or something.

“My, Julian, we haven’t even started our proper date and to think I’ve already learned so much more about you than before.”

“Ha, but you know I’ve never actually been there all the years I’ve been stationed here.”

“I can’t imagine,” Garak says certain that Julian’s sure thing pleasure sim has negated any need to try anything different. Julian seems to read that thought as well looking a touch embarrassed.

“Well you know because it’s always seemed so posh with those big wooden looking doors and all.”

“Of course,” Garak agrees easily, stopping then they’ve arrived. Julian does look a touch uncomfortable but Garak puts a hand on his arm seeing Julian’s expression positively melt. Oh that’s so nice.

There’s little wait given his foresight and Garak may have made a subtle arrangement with the hostess earlier in the day when he confirmed that she would be working the rest of the evening. He let her know that he would be by later with a handsome young doctor on the station, and to her credit she wore a perfect mask of professionalism when it was clear she knew exactly which doctor and was impressed that Garak had somehow diverted him from his usual “routine”. Garak wasn’t quite sure how he felt dating a man with that infamous of a reputation but it also pleases him to be Julian’s first in a number of things. Garak had informed the hostess that he would be quite appreciative if she would note the manner of their arrival. If he were to arrive with his hands in his pockets then he wouldn’t object to prompt service and a table. If, on the other hand, he were to arrive with his hand on said doctor’s arm then he would appreciate a both in the corner, particularly, one of the intimate round seaters where they might sit next to each other and enjoy a discreet unhurried meal.

She smiles at him a little knowing expression and he slips her a few strips of latinum when she leads them both to that secluded corner booth, the clean leather large enough to sit four. Garak slides right into the middle and motions for Julian to sit next to him.

“I thought, since the first time we’d followed your plan that tonight, you might indulge my in following my lead,” Garak says, waiting to see how Julian responds. The dark lights don’t allow for as much detail of Julian’s face as Garak would like but that expression says it all as Julian nearly bangs against the table moving to obey. Obey; that has a nice ring to it. Ziyal had said- again not particularly subtly- that it was her impression that Julian was the type who might find it helpful if Garak were to tell him exactly what to do. Her expression when she offered that advice left no doubt as to what she’d meant and Guls, had it really been so long ago that she had grown her final incisors? Eight years now, Elim. Right, there will be no more lamenting of years slipping away. She is grown and in this instance that’s much to his benefit because he’s certain her advice will prove invaluable.

“Oh… oh yes, that would only be fair,” Julian says, a touch breathless when he says fair. But as tempting as he is, Garak isn’t going to rush. He’s going to be careful cautious, and he smiles as he takes a drink of cold water.

“I would like very then to play a little game with you, my dear.”

“A game?”

“Yes, a very simple one. I’m going to give you directions during our dinner and I’d like you to follow them as best as you can. I may ask you a question. I may ask you to perform just a simple task for me well within your abilities. If I’m pleased with your response then you’ll get a little reward. Is that acceptable?” Garak takes a long drink of water seeing Julian processing those guidelines carefully.

“I think that will be alright. What if there’s a question or request that I have trouble with?”

“I would never try and push you into anything that would make you uncomfortable,” Garak answers seriously, putting a hand to Julian’s arm again. “Please let me know if there is something to which you truly object.” Julian nods.

“Alright then, sounds good so then-” Garak takes the menu with a smirk just as Julian reaches for it. “Right,” he says, “following your lead.” Garak is pleased with how well Julian catches on and after establishing that there is in fact apparently nothing that the man won’t put in his mouth (Julian’s words, not his) Garak orders a carefully curated selection of dishes that can be eaten with the fingers. He then sees Julian about to take a drink, stop himself, and ask with a bit of a little gleam in his eyes for permission. Garak can feel a slight surge of heat at that as he grants it and tells Julian just a little softly himself that he won’t need to ask permission. Tonight, he adds with his own daring expression and Julian spends a little too long holding that look nearly dropping his glass with a stammered apology.

“Now then,” Garak begins. “I feel that we’ve had enough conversation revolving around the matter of Cardassian politics to last us a while so why don’t you tell me something amusing.”

“Something amusing?”

“Yes, and before you begin, I would very much like your permission to touch you a shade more boldly if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Well I’m not sure what a shade is but I’ll tell you if it’s too much?” He looks so hopeful that Garak can go nothing but agree.

“Alright then,” Julian continues with a dip of his head. You’re putting me on the spot here a bit but ah… I don’t know if you’d find any of the stupid stories about my family amusing. Ziyal had so… alright so this is completely ridiculous just happened last week actually. My cousin Paddy- god the stories I could tell you about him alone- well last week I got a COM from Ops that there was some emergency transmission coming through from Earth. So they patch him through and the first thing I see is my cousin Paddy on the dial up - er… old Earth slang, sorry- from this local pub and before he so much as says hello he’s asking me how do you know if a knife hits your arteries and then he proceeds to turn ‘round and show me right there two stab wounds. Then he says he didn’t know he’d even been cut but I should see the other buggers and I’m trying to tell him he ought to be dialing a doctor that can… you know be there in person and he’s trying to have me walk him through triage like this is just a normal thing and do you know what he says to me?”

Garak is laughing at Julian’s animated recounting, hearing that accent of his changing slightly the longer he goes on.

“What’s that?” Garak doesn’t need to affect his interest as Julian clears his throat and recounts quite comically,

“He says “I said to Jimmy, I said “ what’d you call one of the muppets down the ozzy for? Our kid’s a reet good doctor! He can learn us through it and it’ll be aber twice as good with none of the agro. Won’t even have to leave the bar. Now, go on our Ar La… ”” The translator seems to miss most of that, Garak trying to puzzle it out. Julian looks a bit sheepish as he repeats it in a more standard dialect. Garak grins as Julian continues recounting the ridiculous affair of trying to talk his cousin through treating his own stab wounds with the aid of “Jimmy” the owner of the bar and an array of likely unlicensed medical equipment. It’s a rather fantastic story, and Garak decides it certainly deserves a reward. Julian is laughing softly to himself as he concludes that as of this morning his cousin appears to be on the mend. “So is that satisfactory?” he asks, eyes moving to Garak’s hand when he sees it lift towards his face. Garak doesn’t answer immediately, instead letting his knuckles slowly and lightly drag over Julian’s cheek, seeing that his breath catches just a bit, the rest of him completely still. Now that is a lovely picture, he thinks, pulling back from that small gesture satisfied that Julian is left tongue tied when the waitress arrives and takes their order.

“Was there…” Julian licks his lips. “-anything else I might regale you with?” Garak thinks on it a moment and then instructs Julian to tell him something that he would be amazed to know, giving a sly warning that he’s quite familiar with a wide variety of subjects over multiple cultures. Julian rises to that challenge, informing him that there is a puzzle that he’s certain Garak could not possibly slither his way out of. Clever. There’s no way to confirm the veracity of your statement without the puzzle here. There may not even be a puzzle. But I wouldn’t know that. Garak is exceptionally pleased.

“That’s a good boy,” he says, this time that touch to Julian’s face lingering longer, fingers trailing down Julian’s neck with deliberate pacing, a long idle motion that leaves his eyes fluttering as he leans into that touch. This time Garak stops right at the end of his neck appreciating the way that Julian has to force his eyes to remain open. Garak has his full attention tonight, not merely a dating subroutine running on autopilot. Garak then says playfully that he’s going to tell Julian a story of his own to see if his clever boy can guess which part of it is false. Of course the entire story start to finish of their trip on the shuttle to the station is a complete fabrication but there is a point where he recounts the doctor traveling with them where he deliberately allows his body language to slip just a bit, a looks of his eyes elsewhere and Julian spots it immediately. Nice, then he can be observant when called for.

And then just to throw him, he turns back to the matter of the puzzle. Garak calls Julian’s bluff declaring that he doesn’t believe there to be so readily some trap from which he cannot escape. Julian surprises him again.

“Oh you say that now but I’ve absolutely got you.” He rubs his hands together excited with a bounce in the seat. “You really had me earlier what with the finger trap and all. I still have no idea how you pulled that one off but… I guarantee you that I have a trick you absolutely won’t be able to puzzle out.” Garak raises a brow ridge leaning in. He places a hand over Julian’s, lightly stroking the back of his hand, see a little shiver in response.

“You have my complete attention, Julian.” He sees Julian breathe out slowly.

“Right… God I don’t know how you make me feel so good with just your hands… not like that! I mean certainly like that I’m sure but-” Garak moves his hand, holding them both up.

“Is that better?” he teases as Julian already starts sliding out of the seat.

“Maybe. But you’re going to love this. Be amazed and delighted. You know when I was younger I thought it might be fun to do magic. Like you learn that all magic is really just tricks, sleight of hand, that sort of thing.” Julian has Garak come to the edge of the booth and cross his arms, feet flat on the floor facing out. “My cousin Alastair now he could do some fantastic displays but now… Is it alright if I touch here?” Julian asks pointing to the center of his own forehead. Garak nods, wondering just what it is he’s going to do. And then Julian gives a devilish grin and places a finger right at the bottom of his chufa. “Now try and stand up,” Julian says looking utterly charming with that looks of self-assurance.

Garak is certain he won’t be able to, thinking of the matter of leverage and balance and finds that assessment to be correct. He can’t stand even after gamely trying a few more times and failing.

“Is that good enough?” Julian asks teasing, just a hint of expectant desire for approval.

“It’s sufficient,” he answers with a grin and Julian releases him sitting back down, proud,sitting up a bit straighter in his seat after that.

Their food arrives and Garak rewards him by feeding him a sweet bite of char grilled utoxa. Garak wouldn’t have ever thought such a manner of cooking for the usually tough meat himself, but the description of the tenderizing marinade was too good to pass up. Julian seems to agree, eyes shutting a moment as he eats with a happy sigh.

“You know,” he says as Garak enjoys a taste as well, “My father always used to get on me about eating too quickly and you know, not properly savoring a meal but well, my mother is a fantastic cook just ah… to her own tastes. That’s brilliant right there. So how do I earn a bit of that darker piece there?” So Garak asks him another question in exchange for another piece of meat, letting his fingers just brush Julian’s lips as he slips him those bites, seeing his face start to tint just a bit darker, eyes bright and eager. He loses track of the time that passes as they clear the two plates brought out. Garak breaks that tension up volunteering a few bits of information about himself- some true, some not, but that’s the fun of it, he’s always found. Especially when Julian calls him on an especially unbelievable story during his time as a gardener and Garak quite smugly lists off every night flowering plant native to the Elaran continent, reveling in Julian’s wide surprised eyes.

“Alright,” he concedes. “I really have no idea if half the words you’re saying are even true but we are playing a game, right… You know that’s what Kipling’s Kim was all about too- the Great Game they called it,” Julian says dramatically, a bit carried away but full of energy. Garak takes a drink of the win recommended by the waitress finding it just suited for the Cardassian palette, she’s also ben keeping their water full rather unobtrusively as well. He makes a note to tip generously.

“The Great Game?”

“Well, it started as a matter of British and Russian Imperialism; a battle for the soul of India. But it’s rather like that. I mean- you could even say the battle for the soul of Bajor. Because of course Cardassia lost like Russia had all Bolshevik Revolution toppling the government and I mean the parallel is so obvious…” Julian stops suddenly, looking like he wouldn’t mind the table up and swallowing him right about now. Garak recalls Ziyal telling him that Julian’s silly tactics stemmed primarily from a fear of giving offense and well, given the chaff that Garak has imagined him bedding before now it’s hardly an unfounded concern. It rankles him to think that such a delightful mind was so vapidly wasted on dull witted Guls all these years.

Garak is far from offended. Instead he laughs, taking Julian’s hands with a reassuring squeeze. He is looking forward to having many a fiery conversation in a more intimate setting where they might… converse more freely. Julian really does get so passionate and Garak finds himself already with a rejoinder to that little verbal challenge.

“I take no offense and in fact I should very much like to peruse the work you mention just to see these... parallels.” He sees Julian nearly sag in relief. “Now how about a little reward for being such a good boy,” he all but purrs leaning in to Julian’s soft protest that he’s done nothing to warrant a reward. “Let me worry about your worthiness for rewards, my dear,” Garak says keeping hold of Julian’s hands, leaning in and delicately scenting the air around him. His tongue pokes out but doesn’t touch, letting Julian feel the warmth of Garak’s breath on his neck. He can feel Julian squeezing his hands back tightly as he moves down to the little bit of exposed skin, scenting that heady Julian musk, feeling a few heavier breaths drifting down and to think that he would be so aroused by such simple things. Garak squeezes back before letting go.

“Now, take a breath, as many as you need and tell me something that you’d like to happen in the next five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“Five minutes.”

“Alright I... if it’s not too forward, I’d very much like to kiss you.” Julian nearly looks away but holds Garak’s eyes when he makes that request. It’s a far restrained cry from the other evening but so achingly exciting nonetheless. It makes Garak bold and just a touch reckless. He’s silent a moment, watching Julian watch him back.

“Remember what I said earlier, Julian. Now then.” He pauses and lets his voice drop in cadence to a much lower, softer tone. “Put your hand on the table. Palm up.”

Julian looks at him a moment before obeying, letting his left hand rest on the tablecloth.

“Good boy. Now look at me and don’t stop looking at me until I tell you to stop.”

“Okay,” Julian agrees and Garak doesn’t know what insanity is possessing him to ask so much, to push so far but... Guls he wants this so badly. Julian’s hazel eyes are dark as they watch him and he picks up the steak knife making sure that Julian can see it. There’s a slight dilation of pupils in response to that sight and Julian gives a start when the point of the blade brushes the juncture of his thumb and palm. There’s an averted jerk of his head to watch but he remains there, a lick of his lips, a dart of his tongue uncertain but obedient watching Garak. And Garak watches him back as he slowly traces the tip of the blade over Julian’s palm- practiced enough, having read the Julian’s slightly rough callouses to know just the right amount of pressure. It’s a tickle. He sees Julian’s breaths hitch as he lets the blade circle, skimming over skin, seeing Julian shift in the seat, the moment dragging out, his motions slowing down until the tip rests in the center of Julian’s palm and his lips are parted slightly, breaths coming heavier as Garak lets the tip push in infinitesimally as if he might dare to push it through the rest of the way.

Garak knows when the skin will break but he doesn’t know when Julian will. Julian is silent, breathing harder, Garak scenting a slight increase in that heavy musk as he leans in closer, closer, letting up with the knife as his his lips meet Julian’s with that same delicate pressure, his tongue that experimental blade never breaking skin, flicked, gone, that press of mouths no more than a half a breath. He pulls back, feeling hot, feeling the swell of ridges around his neck somewhat embarrassed but doesn’t dwell on his own physiological reactions for long. Not when Julian is sitting there chest heaving, eyes half shut like he just fucking came.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs in praise, petting the back of Julian’s neck, his hair softly, watching his head lull boneless to that touch.

“Thank you... daddy...” slips out in an unconscious hush just barely caught by his ears. Garak decides right then they’re not finishing dinner.

(Part 7 is now up HERE)

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

The Raider’s Wife: Part One

So literally the same day I said I hadn’t written anything about Hvitserk, a request for an imagine involving him found its way into my inbox! The request was: a Hvitserk imagine where the reader is a princess and he and Bjorn are on a raid and to become allies, Bjorn notices Hvitserk has taken an interest in you, so Bjorn and the king (your dad) agree you and Hvitserk will marry as an ally. This is going to be a multi-parter, because I just love this idea so much! I started writing it and just couldn’t stop. Here’s part one, I hope you like it, nonny!

It can be read below, or it can be read on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11491590/chapters/25776891

The rumors of these men in their fast ships had reached your kingdom only a few days before the men themselves—their ships were so swift they were almost faster than rumors. Your homeland was sun-drenched, a land of rolling hills and fertile soil. Your father ruled only a small kingdom along the coast, but its position was vital. The seat of his power was a city with high walls, right in the place the sea narrowed to a channel between the mainland and the nearby island. It was a hub of trade, an exciting city full of people from many far-off lands.

But the men from the north, with their harsh tongue and coarse customs, had never walked these broad streets. You first saw their ships from the ramparts—you loved to watch the sun rise over the sea. It was a clear morning, your keen eyes could see for miles. But there was no need. The long, lean ships, their sails the color of hellfire, were close enough that you could hear the splash of their oars in your bright blue ocean, could see the water dripping from them as they left the water. The prows on the front of the ships were hideous; growling wolves and dragons with curved teeth.

You couldn't stop the scream that flew from your lips—you had to warn somebody, anybody, of the doom that was about to befall your beloved home. Every eye from down below turned to you, their shock mirroring yours. Clearly they had expected to strike before anyone was awake. One of them waved to you, you almost swore you could see a grin stretching his mouth. You ran down the stone steps of the city walls as fast as your shaking knees would carry you. Your feet pounded along the street and you hitched your skirt high with your hands. Damn decorum, God would forgive you this moment of indecency when the lives of your people were on the line.

You crashed through the door of the guard house in a disheveled rush, “the...Northmen are...here,” you panted, trying to catch your breath. Both panic and the unexpected run made it difficult.

“Luca, take the princess back to the palace immediately. Do not leave her until you have delivered her into the hands of the king's household guard. After that, run back, rousing as many men as you can, and lead them to the walls.” The captain turned his attention from you, and a tall, dark-haired young man, sword at his hip and shield slung across his back, ushered you out the door. You jogged back to the palace, the silent guard behind you the whole way.

The palace guards sprang to attention when they saw you approaching, and finally your guardian spoke. “The Northmen have arrived at our city gates. The captain of the guard will send a message about the invaders as soon as he is able.” He placed his hand between your shoulder blades and shoved you roughly forward. “The princess alerted us of their coming. She has saved us all.” And then he turned and ran, shouting as he went, rousing the men to arms in defense of our home.

The guards hurried you inside the palace, one escorting you to your father's chamber and the other running off to alert the captain of the news. Three hard knocks on his heavy wooden door and you were invited inside. The guard dropped instantly to his knees in a deep bow, but you couldn't stop yourself from blurting the news. “The Northmen have come! The ones who have been plundering the coast.”

Your father regarded you, nodding. “I suspected they would.” He turned to the guard. “On your feet, man, there is no time for this. Gather my children, take them to my wife's chamber. I will have four guards posted there, two within the chamber and two without. I go to the gates.” Irritation flashed through you as the guard placed his hand on your shoulder to guide you to your mother's chamber. Did these men have no respect for their princess?

They worked swiftly, and soon you sat in your mother's chambers, eating breakfast with your younger sisters. The food turned to ash in your mouth, and you pushed it away. Your mother—believing idle hands to be an invitation for sin—somehow found embroidery for you to do, even during a raid. You sighed. The city could be in flames around you, and still your unshakable, dutiful mother would be tending to her work. Your younger brother sat at Mother's knee, reading an old Bible aloud. You envied him the easier work, but had to admit you found the familiar passages comforting.

It was near mid-day when your father returned to the palace, releasing you from the prison of embroidering in your mother's chambers. It wasn't that you disliked embroidery, you simply preferred weaving. And not being locked in one room all day was even better. The guard informed you all that you were to meet your father in the hall for the noon meal.

Your mother sent you off to your room with a maid to redo your hair. You hadn't bothered to fix it after your misadventures that morning. Quickly, the maid pinned your curls into place and straightened the cap covering your hair, and you made your way quickly to the hall to join your family for the meal.

Except it wasn't just your family. Your father was seated at the table with a small group of the Northmen, and your knees turned to water just like they had earlier. “My daughter,” your father greeted you, beckoning to you to come sit at the table. “Our guests do not speak our language, I am afraid, but they do speak the Frankish tongue. I know your mother has taught you the language of her people.”

You moved toward the seat your father motioned you to, dread curling itself in your belly as you took your place between two of the Northmen. One of them—you were almost certain he was the one that waved at you from his ship, arrogant man—turned his attention to you immediately. “What is your name? I am called Hvitserk.” He did indeed speak the Frankish tongue, but the words fell clumsily from his mouth. You tried to hide your disgust at his poor mastery of the language, and at the ugliness of his name. Hvitserk? What a harsh, strange language they had, if that one word was any indication at all.

“My name is Y/n,” you told him, the Frankish language coming easily to you. You hoped he would feel embarrassed by his clumsy way of speaking, maybe see that him and his people simply did not belong here. Maybe it would send him back to the ice and snow he came from, never to bother your sunny shores again.

“Your home is pretty,” he told you, taking a large bite out of a chicken leg. You pursed your lips in distaste. Obviously this man was incapable of feeling shame, doomed heathen that he was. What had your people done to offend God so, that he sent these wild men to plague you? However, unlike this man, you had manners.

You took a delicate bite of bread, taking your time to chew and swallow before answering. “Prettier than your home?”

He grinned at you, mouth full of more chicken, and you had to look away from the site. He wouldn't have been so hideous if he had better manners. In fact, you found him quite pleasing to look at—light brown hair pulled back in braids, eyes a shade of green that reminded you of a jade bead your father had given you. His hands—covered in chicken grease, you noted with some disdain—were strong; the tendons stood out beneath his pale skin, startling you. You had never seen hands so strong, and the thought of what they might be capable of sent an involuntary shudder through you.

You'd heard the stories of the Northmen, of course, but seeing them in the flesh, the strength of Hviterk's hands, the mischievous glint in his green eyes.... You could imagine the destruction such men could bring, and before you realized what you were doing, you crossed yourself. God would save you. “Why are you doing that?” Hvitserk asked, reaching for his goblet.

Embarrassed by your rude behavior, you looked down at your plate. It was a good thing Father didn't see you, or he would punish you for that rudeness. “It is to call the protection of God,” you explained. “To bless my food.” You felt only a  little guilty over the lie. It would save Hvitserk's feelings, and perhaps he wouldn't kill you. From what you'd heard of these savages, they were just the type to break bread with a man before killing his family.

Hvitserk considered this, chewing bread. “Does the blessing make it taste better?” You giggled at the absurdity of the question and he grinned at you, the corners of his forest-green eyes crinkling. His chest swelled out with pride, pleased to have gotten a positive reaction from you at last.“You have a pretty laugh.” He swallowed, took another bite, and smiled even as he was chewing. “Good thing I am funny.”

His glimmering green eyes drew a warm blush across your cheeks, widening his grin and forcing you to turn your flustered gaze to your plate. How could this stranger, this heathen, draw such impossible feelings in you already? You should hate him, instead you found yourself intrigued by him, charmed by his easy smile and jade-green eyes, even by his voracious appetite and sickening manners. Everything about this man was so vibrant. You only ever felt this alive watching the sun rise over the ocean. Your quiet, safe life was far from exciting, but that's what it meant to be a princess. He was more open than any person you had ever met, guileless, not wanting to make you laugh than for any reason other than he liked the sound of it.

In his company it was easy to ignore the hum of conversation in the background as Hvitserk continued to smile at you, waggling his eyebrows to make you laugh. You were shocked when your father called for your attention. “Yes, Father?” You tore your eyes away from Hviterk's laughing mouth to find your father's gaze.

“You are to be wed on Sunday. You will help your mother with the preparations.” The air sucked itself from your lungs, leaving you gasping in shock. You knew you were old enough to be wed, and there had been several suitors seeking your hand, but your father had made no mention to you of choosing one. In fact, he had seemed unimpressed by every single one.

“To whom, Father?”

“The young man sitting beside you. I believe his name is Hvitserk.” Your father was speaking in your native tongue, but upon hearing his name Hvitserk looked up. His eyes traveled from your father's face to yours, confusion plain on his features, and he looked to the man with the long blond braid for answers. You'd been so intent on Hvitserk before you'd barely noticed him. Even though he smiled, the words sounded harsh and low coming from his throat. Would you be forced to speak that terrible language, to hear it every day until you died? This must be God punishing you for your indecency this morning, showing your legs as you ran through the city.

The tall blond stopped speaking at the choking sound from the chair beside you, and the man on the other side of Hvitserk—another blond—pounded on his back. Hvitserk gasped, took a drink to compose himself, and turned his shocked green eyes to you with a weak smile. “I....” he shrugged. “There could be worse things, right?” You nodded slowly, still in shock. As far as punishments go, marrying a heathen was about as bad as it could get, no matter the jade of his eyes or the strength of his hands.

[everythingissymbolic]

A tutor’s guide to basic essay structure

As promised, a structure-focused guide to writing your basic thesis-driven academic paper.

I've spent the last four years working as a writing tutor at my university, after taking a course training me to do so. In that time, there are certain major structural issues I've seen repeated in student papers, which are the first problems I tend to target. Now, these issues pertain to a standard academic thesis-driven paper at an American university. I've worked with students who come from different traditions (for example, they're used to putting the thesis statement at the end). And of course, some papers aren't as rigidly structured depending on their format, your professor, or your willingness to bend the rules. No writing rule is absolute, and don’t trust people who act like they are. Still, these are good to have in your back pocket.

I grabbed an old close reading paper from my days as an English major as an example. It's a particularly rigidly structured one, which makes it perfect for my purposes, even if some of the language is a bit overwrought. The structural features I'll be drawing attention to are relevant no matter what subject you're working on, so if your area of study does something besides write thousands of words about the word choice in one paragraph, you're still set. I admit I’m from a humanities background, but I’m in info science now and I still use these strategies.

So, without further ado, let’s progress through the paper.

The Wearer Transfigured : Hester Prynne’s Lost Agency in The Scarlet Letter

Title

Academics love the 'meaningful quote, descriptive turn of phrase, and/or witty comment: more detailed description of content' formula for their titles. If you can fit a pun in there, even better.

Introduction

Hester Prynne’s debut appearance in The Scarlet Letter comes as she steps out of the jailhouse door to face the judgmental populace. The reader’s first sight of her comes in a mix of contrasting imagery and actions. Hester appears as actor and acted upon, dark and light, devilish and angelic. In the beginning of the passage, she seems to be an imposing woman in charge of her own fate. As events wear on, however, closer examination reveals how little power she really has. Before the novel begins, Hester chooses to commit a sin, and now the consequences of that choice weigh on her and strip her of her strength. Her conversion from powerful to powerless is an introduction to the transformative power of sin, guilt, and shame that will hound both her and other characters throughout the novel.

Your introduction should accomplish a few things. The general rule of thumb is to write as if your reader is at a similar education level but does not know the details of whatever you're writing about. Therefore, you usually want to give a brief summary of what's going on. However, that doesn't mean pasting a plot summary or the history of Europe into your intro. You only select details that are relevant to understanding the paper. This paper is a close reading, which means I'm picking apart a small portion of the text. (It also presumes a closer knowledge of the text, which is why I don't provide as much background as I might if I were doing another kind of paper.) However, I make sure I set up which scene I'm talking about, what's going on, and what about the scene I'm going to be focusing on. Finally, the introduction should include your...

Thesis Statement

This is the first thing I look for when I have a paper in front of me. The thesis statement provides a "road map" of sorts for your paper. It is typically found close to the end of the introduction and in most cases will only need to be a sentence or two. It sets up what you are arguing, your main points, and gestures toward the wider significance of your argument (which will come up more directly in the conclusion.) In this paper, my thesis is:

Her conversion from powerful to powerless is an introduction to the transformative power of sin, guilt, and shame that will hound both her and other characters throughout the novel.

Now, I got a little fancy here. My main argument is that in the passage, Hester changes from being shown as powerful to powerless. My wider significance is that it foreshadows a major thematic part of the novel. But my main points show up here:

The reader’s first sight of her comes in a mix of contrasting imagery and actions. Hester appears as actor and acted upon, dark and light, devilish and angelic.

If I were writing a very formulaic thesis, it would read more like:

A mix of contrasting imagery and selected action verbs display Hester's conversion from powerful to powerless, which introduces readers to the transformative power of sin, guilt, and shame that will hound both Hester and other characters throughout the novel.

That's a little stiffer and kind of a mouthful. If you're just starting out, I'd recommend at least beginning with a thesis statement that contains all the parts (argument, points, significance) just to make sure you're clear on what they are. Then, if you want, you can break it up a little bit.

Now, some people can't start the rest of their paper until they have their thesis statement nailed down as a guide for themselves. Others prefer to write and then discover their argument along the way. Either is fine, as long as that thesis is there by the time you turn the paper in.

Paragraph Topic Sentences

I got dinged on this the first time I took a class with a professor who was strict about essay structure. I was starting paragraphs with narrative or details (lines like "In the next scene, so and so does this.") Instead, it helps to think of each paragraph as a mini essay with its own thesis (or topic sentence). That topic sentence will sum up the paragraph's argument *and* connect it back to the thesis. This accomplishes a few things. First, it tells readers what to expect in the paragraph. Second, it keeps you on track. If each topic sentence demonstrates how the paragraph supports the thesis, you know that content belongs there and isn't fluff distracting from your focus. Remember, every part of a paper should contribute to the mission of building your main argument.

In a very structured essay, simply reading the thesis and topic sentences should give you an outline of the whole argument. As a demonstration, here are the topic sentences for the rest of the essay:

When Hester emerges, she is visually associated with darkness, which makes her a both powerful and sinister figure.

Hester is also described with witchlike images and language, giving her force and menace.

Notwithstanding these dark and arcane associations, Hester also has moments of exposure to light and divinity.

The presence of action verbs throughout the passage demonstrate Hester’s apparent agency.

That impression breaks down, though, upon closer examination.

Although Hester puts on a display of power and agency, she is not truly so secure.

These sentences spell out the steps of the argument I'm building.

Paragraph Structure (Detail + Analysis)

Now that you have a paragraph topic sentence, you need to build the rest of the paragraph. It can be tempting just to write until it looks like a good spot to hit enter, but each paragraph should focus on one main idea, which you've identified through your topic sentence.

Sometimes you may be able to identify each paragraph's focus right away. I personally prefer to write outlines of any large paper I'm working on, so I know what goes where. Other people write a draft out first. Then, something called a reverse outline can be helpful. I often use reverse outlines when looking at student papers that need some reorganization. You go through and jot down the major ideas you see in each paragraph. Then, when you're done, you can look at what you've written and see which ideas might fit together and how they might best be ordered to build your argument logically. It shows you how to reshuffle the contents of your paper to strengthen it.

Once that's accomplished, the rest of your paragraph can follow a detail + analysis formula. First, you present a fact, detail, observation, quote, whatever. Then, you analyze what about that detail proves your argument. In a literary setting, it might look like this:

Topic sentence: When Hester emerges, she is visually associated with darkness, which makes her a both powerful and sinister figure. Point 1: Her dark hair is “so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam”. Analysis: Darkness is traditionally associated with evil influences, particularly in a culture where the Devil is referred to as the Black Man who meets evildoers under the cover of night. Hester’s hair is not passively dark, either. Its darkness actively repels the light of the sun, throwing it off with the strength of its gloss. This act comes across as defiant – Hester actively forces the light away.

My detail is the quote about Hester's hair, and I then pick apart what elements of that quote prove my argument that she is shown as powerful and sinister. The paragraph then brings up a few other quotes supporting Hester as dark, powerful, and sinister.

Conclusion

This can be the trickiest part, because a conclusion often calls upon you to speak to the wider significance of your paper. If you're writing for an assignment you don't care about, it can be hard to come up with anything. If you're doing a close reading like I am here, you can move out from the scene to consider its impact on the work as a whole. First, I restate my main argument to make sure it has come across.

Although Hester puts on a display of power and agency, she is not truly so secure. Her agency is emphasized because she has brought herself to this state. She embroidered the letter, and she committed the crime that led to its placement on her breast. Now, the letter is in control. The progression in the passage follows Hester's transformation at the hands of her sin. At first, she appears dark and potentially wicked but powerful. While in the midst of her act of adultery, she might feel that she is taking power for herself. She acts on her own impulses and violates socially acceptable standards. Once she emerges and is faced with her crime, though, social influences act upon her. Her power is stripped away and placed with the symbol she created but is forced to wear. While she made the choice to sin, now the sin itself has power over her.

Then, I explain why this is important to the rest of the book.

Throughout the rest of the novel, the consequences of her actions will continue to take on a life of their own, constricting her actions and limiting her agency. What is more, the cost of sin will transfigure everyone it touches. She, Dimmesdale, and Chillingworth are all transformed by the weight of what they have done, what others think of them, and what they think of themselves. Hester’s first steps out of the jailhouse door, then, are only a taste of the changes that are to come.

If you're analyzing a historical event, you might look at how that impacted later events, drew on earlier history, or demonstrates trends. If you're working on something in the sciences, this might be areas for further research. In a persuasive paper, it’s your call to action. Essentially, don't restate your thesis and consider yourself done. Start with that, but then try to make your argument matter on a wider scale.

First Person POV

This is a minor point, but I've seen it come up a lot lately, so I thought I'd throw it in. Most standard academic writing avoids first person (I, me, my). Part of this is stylistic convention, but part of it is that it actually weakens your argument. "I think the effect of this language is..." sounds a lot weaker than "The effect of this language is..." Readers know you think that – you're writing the paper! State your interpretations with conviction to give readers less room to disagree with you. Now, some papers (such as reflections) may specifically call for first person, while some more standard academic papers might benefit from it for some specific rhetorical effect. Some professors are more laid back about it than others. Still, avoid using first person if all it's doing is making you sound less sure of yourself.

So that's a quick breakdown of a standard academic essay. Like I said, not all the papers you write are going to look like this! Not all assignments (reflections, lab reports, lit reviews) demand this structure, and sometimes even if they do you might benefit from greater flexibility. Certain fields of study will use essays patterned this way more than others. However, keeping the thesis statement, paragraph structure, and detail + analysis formula in mind will help you make sure your papers have a clear focus and work to convince readers of your argument, whatever discipline you might be working in.

[researchwithaciir]

How do I get good grades?

[ID: A banner that reads "Study tips" in all caps in pale green color, with pale yellow background and a geometric pattern in pale green in the corners. End ID].

If there's something I've learned from getting straight A's at school and university is that it's less about what you know and more about what your habits and skills are.

Look, I have this classmate who is always reading advanced books, listening to podcasts, and watching conferences. She knows A LOT. But this adorable person doesn't do homework, when she does, it's late or poorly done. Her comments in class are lacking coherence and her essays are badly referenced. All of this just lower her grades.

So what can she do? How do I get good grades?

[Disclaimer: these tips are based on my own experiences and observations as I study a social science and some of the things that worked for my in high school, I've also helped my classmate but these tips might not apply to you].

1. Strengthen your language four basic skills.

If you study languages you know we have to practice four skills: reading, writing, listening and speaking. Well, it's not very different for your native language. After all, is with language that we're able to communicate, share ideas and knowledge. You know... like, everything we learn at school (and more).

a. Reading: If you don't know a word, underline it, search the meaning and write it at the margin of the text, on a post it, or in your notebook. Underline main ideas and take notes or write a summary. This will help you not only for better understanding or studying, but also to participate during class. If you need to, read out loud and/or try to explain each paragraph. This is helpful for very complex text. Doing a diagram works too!

b. Writing: Learning how to express our ideas in the written form is... weird. I seriously don't understand why on earth we can't write just like we speak. Why do we must write differently? Is it such a crime? (I mean, I know why, I just find it so interesting and funny). Anyway, must teachers' corrections are like "uSe sYnOnYmS", "bReAk YoUr PaRaGrApHs", "cOnNeCt YoUr IdEaS", "aRgUmEnT mOrE", "UsE aPa CiTaTiOn". So, yeah, follow those comments... I'll try to make a post on how to improve your writing.

c. Listening: Pay. Attention. To. Your. Teacher. I know it's hard, I know some people have a lot of difficulties because of ADHD or other learning disabilities. I can't speak for that, but what works for me is to doodle or embroider, sometimes being on Pinterest works too. Just doing something that requires low cognitive effort while I listen to the teacher keeps me on the class without getting lost in my mind. Even if you didn't do the reading, if you listen to your teacher (and classmates) you'll be able to participate.

d. Speaking. I think many people can imagine how frustrating it is to watch a presentation by your classmates and that they just... don't know how to present?? (it's even more frustrating when you know this people want to become teachers). Practice in the mirror, practice with your pet, practice in the shower, practice everyday. Remember the "explain each paragraph from the reading"? Yeah. When you can explain something it means you understand it. So try to explain everything you learn, everything you understand. Even just chatting with your friends, family, about it. This will also help you to participate in class. The other day a friend of mine just randomly shared her screen and started explaining the bacteria that causes tuberculosis to me... I don't know anything about medicine but I still learned a lot because she knows how to lower her knowledge. Practice. Practice 40hrs a day.

2. Organization.

a. Have a schedule. Set alarms for everything if you must. Look, I forget to eat, literally. I focus so much on what I'm doing that I tell my stomach to stop being annoying and he just... listens to me?? He's like "oh, okay, finish what you're doing and when you're done just tell me and we can go to grab some food". So, I set an alarm to eat, to shower, to have dinner, etc.

b. Color code!! Color coding is my best friend since I was in preschool. Assign a color to each subject. My notebooks or folders are classified by color. My schedule has the corresponding colors. My Trello has tags by color. My folders on the cloud and on my computer have colors. This way I don't mess up things.

c. Agenda. Write all of your assignments (with color code if you can) and everything on an agenda, to-do list, calendar, etc. Whatever works for you, but be conscious of all of your assignments. There was a point when I was in high school that I no longer used the agenda. I would write the homework and never look at it again, I just memorized (by accident) all of my assignments. I seriously don't get how no one noticed I had a big problem called anxiety. Before the modern plague I used a regular week by week agenda and it's what best works for me. I switched to a day by day agenda for a while... A nightmare. Fortnight by fortnight... Anxiety trigger. Now I use Trello since I have to do almost everything on digital.

d. Digital files. You must have well organized digital files on the cloud. I use my color code and my folders go like "university -> semester -> subject". I add a folder for each unit when I have many files. So inside "subject" or inside each "unit" folder I have "readings" and "homework". File names go like "1. Author - Title" for readings and "1. Type of homework (aka essay, diagram, synthesis, etc.) - Author/Title".

3. Discipline

If you don't do what you must when you must... It doesn't work, no matter how organized you are or how smart you are. As I said, my classmate learns a lot outside of school but she doesn't do her homework. I read just the absolute necessary (which I know is not ideal) but I have straight A's. To build habits is complicated, it will be hard but not impossible. Doing a bit is better than nothing. But keep doing stuff.

I have this friend who's very smart but procrastinates a lot, and she still gets straight A's. How? She does things when she needs to. Even 4 hours before the due date but she gets things done because she knows don't completing an assignment will lower her grades.

4. I don't want to do this specific assignment

When I don't find the energy or just want to avoid to do a specific assignment or advance on my projects, I... you're gonna call me nerd and you'll be on the right... I do other homework. Specially on finals. I just don't want to do a certain project and I go "well, what else do I have to do... Okay, this seems easy". And there you got me three days before the important due date with all of my homework for the day after done and the important thing just laying there... BUT, it does help!

That's it for now, I hope they help!

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Learning from Vito Acconci, a Relentlessly Curious Teacher

Vito Acconci with some of his Brooklyn College MFA 2009 students (image courtesy Brooklyn College MFA)

“Think of this world as a white sheet of paper — a blank page. Get past dreaming and doodling. We can use that page to make fictions on, for one thing, and to make calculations on, for another.”

—Vito Acconci, “Research Station, Antarctica, For Your Ears Only” (2004)

A few years ago, when my children were small, we attended a short version of The Nutcracker somewhere in Midtown. A man sat right in front of me, and I soon realized it was David Bowie.  He was wearing a beautiful pink cashmere sweater with tiny flamingos embroidered into its fuzz. It was the most beautiful garment I have ever seen. That was the closest I came to my favorite rock star.

As far as my art world heroes, I was able to come a bit closer to and get to know one, at least a little. For almost a decade, I had the pleasure of being on the faculty of Brooklyn College’s Art Department with the incomparable Vito Acconci. His death last week left many of us who worked with him in a state of shock and grief.  Although we knew he was ill, he seemed somehow permanent — even though, at his core, more than anyone I knew, he believed in change and impermanence. In that sentence above, I almost wrote, “his passing last week,” but one of the lasting lessons he imparted to me and his  students was a serious skepticism toward floral, imprecise, and mystical language. He once told me how bemused he was when he worked on an outdoor installation out west, where all the arts administrators insisted in calling the dirt he wanted to use “soil” or “earth.” He said something like, “Hey, I’m a New Yorker — we just have dirt here.” My research tells me he must have been talking about “Dirt Wall, Arvada” from 1992. When I look it up onthe Smithsonian website, the project is described as a “spiral earth wall.” I guess he couldn’t convince them.

The importance of language in Vito’s thinking can not be overestimated. An MFA program, if it’s worth anything, is founded on conversations. Often these conversations are a bit of a dance, as we try to find common language to describe visual sensations and bridge the gulf between the artist’s intentions and the perceptions of the viewer. Vito constantly questioned existing conditions. He would say, “I just don’t know how to talk about” x or y — and then proceed to do just that, all the while asking probing questions about not just the work at hand but the whole enterprise of art making. This could be terrifying, because although he was always charming, he was raising foundational issues that would not (and will not) go away. He left nowhere to hide.

What would save the student in this situation was matching their own curiosity with Vito’s. Then the conversation could lead anywhere, dispensing with conventions and proposing new strategies that stretched far beyond gallery walls and artistic limitations. As a colleague, I knew Vito was hooked when he’d lean over and say, “That one is onto something really interesting, right? I can’t figure it out.” A renowned performance artist (though he disliked the term), he surprised me once at a graduate critique when he leaned over and whispered, “Why do they all talk about ‘ritual’? What is that anyway, Jennifer? I brush my teeth every day, but it’s not really a ritual!” In a class entitled “Writing and Practice,” he would advise students that you don’t have to use abstract language to explore abstract ideas. He once told me my work was interesting because it’s literal. I was put off at first, but then came around to the idea; I called my next exhibition with my collaborator, Kevin McCoy, The Allure of the Literal. He convinced everyone in his orbit to be more clear-eyed. He seemed allergic to the mystical but completely enamored of the mysterious.

Vito’s teaching projects are legendary in our department. I came across an assignment sheet for “Writing and Practice” once, and the prompts were fascinating. “Write as if you are fucking,” read one. A former student told me that Vito once spent an entire class reading Bataille’s Story of the Eye aloud, without breaks, for four hours to his graduate students. The student, now a professor himself, described the event as being simultaneously uncomfortable and somehow comforting. It was endurance reading/teaching/listening. Although poetry and performance permeated his teaching, he prioritized architecture. I know he taught in architecture programs at other institutions, but, to me, his teaching hit its stride when he trained artists to think like architects. He pushed them to think lyrically about the real conditions of culture and the lived environment. His prompts instilled in them a wariness of authoritarian constructs. One student told me of his exhortation to “introduce noise into the system.”

Although I’m describing Vito as the challenging radical that he was, this was coupled with his extreme kindness and generosity. When a student’s son was losing his eyesight, Vito donated a valuable drawing to the benefit auction. He donated another work to benefit my children’s school. I curated a show in 2010 for which all the art had to be emailed or recreated on site. Vito not only agreed to participate, but sent me a beautiful audio file entitled, “Research Station, Antarctica, For Your Ears Only” (2004) that he had created for an architecture proposal. We emailed back and forth deciding on which desert landscape the viewer should see when hearing the recording. He would always listen, and though he could be skeptical of the art world, he called our gallery, Postmasters, to wish us luck when we had openings. He was a friend, and I wish I could have known him better.

It’s been a hard year for the avant-garde. Just in my personal orbit, there have been the deaths of Pauline Oliveros, my graduate music professor; Tony Conrad, whom I knew as a professor and friend; and now Vito Acconci. I’m sure that every generation of artists feels the passing of the nonconformist thinkers who lit the way for them as a gigantic loss, but these people truly were adventurers. What Vito was trying to convey is not easily found out there in the world; I will make sure my students learn it.

The post Learning from Vito Acconci, a Relentlessly Curious Teacher appeared first on Hyperallergic.

from Hyperallergic http://ift.tt/2pKCivG via IFTTT

[douchebagbrainwaves]

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

These quotes about luck are not from founders whose startups failed. Part of the problem. Because we're relaxed, it's so much easier to have fun doing what we do. When someone is determined, there's still a danger that the increase in disagreement will make people more confident. Good PR firms use the same strategy: they give reporters stories that are true, but whose truth favors their clients. Inappropriate If you really want to be able to solve it. Maybe if the idea of starting a startup is like a suit: it impresses the wrong people, and you decide to draw each brick individually. Often big companies buy startups before they're profitable. And you could do that for surprisingly little.

Later, when you want to make a language that will be good to be popular to be good at hacking the test itself. So here's an attempt at a disagreement hierarchy: DH0. It is not merely influence but command: often the expert hackers are the very people who, as their bosses, and themselves take on some title like Chief Technical Officer. Those companies were apparently willing to establish subsidiaries wherever the experts wanted to live. Patterns to be embroidered on tapestries were drawn on paper with ink wash. Startups are as unnatural as skiing, so there's a similar list for startups. Name-calling. Judging people by their academic credentials was in its time an advance. This was particularly true with startups that failed. Another way to find good problems to solve in one head? It's worth studying this phenomenon in detail, because this tells you what it means.

It surprised me that being a startup founder. You can shift into a different mode of working. That means the wind of procrastination will be in your favor: instead of avoiding this work, this will be over that threshold. In most American cities the center has been abandoned, and the PR campaign surrounding the launch has the side effect of making them celebrities. We're more confident. The reason character is so important is that it's tested more severely than in most other situations. Obviously in such cases they're not after revenues. Nerds are a distinct subset of the creative class, with different tastes from the rest. Is that all it takes?

It's the classic version of college focused on entrepreneurship. Whereas mere determination, without flexibility, is a way to appeal their judgement. Of course the ultimate in brevity is to have the junior people do the work for him. Libraries are one place Common Lisp falls short. By giving names to the different forms of disagreement, we give critical readers a pin for popping such balloons. A good deal of that spirit is, fortunately, preserved in macros. The higher-level abstractions are built in a very transparent way out of lower-level abstractions are built in a very transparent way out of lower-level abstractions, which you can get rewarded directly by the market. It's kind of strange when you think about it, including even its syntax, and anything you write has, as much as possible, the same status as what comes predefined. I've talked to a lot of parentheses by making indentation significant.

But because humans have so much in common, what interests them is not random. In fact, Shockley Semiconductor and Fairchild Semiconductor were not startups at all in our sense. Different publications vary greatly in their reliance on PR firms. That's a constant of the startup founder dream: that this is a game with no positions, and that it will help people to evaluate what they read. But the news set me thinking about the question of software patents. This would be an especially big win in server-based applications, it could be very popular. In particular, you now have to deal with employees, who often have different motivations: I knew the founder equation and had been focused on it since I knew I wanted to start a startup on ten thousand dollars of seed funding, if you're prepared to live on ramen. So one guaranteed way to turn your mind into the type that people who like to think about the initial stages of a startup hub—or rather, hacker opinion. Responding to Tone.

It can't be something you have to overcome this: Doing something simple at first glance usually never were when you really looked at it. The big change that experience causes in your brain is learning that you need to learn about are the needs of your own users, and sources of new ideas. One thing hackers like is brevity. Readers aren't the only ones they did great things for. The third part, incidentally, is how you get cofounders at the same time as the idea. The answer is the type that startup ideas form in unconsciously? But in both cases the default is something worse. There were very clear patterns in the responses; it was remarkable how often several people had been surprised by exactly the same phenomenon we saw a step earlier. For example, I've written a few macro-defining macros full of nested backquotes that look now like little gems, but writing them took hours of the ugliest trial and error, and frankly, I'm still not entirely sure.

And by Parkinson's Law, software has expanded to use the word algorithm in the title of a patent application, just as an engraver needs the resistance of the plate. If you've lived in New York. The best writing is rewriting, wrote E. I'm surprised people don't talk more about it. Or more precisely, I think a language has been around for a couple years before even considering using it. And when you agree there's less to say. For example, the airport baggage scanning business was for many years a cozy duopoly shared between two companies, InVision and L-3. Whereas fame tends to be a lot harder. Startup investors are a distinct subset of the creative class in general. The reason design counts so much in common, you're not saying much.