#and surrounding herself with positive vibes to drown out the darkness. i thought we were all on the same page that that was what she does

[smallnico]

nobody asked but i want everyone to know that when i draw karlach doing a happy tail thrash, it's stimming. i'm drawing her happy flapping. i'm not trying to compare karlach to a dog (or, rather, i'm not trying to condescend to her or minimize her pain or awareness or intelligence). i think everyone knows she's got big feelings and she's a very physically emotive and fidgety person (we've all seen her little dance) so it just makes sense to me that she would vent her excitement physically somehow.

also it's what i would do if i had a tail. i'm stuck using my hands lmao

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 21

First time reader click here

TWs/SUMMARY: Wanda fluff, Loki fluff, we're getting a whole ass friendship! Dad sucks. The outfits are neat tho! Check the end for a mood board 😍

a/n: dress inspo and aesthetic visuals can be found here, here and here. (Paolo Sebastian, Firefly Path gowns and Viona Ielegems photography).

"Gi-i-irl..." Wanda drawled, seeing me arrive with Tony, both of us freshly showered and still hazy from the amazing orgasms. God only knew what she'd seen in both of our heads - if judging only by the vivid, crimson blush she spouted, it was definitely something very NSFW. Bruce already sat at the dinner table, quietly slurping his soup, his back and shoulders the most relaxed I'd ever seen. He gave me a knowing smile once he noticed my presence in my usual spot by his side.

The rest of the team appeared completely oblivious, preoccupied by their food.

"So, about the party. Got any costume ideas?" I cut straight to the chase, unwilling to wait for Wanda to start asking for details right in front of everyone.

Steve, Bucky, Pietro, Thor and Natasha all answered affirmative, the latter whacking Clint upside the head and firmly stating "no funny business". I couldn't help but wonder what kind of crazy shit the Bird had in mind and was kind of disappointed at Nat's intervention. A good chaotic moment was always worthwhile in my opinion!

The other bird, Sam, approached Bruce with caution as he wondered if the scientist was interested in doing a paired costume with him, only to be interrupted by Tony declaring, with childish glee, he had a "wicked project" that he and Bruce would be doing together. The scientist gave a resigned sigh and apologized.

Sam wasn't deterred by the slight setback; he approached Clint instead and after being given an okay from Natasha, the Birds decided to pair up. As they should, if you'd ask me.

"I have a costume but I need some accessories. Wanda, Lokes, join me on my lil' shopping trip?" I prompted, wanting everybody to be included. I was fully prepared for Loki to scoff and dismiss my invitation but the Asgardian nodded after a second of brief speechlessness. Didn't anyone invite him to birthday parties as a kid? Either way, Thor gave me a grateful smile, like a proper big brother. Both Asgardians had grown visibly closer during the past couple of months which made me hide a secretive smile behind a spoonful of soup.

It turned out, Loki hadn't exactly been introduced to the buzzing beehive that is NYC. He didn't get out much and when he needed to be somewhere, the man simply teleported to the desired destination. As convenient as it must've been, I still expressed my outrage at his lack of experience doing the usual "touristy" things that, in my opinion, every non-newyorker was obligated to do when visiting. Yes, even if said visitor had literally traveled across different galaxies.

Wanda wasn't much better in terms of city knowledge. According to her, she'd lived here for several years already but never bothered to go beyond the borders of the block surrounding the Avengers tower. The witch didn't have friends outside of her teammates (therapy. they all needed so much therapy. y'all...) so she simply saw no point in going anywhere beyond the local mall.

Which was trash. I mean, I loved Hot Topic and Forever 21 as much as any other young adult with depression and anxiety but it was literally impossible to wear clothes made out of cheap cotton and polyester all the time. I'm pretty sure I would have hives and ulcers if I attempted that.

"We're going on Sixth Avenue and that's final. No friend of mine will be wearing shit from Wal-Mart at a Stark party," I interrupted Wanda's defensive stuttering, using my other hand to summon an Uber.

"That is good advice," Loki, previously silent, added in a sweet tone. I counted on the fashionable Asgardian to be on my side and with his schmoozing skills, I didn't even have to drag Wanda inside the car by, like, her hair or whatever. The three of us barely fit into the small Toyota anyway.

A thought struck me when I had to consciously avoid stepping on Loki's leather shoes and keep away my elbow from Wanda's stomach. "Mister? I'll give you a hundred bucks cash if you turn around and drive to this address," I hurriedly rattled off my home address, delighting in the way the driver nearly did a U-turn at the mention of crispy dollar bills.

We arrived home quickly. Wanda gaped in mild disbelief at the size of my house while Loki looked about as interested as he'd ever be. His face was akin to an expression one made while smelling fresh manure. Opening the garage, I was greeted with an unpleasant surprise of my dad's outrageously painted Corvette standing neatly by my white Range Rover.

Loki looked and felt considerably less tense in the back of my car. The subtle signs of discomfort all but left his face replaced by slight wonder as I explained how to adjust the temperature and turn on the heated seats.

Dad met us at the gates. "You didn't come in to say hello," He pouted. His breath reeked like a five-day drinking binge hangover and he looked a dead man.

"We're in a hurry, dad. There's a lot to be done," I replied curtly, hoping to get rid of him fast. I hated being sober around my drunk father. My fingers twitched on the steering wheel.

"You're like your mother, always busy," Dad's laugh was coarse and bitter. "But at least you find time for Stark and his friends. That'll do your future real good," He clapped once on the hood of my car, heading back to the house with a wave of his hand, just in time to miss the disgusted shudder that ran through me.

I knew my dad well enough to understand the implications of what he meant by his words. In his world, fucking way up to the top was considered the norm. I'd rather cut off my own foot than use Tony that way.

"Sorry you had to see that. I thought he was still in Cali," I gritted my teeth, pulling out of the driveway.

"I'm sorry you had to experience that. I have no kind words regarding your father," Loki's look was sympathetic in the rearview mirror.

"Or your mother," Wanda added, messing with her seatbelt. Loki nodded tersely.

"Aight, aight," I sighed, set on improving the mood. "Let's not poop this party. We're getting some absolutely delicious beverages and wasting my money on outrageous pretty things. My treat."

Wanda's protests were drowned out by Motorhead and Loki's grumbling was overshadowed by Guns'n'Roses. Their resistance didn't stand a chance. Few blocks out, the witch was singing along to November Rain, heavily accented and terribly off-key, and the Asgardian watched New York city intently behind the protection of the tinted rear windows of my ride. He seemed mesmerized by the crowds and the variety of colorful shop fronts. This was the the one and only reason I eased off the gas pedal and drove the speed limit for once.

The atmosphere was, well, magical. Looking at my two companions, I discovered the familiar city anew with every question they asked, every remark they made. The desire to ask in turn about their homelands melted like the tension I was harbouring after the run-in with my father. Content and warm, I had my attention divided between Loki and Wanda juggling their wonder back-and-forth between themselves and the absolutely crazy NYC traffic.

So what if I parked in a no-parking zone just to get us the most delicious coffee in the city? Loki, the resident tea person, ordered himself something unpronounceable, something that made the barista twitch. Wanda got a sugary-sounding vanilla-white chocolate perversion. I just got a mocha, having had outgrown my adolescent desires to experiment with "how sweet can I make this coffee before I literally puke?" beverages.

With a laugh, I instructed them to pose in front of the nearest reflective surface to brag about our coffees on Instagram - this café deserved more recognition. My companions reluctantly obliged.

I wonder if the barista realized just who had bought the coffee - Loki was quite a media darling when it came to fangirls. Tony's PR team did a wonderful job on the Asgardian's redemption arc. The trickster only fueled the utter devotion his fangirls had for him by being extra nice and charming in every video I've seen. I guess you can't out-mindcontrol manners outta somebody, he was raised a prince after all.

It wasn't raining but the autumn chill seeped into the tiny spaces between my layers of clothing. I already managed to regret my fashionable dark academia inspired outfit at least twice, however the matching vibe all three of us had was positively dashing. Loki, wearing his usual onyx black and dark green. Wanda with a burgundy sweater dress and thigh high platformed boots - sweater dresses, out of all things, had no business looking this good on anybody. But she pulled it off.

"You said you've got a costume. Mind sharing what it is?" The witch said, curiously peeking into the windows of a nearby vintage boutique as we took our leisurely stroll with steaming paper cups keeping our fingers warm.

"A fairy dress. It was custom made for me last year and I actually didn't get to wear it. I need some jewelry to go with it," I explained, stopping to show a photo of the dress on my smartphone. "And some shoes, too. Let's hope the party will be held completely indoors, otherwise I'll freeze my ass off."

"Custom made?" Wanda squeaked, looking at the garment in wonder. Loki gave a vaguely approving nod.

"Yeah, there's a company that makes these fantasy dresses. You want one? What did you have in mind for your costume anyway?" I switched the topic quickly, seeing how Wanda withdrew into herself slightly. I heard from Peter she grew up poor, in the middle of a war and I didn't want to make her feel bad or anything. I wasn't good at these things...

"I thought maybe I could match with you," She replied, slowly taking a sip of her coffee.

"Sure. There are a couple of shops with really cute dresses that fit the aesthetic." Marchesa. We need a Marchesa store. And a Zuhair Murad - if there was one on this stretch of road. "What about you, Lokes? Anything in particular strike your fancy?" I asked our silent companion, frantically googling the information I needed.

"Black," He answered moodily.

"Boo, you whore," I rolled my eyes at his scoff. We had watched the Mean Girls recently and he got the reference, immediately raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "You know, you could do so much with this pale aristocratic look you've got going on. How about a medieval vampire?"

"Like Lestat? He's fucking hot," Wanda and I understood each other promptly. She jumped on the bandwagon immediately.

Combining my blunt honesty and her adorable fawning over a fictional bloodsucker, we managed to convince Loki into going on a hunt for brocaded, velvet suits and blouses with ruffles for his look. The trickster revolted at the mere suggestion of procuring some fake fangs, instead magically making them appear and showing them off in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, much to my and Wanda's delighted shrieking. He looked, I daresay, very attractive, like a porcelain figurine. Delicate but dangerous.

We arrived at the store that showcased beautiful, airy dresses of silk, chiffon and tulle. The lace was delicate and the seams invisible. I ushered Wanda into a dressing room with a shop attendant that was quietly but strictly instructed to not discuss the cost of the dresses and hide the price tags.

"I want it to be a gift. My friend here deserves no less than a magical experience," I explained quietly, winking at a bewildered Loki.

"Why did you do that?" He asked once Wanda was given a selection of several dresses in flattering colours and led into a separate dressing room.

"These dresses, they're special so they're a bit pricey. And knowing Wanda, she'll make a scene and refuse to let me buy them for her," I idly twirled my phone in my hands. "But every girl wants to be a princess and it's kinda sad she never got to be one. It's more than just a dress, it's more than feeling pretty, although it's a big part of it. She'll feel on top of the world."

Loki nodded. I'm certain he didn't understand it - being a man and all - and I wasn't sure I understood it completely, too. I never lacked pretty or expensive things, always got whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. But for a moment, I thought how it must've been for Wanda - seeing all these girls on TV, looking like pictures - and never having the chance to experience that. A concept that made me so sad, I was tempted to ask the customer service person for a glass of scotch. Being poor sounded depressing as hell.

Suddenly, Loki's cool, large hand landed on mine. "Thank you. I am certain Wanda will be the most beautiful lady at the ball."

I stared at him. Loki understood.

"Well, I... I don't know how finicky you are on gender labels for clothes, but there were a couple of blouses you might want to check out. They've got the neck ruffles and shit." My throat suddenly seized up and I had to clear it before speaking, steering away from the uncomfortably emotional moment. Thankfully, Loki wandered off without as much as a word.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

& the promised aesthetic

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars

Read the full story on ao3...

ix: just an arrogant son of a bitch

You can’t blame me darling,

not even a little bit.

And I’m just an arrogant son of a bitch,

who can’t admit when he’s sorry

-Harry Styles, “To Be So Lonely”

Sitting in the cavernous official office of King Rhaegar Targaryen felt unsettling. Whether it was the dark color scheme or the dragon statues leering at him, Jon couldn’t say, but the subject they were gathered to discuss certainly didn’t help.

They were situated around a smaller table in the room, not the impressive desk at the other end. Papers were splayed around and Ned and Rhaegar spent hours discussing each point in the new contract. Daenerys stewed in silent rage across from Jon, as she had that morning.

The Starks were invited to breakfast in the formal dining room with the royal family. Jon expected another stuffy, extravagant hall with a mile long table weighed down by hundreds of food options. The Targaryens basking in the glory of their ostentatious wealth. What he got surprised him. 

The impressive chandeliers were off in favor of the natural light from the tall windows. The mile long dining table was much more modest with just enough seats to fit all of them in. And the light breakfast foods were offered on a platter in the center. 

The only open seat was across from the Princess and Jon swallowed down the curses he wanted to utter. She had her back to the windows, the morning sunlight making a halo out of her white gold hair. The princess looked up when he entered, something strange flickering in her eyes before she tore her gaze away. Under any other circumstances, Jon would’ve appreciated the beautiful scene and maybe tried his hand at a compliment, but considering their confrontation the night before he thought it best if he kept his mouth shut.

Just the look of her brought back images of last night. Wet hair over a black clad shoulder, a whiskey bottle clasped in a pale hand. The drenched, see-through slip and a pair of violent violet eyes trying to conceal their anger at the world.

She avoided eye contact with him the whole time, preferring to push her food around her plate and throw a few disinterested comments Elia’s way. 

She spoke to Jon only once, breaking her pointless silence to say, “I trust your jacket made it back to you.”

“In perfect condition,” he answered. 

They returned to their silence for the rest of the breakfast. Occasionally, Jon would sneak a glance at her, only to find that she was looking at him too. They both averted their eyes and went back to their food.

The two played the same game as Rhaegar and Ned discussed yet another point on the treaty. 

“There is one thing I would like to propose as an amendment to the contract,” the young woman spoke up, straightening her posture from the slouched, disinterested pose before.

“What’s that Daenerys?”

“The Crown Matrimonial.”

King Eddard sighed and Jon tightened his hands around the arm rests to keep his face from betraying him.

Reading the change in demeanor the princess asked, “Is there a problem?”

Eddard began, “No, it’s-”

“You’ve no right to it,” Jon blurted

She arched an eyebrow at him, tilting her chin up in defiance.

“What my son means is that traditionally the crown matrimonial is-”

“I know. Only granted when the consort in question proves themselves worthy through an act of honor or great courage. I think entering a lifelong commitment to provide your country with supplies to make it through winter is an honorable action.”

“Dany…” Rhaegar sighed.

As she turned her head to look at her brother, Jon noticed the numerous braids in her hair. All wrapped and pinned around each other with precision. She looked like a queen sitting on a war council, carefully planning her next strategic move.

“Normally, the honorable action is childbirth or, in ancient cases, serving in war. It’s a title that must be earned, not bartered away. I hope you understand that this is the reason we withhold the crown matrimonial.” Ned explained.

Rheagar and Daenerys exchanged looks, the King’s eyes burning in warning.

“Is there any way we could keep it on the table?”

“Of course but the final decision rests with the Council of High Lords.”

Jon didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. Were they really so desperate? 

Daenerys hummed, “No crown, no contract.”

With that she stood and strode from the room, as though it was a casual conversation between passers-by.

“I’m very sorry about her. She just needs time.” Rhaegar collected the papers and put them into a folder marked with the Targaryen crest.

Ned nodded, “I understand.”

“She asked that we give her a month before anything is finalized.”

“And if she decides against this?” Jon asked.

Rhaegar reached for a second folder and opened it, “ I doubt she will but, just to be safe, we planned a month-long tour of the North. If you give her a chance to see why your people need her, she’ll be sympathetic. Daenerys may not act it but she has the biggest heart in this family.”

The tour of the North was strategic to say the least. The first stop in White Harbor, a public appearance at one of the homeless shelters there, then to Winterfell for a few days before setting off to the Mountain Clans. They would arrive in time for Midsummer celebrations. 

It would be fun to watch the southern princess try to understand the ancient celebrations. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction when they told her it was rude to not participate.

When he returned to his rooms he found Robb and Sansa planning a night out. And before he knew it he was dressed up and towed to a rented car.

Sansa made a big deal about wanting to spend more time exploring the city instead of stuck in the castle where they felt like outsiders. Jon knew she just wanted to be seen by the somebodies of King’s Landing.

“Sansa, where are we going?”

“I heard a couple of ladies talking about the Dragonpit last night.”

“The Dragonpit?” Robb rolled his eyes.

Everything in the damned city had a dragon theme to it even when the business didn’t exclude dragon energy.

“It’s super exclusive with tight security and I think we should go.”

“What makes you think they’ll let you in? You’re still seventeen.” Jon joked.

Sansa protested in her usual way, “And three-fourths! Besides, my age doesn’t matter because I’m somebody.”

“Yeah, everyone in the South knows who we are.” Robb’s sarcastic comment had no effect on her positive disposition.

“They will by the time we leave.”

The Dragonpit was in the basement of a high rise in the New City. Cameramen crowded the entrance, held back by a velvet rope. The flashes of their cameras like lightning in a summer storm, their shouts the accompanying thunder. 

Sansa walked down the paved path with all the confidence of a queen. Flipping her hair and smiling for the cameras, flanked by her brothers. Robb gave his best performance but Jon couldn’t find it in him to fake anything. The bouncer didn’t even try to stop her and as they descended the stairs, they found themselves in another world.

The name ‘The Dragonpit’ insinuated a medieval vibe but the space beneath the building was ultra modern. The dance floor was crowded, the people revealed through flashes of the stage lights surrounding the DJ’s booth. Low red lights around the club signaled where the extra seating was. Sansa went straight to the dance floor, Robb following to keep an eye on her. Jon however, went straight for the bar. 

The backlit liquor options and the black marble countertop were too fancy. The heavy bass from the music made it so Jon had to shout his order to the bartender. His unwillingness to be there doubling by the second. 

A commotion at the entrance drew his attention. The song blasting through the speakers faded out and the DJ proclaimed over his mic, “Looks like a special guest just dropped in. Ladies and gentlemen, Her Royal Highness Daenerys Targaryen!”

This time Jon did swear, the applause and cheers loud enough to drown him out. The Gods had it out for him, he was certain of that now.

The track switched back on, the bass reverberating through the crowded club again. Jon’s eyes followed her as she was swallowed by the people on the dance floor. The bright strobe lights reflected off her silvery hair and the impractical hoops hanging from her ears threw it any which way.

It wasn’t long until she made her way to the bar.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she complained when she saw him. 

Her hair was still braided from earlier but the short red dress was a complete turn around from the soft grey sweater she’d worn that morning.

“If you care to know, my sister dragged me here.”

“You’re sister? Isn’t she a bit young to be going to clubs?”

“No one tells Sansa no.”

“Maybe someone should.” Despite her previous rudeness upon seeing him, she sat next to him.

“I understand you changed your mind,” Jon said, eyeing her.

“I didn’t change my mind, I bought myself time.”

“So you can try to wiggle your way out of having responsibility?”

Instead of the deathly stare he expected, she arched a brow at him.

“So I don’t have to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The bartender came around and took her attention away.

“A Braavosi Apple Martini and a Dragon’s Blood.”

“Cocktails? You were drinking stronger stuff last night.”

“I’m here with Missandei and I’m banned from drinking in public.”

“Whatever you say,” he smirked.

He knew what game he was playing. It was how he got Theon to do anything stupid. Jon didn’t want Daenerys to embarrass herself but their love of liquor was the only thing they had in common.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she sneered.

“No, but I’ve heard plenty.”

Her jaw tightened and she lengthened her neck. Jon learned quickly that it was her little way of gathering confidence, preparing for battle.

“Fine,” she declared and reached over the bar, “If that’s how you want to play it.”

She slammed down two shot glasses. The bartender came over with her previous order and she demanded a bottle of Crown Royal.

He knew he should’ve stayed away from the alcohol, it never ended well, but the princess was a challenge he was determined to beat.

“Let’s turn it into a game. We make assumptions about each other. For each one you get right, I take a shot and vice versa.”

“I have to warn you, I’m very good at reading people.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m impossible to read.”

Jon shook his head, no one was impossible to read. Bastards had to learn to notice things and that aspect of his nature was honed during his military time.

“Ladies first,” he offered, sliding his original glass out of the way.

She narrowed her violet eyes at him, scanning his face.

“Your best friend is your brother.”

Jon took the shot then considered Daenerys as she refilled his glass.

“You’ve played this game before.”

“That’s obvious,” she pointed out, the edge of the glass hovering in front of her lips.

The nude shade she wore was soft and inviting unlike the vicious red of the night before. Jon found himself watching as they parted into a smirk before taking her shot.

“You smoke. You told everyone you quit but you still do it.”

Jon took his shot.

“How the fuck did you know that?”

“When you gave me your jacket last night.” she reached into her bag and slid the pack across the bar. “You left your pack in the pocket.”

“And you’ve been carrying it around with you?”

She shrugged, “There might be a couple missing. Your turn.”

A few shots later, Missandei came over to see what was taking Dany so long. She saw them together and simply grabbed her drink and told Jon to keep an eye on her.

“You joined the military because you felt like you had something to prove.” she stated.

Jon couldn’t refuse her and took the shot. The previous assumptions were light, simple things that barely scratched the surface of a person, but Daenerys made it clear that she wanted to move on. She had ripped away the skin and was ready to tear into the meat of her prey. 

“You ran off to college to escape your family.”

“And this dreadful city,” she added before tipping back the glass.

“Your father is the reason for your discharge from the military, not an accident, like your profile said.”

Shot. It was only half true.

“You’ve been with more than three people.”

Shot.

“You’ve never been with anyone.”

He allowed himself a stupid smirk as her eyes shifted from the shi\ot glass to him.

“Am I wrong?”

 “Yes.”

She looked at him as though she didn’t believe it before reaching over the bar and taking the shot for him. 

“For getting one wrong,” she excused.

As they carried Jon felt the pressure building in his head as he tried to come up with something.

“Your relationship with the Dothraki Khal was much deeper than people know.”

Her jaw ticked as the words left his mouth. She furiously threw the shot back, setting the glass down with more effort than needed. He’d really struck a nerve. He should’ve backed off and sober him would’ve but the alcohol made him bolder. It blurred the lines between the self he presented and the one that looked at the world through a bitter lens.

They continued, the world blurred around the edges but both of them were determined to get the other to quit. Especially Daenerys. 

“You hate me.”

Gone was the diplomacy and tact. She was messy, trying to get as many hits on him as she could, trying to get him where it hurt. Jon thought he saw how ruthless she could be last night but she proved herself to be even more devastating now.

He clasped his hand around the shot glass but when it came time to take it, he paused. He wanted to take the shot, to throw it in her face that she didn’t phase him and her little games were pointless, but something deep in his mind stopped him. 

She took note of his hesitation, “Well?”

The smug look on her face was all it took. Before he could second guess it, the liquor was sliding down his throat. He found comfort in the way it burned. 

“Good because I can’t stand you either.”

He didn’t need to think hard on what he would say to her, he’d figured it out last night. 

“You’re in love with that Tyrohsi millionaire- what was his name? Daario Naharis?”

From the way her eyes widened Jon knew he caught her off guard. The corner of her mouth twitched like she wanted to say something, but she snatched up the glass and downed her shot.

She slapped money down on the counter for their alcohol and leaned in close, “Don’t ever say that name again.”

 “I thought you didn’t get attached.”

She released a bitter laugh, “I don’t usually. But I’m a woman and we’re known to get too emotionally involved. The press has been profiting off of that my whole life.”

“If you weren’t so public with your exploits, the media wouldn’t have so much stake in your life.”

“Let’s think about this critically for a moment. If you were to exhibit the same behaviors-”

“I wouldn’t-”

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snapped.

Jon didn’t think the look in her eyes could turn any more venomous but it did.

“If you were to do the same things, people wouldn’t bat an eye because you’re a man. I don’t care what higher moral authority you think you have but don’t assume for one second that makes you better than me. If the roles were reversed, your reputation wouldn’t be affected at all.”

“That’s where you're wrong,” Jon corrected.

“Oh really? Explain it to me.”

“I was born a bastard. When I was legitimized that title didn’t go away, it was put under a magnifying glass. If I stepped out of line there would be more than whispers in the court. It’s not only my reputation on the line, it’s my family’s.”

He stopped himself before he could mention the underlying tensions with the other high lords. That was deeper than he needed to go. And there was no need to discuss private matters of state with a woman who could care less.

She was quiet in that contemplative way when people thought things over. Jon was reminded of last night, when his outburst led to her reconsideration of the marriage contract. That same night he realized he was the only person who had ever told her off. She could’ve used that during their meeting to free herself from the arrangement but she didn’t. Not for the first time did Jon wonder what was going on in that pretty, stubborn head of hers.

“Do you think I have a higher moral authority now?”

“No. But I’m not one to ignore the pressures and restrictions monarchy puts on us. Let’s call it a truce. At least until you give me another reason for an alcohol fueled confrontation.”

She held her Dragon’s Blood cocktail up, her face betraying no emotion. Not even a smile at their hastily made peace. He clinked her glass with his empty one. She retreated to the dance floor where her friend was, surprisingly sturdy on her high heels with the alcohol she’d consumed. Then again, she boasted about her ability to hold liquor. 

He had no interest in joining the mass of bodies and heat that was the dance floor. He preferred to observe what kind of foolishness took place.

Sansa danced near the edge of the floor, Robb kept an eye on her from outside the commotion. He was usually in the middle of it all but Talisa gave him quite the talk before they left. It was a good thing Robb was taking it seriously. Jon liked having Talisa around.

One of the spotlights blazed across the crowd and Jon’s eyes followed. When they landed on the braided, white-blonde hair of Princess Daenerys, he didn’t look away. She mouthed the words to the song with her eyes closed, head thrown back and body moving with the beat. The track ended and as the crowd on the floor responded to the DJ, she looked dead at Jon. A new bassline rumbled through the club and she was leaving.  For the second time that day, she was storming out because of Jon.

[theparanormalperiodical]

The Real Story Behind The Annabelle Doll, And The Other Haunted Dolls You Need To Know About

If you’ve been living under a rock for like, the last, I don’t know, 6 years, then you won’t know squat about the creepy doll phenomenon that’s currently haunting our TV and cinema screens (and at this rate, our nightmares too).

Even though this newer trope combines all the basic-bitch horror movie plot lines – and holes – worthy of scoring a solid ‘rotten tomato’ on IMBD, it turns out that there is a good deal of truth to these tales of terror.

And this is bound to continue with the release of the newest instalment in The Conjuring universe: Annabelle Comes Home (2019).

This film seeks to document her existence in Ed And Lorraine Warrens Occult Museum – an actual place where she still is – and centres around the Warren’s daughter unleashing the dark spirits (and/ or demon) contained within this spooky-ass doll.

And so, it is time to reflect on the real story behind Annabelle herself, and the other haunted dolls in existence.

#squadgoals.

But first, here’s a quick recap of the Annabelle film saga:

Annabelle’s done pretty well for herself.

She’s featured in 4 horror hits, and has even starred in 3 self-titled movies to boot. We meet her first in The Conjuring as an introduction to the Warrens and she is effectively used to combat a classic horror film trope: all scary movies start with the obligatory first 30 minutes where they introduce the characters, the peaceful home setting, and the references to past trauma which will be once again inflicted later on. Then they get going with the stuff you actually paid for.

But not here, not in The Conjuring.

Annabelle is used to give us a taste of the terror that awaits us once we get past the opening titles. And lord, she does it well. We also get introduced to the basic-bitch doll hauntings that go hand in hand with any horror film; doors moving, writing on notes and on the ceiling, the classic rocking chair, and any other generic hauntings you can pull out of your ass and type up into a screenplay.

Anyway, the story of Annabelle across the films so far is that a child called Annabelle dies, and the parents call upon all the higher powers – yes, all the higher powers – in the midst of their grief to allow her to return.

‘Something’ pretends to be their daughter, and upon witnessing such things, they give this ‘Something’ permission to enter the doll.

The ‘Something’ then proceeds to fuck shit up, and thankfully the parents lock away the doll with all of the protections necessary. Round of applause, everyone.

Cue entrance of young, innocent girls – who, just so happen to be orphans because tropes – who accidentally unleash the terror of the doll. That special ‘something’ trapped within Annabelle is unleashed and possesses one of the girls; she escapes, gets adopted whilst pretending to not be a demon (easier said than done, actually), and years later kills her adoptive parents after she hunts down the original Annabelle doll, and cries onto it to re-possess the doll.

This takes us to the first movie – which, yeah, it’s not great, not worth a watch – and ends with Annabelle being purchased from an antique shop, supposedly as a gift for the owners we met in the first Conjuring flick.

And it turns out that whilst the totality of the events aren’t completely true, the tagline of ‘based on a true story’ isnt too far-fetched.

The real-life Annabelle is one of the most renowned paranormal objects in the world, and her fellow haunted friends all seem to tie into the theory that is brought up in The Conjuring: Vessel theory.

Simply put by the Warrens, the doll (like any object) is a vessel for spirits and demons, namely those that want to enter you.

I mean, they could at least take you out for a drink first, god.

The films focus on this invitation aspect, channelling the vampiric vibe of being allowed in, and stick to the classic line of thought: the entities want your soul for a purpose to become idk alive again and no one really understands why but goddamnit it sounds intense.

And as it is a film, it sticks to a simplified version of the actual theories behind haunted dolls in order to cram in as many empty jump scares.

In actuality, there’s a lot more to the theories behind haunted objects, and the rumours of the objects themselves, than is given attention to in Annabelle’s film saga.

The actual theories behind haunted dolls

There are 3 sides to theory that we need to consider here: that of cursed objects, ceremonial objects, and a concept called ‘spirit binding’.

The film groups Annabelle in with the first category, but makes mention of the second group when it comes to introducing the Warren’s museum. Cursed objects come about when energies become attached to objects, and these vessels also are utilised in the ceremonial world.

The earliest history of haunted dolls sticks to this purpose, and its only when the age of the occult hits in the 20th century that stories like Annabelle’s start popping up.

Think effigies or voodoo dolls; anything that can be used for mystical purposes, was. It was believed that spells could transfer person to poppet, and were used to place curses on unfavourable community members.

This enforced binding of spirits to objects is the core of the theory, and still continues today under that rather obvious alias of ‘spirit binding’. Nevertheless, today’s process is rather more positive, and involves rather less-terrifying-small-children-horror-film tropes.

Vessels are laid out, and attachment or banishment rituals are applied. These objects can be taken with you on your adventures to ensure spiritual protection, or to channel some serious spirit squad goals.

And this is what the film gets wrong; the objects discussed here are spirit-based. Nowhere in the theories are demons mentioned, and even in the Bible it is claimed that demons cannot attach themselves to inanimate objects.

It’s this ambiguity used in the films to mis-mash the human possession and object possession together, and the ‘based on the true story’ spiel stops there. And speaking of true stories, it’s now time to discuss all the terrifying tales surrounding our favourite haunted dolls.

The actual Annabelle story

The true story behind this infamous doll sticks closely to the brief encounter detailed in The Conjuring.

Basically, a nurse is given a doll in the twilight years of the occult, in 1975. And shit gets weird. Think the normal hauntings, from noises, to the doll moving by itself.

Concerned, they go to a medium who claims it’s the spirit of Annabelle Higgins. Believing it to be an innocent girl, they treat the spirit and doll nicely. Unfortunately, shit gets weirder.

In a time of desperation, they turn to the Warrens, who say that this is not an innocent spritely spirit. It’s a demon.

The doll is then stored away in the Warren’s museum in a case from which the doll cannot be touched, and it is here that she still resides.

But before you turn out the light to sleep knowing she is stowed away somewhere safe, bear in mind that there are quite a few cases that mirror Annabelle’s story, and although they are rather diverse in the doll-spirit relationship, they are all creepy as fuck.

The true stories behind the rest of Annabelle’s Spooky Squad

Annabelle’s rival in the paranormal world is none other than Robert the Doll. This little fella is reportedly possessed by ‘spirits’, but don’t let the vagueness of this possession fool you. As the original inspiration for Chucky, this doll certainly upholds a level of fame among those intrigued by the paranormal, and the backstory to our least favourite horror film villain starts with a bloke called Otto.

In 1906, Otto was presented a doll – fit in Robert’s sailor’s uniform – by a servant who was known to practice black magic and voodoo.

Yep, that was a definite red flag.

It was believed that the servant’s worship and frequent summoning of spirits possessed this creepy-ass doll. Indeed, he is so haunted that it is rumoured that you must ask to take a picture of him, or you will be haunted by those that take up residency in him.

Next up is Lotta the Doll.

It’s 1972, and some bloke called Kerry Whalton decides to wander around an abandoned building because why not. And its inside this building that he finds a marionette doll.

A quick trip to the archives, and a chance flick through the library books later and he calculates that this doll is believed to contain the spirit of a boy who once lived an odd 200 years before. The building he walked into that fateful day was the property of a man whose son drowned, and his final resting place is inside this doll.

It moves, it emits a pulse, dogs bark at it and attempt to attack it, and paintings fall when in its presence.

Oh, and when it’s put outside, it starts to rain.

Another famous doll is known as the Paula Ubin Barbie.

In 1914, a girl fell of a cliff and subsequently died.

In memoriam of her tragic death, a monument was constructed, and in it was her personal crucifix and a rather large amount of her hair.

Following her passing, a local resident began to have rather peculiar dreams. And in these dreams, a little girl would lead him to a toy shop, and pick out her favourite toy – a barbie.

He took the doll to the monument, and upon setting it down claims he felt the spirit transfer into the barbie and it is believed that her spirit found peace.

Our two final dolls stick to pretty standard supernatural goings-on.

Mandy does the usual: you hear the sound of footsteps, other dolls are knocked over, and she even has her own display case. And Pupa? She bangs on the case, changes position, and even fucks off when she wants to.

Honestly, do they not know how haunted dolls are supposed to behave?

[simone-garnett]

Title: we are one, both heart and soul (and our bond will not break, no matter how far you go) Word Count: 2 000 Rating: clean. Information: CHRIS AND DANIELLE ARE GOING TO BE TOGETHER. ON SCREEN. OH MY LORD I AM NOT READY, I WILL NEVER BE READY. and so i wrote a monlin friendship fic. there is romantic karamel. may become a series. also: this has been on my computer for a while (ie: since i found out the musical episode is airing 3 days after my birthday and i flipped out) and so may or may not be canon with the newest ep. of supergirl. 

Mon-El doesn't notice her when they meet, not really. So focussed on the woman in his arms, her body limp and head rolling around, he doesn't pay attention to any of the strange faces before him. Only Kara's.

They had all heard stories regaled from her smiling lips about the other worlds she has visited, of the hero called The Flash and the team that he surrounded himself with. He would smile as her voice picked up speed, eyes blazing and cheeks going red from the smile that stretched across her face. She spoke of how brave they were, of how smart and loyal and her adoration for them made her face shine.

So when they were faced with a circumstance that none had faced, that none had any idea on how to solve, they turn to the group of heroes in a world not their own for a problem more precious than their own lives. 

He enters the world that wasn't his own, lost and confused, a group of people surrounding the other side of the portal that had opened up in the centre of her apartment building. He knows they are good people, knows that they are there to help. He knows it intellectually. But he can't resist the instinct to pull Kara's lifeless body closer against his chest as they reach to take her from him. Kara may trust them and he may be forced into relying on them, but they have in no way earnt his trust and he wouldn't be letting her go.

The brunette in the lab coat seems to see his mistrust in his eyes, can read it in his rigid spine and clenched jaw. He doesn't know what she says, doesn't think to use his enhanced hearing in this world. Only knows that she lays a hand on the two other men beside her - one with long hair and a lollipop, the other in a red suit, his arms crossed - whispers words to them and that they back down, nodding slowly to her before walking away. It is only when Hank starts to follow them that Mon-El realises he is to do the same.

He doesn't stray from the body, her body. Doesn't even glance at the body beside hers, the man in a red suit in a identical position, comatose on a bed beside Kara's. The lady in the lab coat, the doctor he assumes, is running tests on the two of them, measuring heartbeats and brain activity and she's mumbling to herself, saying phrases he isn't quite sure are actually English. 

But his mind is making up definitions and he's not sure he likes where his thoughts are heading, the road dark and black, the stench of death rising up, bile threatening to come up.

The doctor isn't in a happier position. She paces, he notices, constantly, unable to keep her hands off of the patients or the medical equipment they were attached to. Unable to stand still. Hating the feeling of helplessness.

"What's your name?" he asks suddenly, struck by the need to distract himself from this situation, from Kara lying motionless. She is always so strong, so capable. And the one time she needs him to save her he is helpless. He wanders down that road of thought for a small while, pulling himself out when he feels the weight of self-loathing coming to crash down on him.

"What?" Her head jerks up, eyes wide and he can't almost see the words running though her mind, can almost see her processing them, the confusion in her eyes, annoyance as she is distracted from her job.

"Caitlin." it's short and she turns away from him, hands moving over the bodies and the machine, pulling up charts and frowning to herself. And he knows that he may be blind to many things, but Mon-El decides that if he couldn't help Kara out, than maybe he could help this doctor. 

"Is there anything I could do?" It takes her by surprise, the question. And she squints, Mon-El shuffling his feet as she examines him closely. 

"Unless you can find the guy that did this to our friends, I'm not quite sure what anyone can do," she confesses, her shoulders slumping as she wrings her fingers."They seem normal and they aren't responding to any of my treatments." He nods slowly, her words making their way through his mind. The dire situation they’re in made a little more real with her sentence.

"I can try," he whispers hopelessly, the words spoken more to the unconscious woman lying in front of him than the doctor.

"Please." Caitlin's voice cracks and Mon-El hates that he can hear the quiet sniff, the helplessness wrapped on in that one word.

And he goes.

It is not Mon-El who ends up catching the Music Meister, but Vibe (Cisco, Caitlin will end up telling him later on, cheeks aching as they smile and laugh together over drinks with the rest of the team, his name is Cisco) and this, this villain, appears to be more subdued when in handcuffs and inside the particle accelerator. They interrogate him, or at least attempt to. He laughs in their faces, and it is only when Mon-El demonstrates his incredible strength and the anger burning inside him at the thought of Kara never returning does the Meister pale, Adam's apple bobbing as he reassessed his silence.

Apparently, however, there is nothing they can do. It is up to Kara and Barry to save themselves from the nightmare they are living. To endure it until the closing act.

He returns to the room where Kara and Barry are after hearing that confession, Caitlin trailing behind him. She goes to check their vitals while Mon-El throws himself on the seat, watching and praying for them to return, for her to come  back to him. 

Caitlin collapses in the seat beside him, watching the unmoving bodies, waiting until they awoke. He doesn't know whether to focus on the blonde or the brunette, the latter clearly rattled, eyes flickering between the two unconscious people in the room, driven to distraction by the inability to do anything to help. She wears herself down, constantly getting up to check their vitals - unchanged since they first laid down - before sitting herself down only to repeat the process only half an hour later.

He pities this Caitlin, finally worn down by exhaustion and worry, her eyelids fluttering closed as she struggles to remain awake. Her head bops up and down before she finally succumbs to the pull of sleep, body careening to the side, resting on his shoulder. She doesn't look comfortable and he knows the neck pains that come with sleeping in awkward positions all to well. So he tries to adjust her without awaking her, failing as he pushes just a little too much, jolting her around.

"No," she says sleepily, fighting her instincts to rest. "I can't sleep, not just yet." She turns to him, pinching her arms hard, swallowing a laugh as he frowns at her attempts to stay awake. "So," she begins, "you're not a human on your Earth." He nods hesitantly; he has come to trust her, her concern for Kara, her determination to help winning him over. "Where are you from then?"

He almost doesn't answer her question - his past on Daxam wasn't a happy one, it was one of privilege, but it was also one of countless atrocities, one of a pain that never truly healed, one that hurt to reflect on for very long. He searches for words to sidestep the conversation, thinks of ways he could brush it off without telling her a thing. But he meets her gaze, doe eyes of dark drown, like melted chocolate, sweet and he finds it easy, the idea of talking to this stranger who he’ll likely never see again. But more than that he can see her need to be distracted, one much like his own.

And he finds himself spilling secrets of his past, childhood memories with his brother, focussing on her laugh and not that said brother is dead, not on the last conversation he had shared with him or the last time he ever lay eyes on those sparkling eyes and smile that could light up the room.

She gives as well as she takes, telling him about the facility that they were in, of the lives that help build it, of the lives that it destroyed. 

Time had become fluid to them, so lost in the world of the other, that when Kara and Barry awoke with gasps hours later, it startled the pair. She runs to Barry and he rushes to Kara, kneeling before her, smiling as she cups his face with her hands, pressing kisses against his lips and cheek and forehead. He doesn't leave her side, not until Caitlin clears her, a smile on her face as she urges them out of the room with recommendations of a restaurant not half a mile away.

They are preparing to leave and return to their Earth, to their lives. Hank leaves first, urgent business to attend to; he tells Kara to stay safe and disappears through the portal, leaving the two alone on the wrong Earth.

Barry takes them to a bar nearby, promises of drinks and relaxation enough to convince the pair to delay their trip back for a few more hours. They order their drinks, and Mon-El finds himself wondering about this Earth's version of him, if he was found, if he was a good person. If he ever arrived here at all. He is brought back to the present, a tipsy Kara laughing with Barry and Cisco and Iris, Caitlin hanging off her words as she tells them of alcohol on her world, designed to intoxicate the strongest of aliens, metabolism be damned. She laughs and promises to bring some over the next time she arrives on their Earth. He talks to them all briefly, Caitlin pointing out the names of the people Kara was talking to, chiding his jealousy at her swoon of Julian's accent, her voice strange as Julian horribly tries to flirt.

Soon however, the night is over. And they were to leave. 

Kara is the life of the party and Mon-El is the wallpaper, resigned to standing in the background waiting for her to  thank everybody, to say goodbye to them all. They all loved her, that was a natural reaction, instinctually drawn to her bright personality and sweet nature. But Mon-El, he had barely shared words with any of them, haunting Kara's bedside, not moving for any reason that wasn't pertaining to her. The only person he had really talked to was - 

Caitlin drifts away from the crowd surrounding Kara, slides back toward the quiet man in the background, watching them with an indescribable look in his eyes.

"So, I guess this is goodbye then." 

"You know that Kara has a phone," she starts, lips pursed as she looks for the correct phrasing. "For inter-dimensional calls. Cisco gave it to her." Mon-El stares at her unwavering, squinting slightly as though to see the point she was trying to make. "Well, tada." She pulls something out from behind her; it is more bulky than the cellphone Kara had bought for him all those months ago, and trained him to use. But he recognises it all the same. 

He smiles until his cheeks ache, and even then it doesn’t move from his face, too delighted by the gift to care. Caitlin's hesitancy disappears at the sight of it and sighs in relief.

Wrapping his arms around her he squeezes tight, tears prickling at his eyelids. He does let go however, Caitlin's muffled requests finally understood, a trickle of guilt pooling at the bottom of his heart when she wheezes slightly, her hand on her chest as she takes deep breaths, a weak smile on her face doing nothing to wipe away his concern. 

"Oh sorry." He winces, "I forget I have super strength sometimes."

"It's fine," she replies, brushing away his concern. "I've dealt with worse."

And he wants to ask about it, about the haunted look in her eye. But of all the movie's he's watched, he's gathered that now would not be the most ideal time for that. So he notes it in the back of his mind, focussing a little harder on a more gentle goodbye to the doctor that cared for his love.

And taking Kara's hand they step through the portal back to their world. 

Together.

[anonymousafterthoughts]

This week has been PACKED with edits for Five Glass Flowers and navigating round one of the Feedback Phase of #WriterInMotion.  First off, I was BLESSED to be paired with Jeff and Sara as Critique Partners for this round. They’re both writing Science Fiction as well and are familiar with some of the genre-specific elements I brought to my story.  So a massive THANK YOU to both of them for their invaluable insight, suggestions, and, of course, for trusting me with their work as well.

Market & Genre: Science Fiction, Literary lean, Dystopian

Word Count: 1,210

Loose Comparisons & Inspirations: Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer, Orange by Ichigo Takano, and Inception.

Trigger Warning: Five Glass Flowers is set in a world with assisted suicide and touches on mental health. This isn’t fleshed out entirely at the moment, but it’s pretty obvious in this draft. The completed version will also allude to a light rail bombing (so, warn future you maybe) but this isn’t touched on yet.

I read the feedback side-by-side and made lists based on areas of concern: 1) what did both CPs like? 2) What was unclear to them? 3) Did the haunted, dystopian vibes come through? 4) Was everything balanced?

Most of the suggestions were minor–a need for clarity here, an awkward sentence there–but the real joy was seeing how they interacted with and processed the content. It’s been a LONG TIME since I’ve written any sort of science fiction, so I was concerned it didn’t fit enough within the genre or that the story, given its literary lean, might be confusing in some way. However, Jeff and Sara both swept those worries out the door! I love how Jeff came across the title of this chapter (The Janus Project) and did his own little research about it. I’d deliberately picked JANUS because it’s the name of the Roman God of doorways, time, transitions, and endings. I enjoy embedding meaning everywhere, and was tickled when Jeff picked up on this right away.

I also appreciated his attention to detail, such as pointing out the awkwardness of Asra’s position in the opening line or prodding me to elaborate on how the tally on the hologlass was discreet. His style of critiquing is similar to mine: stream of consciousness, reader reaction, and the occasional quill stab for needed edits (only I think he’s nicer at that than me LOL).  Both Jeff and Sara has similar suggestions, which indicated certain things SANG and a few things SUNK, but I liked the consistency in feedback. For example, there’s a line where the narrator points out that priets “don’t usually help someone die” and both CPs countered that, technically, one could argue they DID. So I adjusted the sentence to flat out say suicide so that a line is drawn between guiding one to their natural death versus allowing something a priest wouldn’t normally condone.

Sara’s style was a little more sparse and less reader reaction, but her insight was so helpful to catching potential world-holes and unclear exposition. For example, I’d never explained the whole reason behind Asra having THREE Caseworkers during her year of mandatory therapy. At the time, I wondered if that kind of info was even needed and left it out because I didn’t want to drag the story down with too much setting/backstory. However, Sara’s feedback revealed how unclear that section of the scene was and the kinds of questions it raised. I really appreciated her attention to details like this, especially since I have a tendency to be either painfully vague or vomit details everywhere. Her feedback gave me an idea of where to balance hints and reveals. She was also great at catching some of those little typos that like to sneak in!

My biggest concern was the atmosphere. I was shooting for haunting, mysterious, and poignant. I didn’t want the disturbing aspects of the world to overshadow the inescapable strangeness colliding with Asra Aeilstrom’s life. I worked to deepen her own backstory (settling on a traumatic subway bombing) about where her affliction came from. The first two versions were too vague in doing this, I think. The atmosphere was there, but the characterization…wasn’t. So I guess that was, more or less, my second big concern. Sara and Jeff expressed wanting to know more about Oblivion and why Asra is seeking it, so I think, to an extent, I’ve achieved building her character, but will need to also add her backstory in throughout the next few revisions. Here’s the overall feedback received:

1.

The Janus Project

The causes of death on the state-issued certificates gently floated along the tinted hologlass walls. Asra stared up at them with permanent conviction, dark sunglasses lessening the glare of light:

Xu Heng, 32, Inconsolable sorrow after absorbing displaced emotions.

Torin Thallos, 17, An uncontrollable desire to be full.

Lucho Gálvez, 23, The belief that nothing–including oneself–exists.

Ella Walsh, 47, A longing for things that cannot be named.

Lorne Thale, 50, Fell Hopelessly In Love With Annihilation.

Ian Ito, 38, Hysterical fear of drowning in air.

Every forty seconds, the certificates flickered out of existence, new ones appeared, and this cycle repeated. A discreet tally sat in the bottom right corner of the glass, where the day’s successful journeys to Oblivion tick, tick, ticked like a 24-hour clock: 66, 000. 70,200. 82,350. 93,800. The clock never seemed to stop, even after it reset to zero.

“It’s a painless, peaceful process.”

The office door hissed open and the Caseworker shuffled in. He gave Asra a reassuring smile, gray eyes shining with plastic empathy through crooked frames.

“Are they all…have they chosen to…” Die.

Asra tore her gaze away from the hologlass, and settled it on the pamphlet in front of her. She’d read it countless times in her year of therapy after she made her decision.  It was a requirement to know all the available options, even if one couldn’t afford them. Or, in her case, want them. If she closed her eyes, she could recite the entire pamphlet word-for-word, and yet, she couldn’t even recall–

“They chose Oblivion.”

As if rehearsed to a habit, the Caseworker reached out to console her with a light squeeze of a gloved hand. This, too, Asra was familiar with; she’d had three Caseworkers before this—completely normal for those of her particular situation—but they all behaved the same: a pitying smile here, a kind hand there, voice never above what was considered appropriate for a funeral. Asra slipped her hands off the table and into her lap, trying not to look at the slash of scars across her fingers. The Caseworker said nothing as he pulled up her chart and settled into his seat. A clinical silence hung between them.

Somewhere down the hall, whimpering began. A tea kettle whistled. A cheerful voice called for the head psychiatrist over the speakers. Caseworkers walked down the halls as if they had all the time in the world. Maybe they did. The smell of something sterile clung to air. Fingers tapped against a tablet. The hologlass tick, tick, ticked with new certificates. Shifting in her chair—one of those hard, plastic ones bolted to the floor—Asra tried not to interact with her surrounds, to listen too closely, but restlessness prevailed.

Once again, her eyes scoured the room one last time: the glass box of an office (or counseling room, depending on who you asked), walls of frosted hologlass and floors of snowy quartz. Everything was bleached with the brightness of the UV lights overhead. Absently, she pushed the darkened shades she wore up the bridge of her nose and pulled the hood of her jacket over her forehead. The offices were always kept at a constant 59 degrees. She’d never thought to ask why.

At last, her gaze settled on the man across the desk. Like all Oblivion Caseworkers, or OCs as everyone generally called them, he wore the standard lapis lazuli tunic that covered him from neck to ankles. An inverted triangular insignia sat snug against his Adam’s apple, shifting every time he swallowed, which wasn’t often. The name tag on his chest said Julian, and she wondered, doubted, whether that was even his real name. The OCs all looked freakishly similar, almost like priests.

 Except priests didn’t usually help people commit suicide.

Asra cleared her throat. It was a harsh sound in the manufactured silence of the office. Those silver scars on her hands seemed to gleam in the lighting. “How long will it take?”

“Less than the time you’ve been suffering.” Julian’s smile grew softer, more pitiful. “The Janus Project prides itself on providing only the most compassionate state-issued Oblivion in the country. It will only take as long as you need it to. You’ll be transported to the doorway at –” he checked the location on his tablet “–the Howlan House. It’s as close to the site of the accident we can get you. Everything you need is already there, including the funeral materials, and alternative pathways, should you want them.”

           “I don’t.”

“It’s there if you do.”

“There’s no point to it.”

The words broke the air as a hoarse whisper. She pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands, blinking furiously as spots clouded her vision. Alternative pathways, she wanted to scoff. As if she were a candidate for Transplant or Reboot. Asra waited for anxiety to wash over her, as the pamphlets had warned, but none came. She searched herself for pangs of regret or second thoughts, but as always, she felt nothing. Even as she touched the tablet the Caseworker slid across the table, she could sense neither the warmth of where his hands had been nor the coldness of the glass. Not even the weight of it registered. She caught an unfocused glimpse of her cheerless pale face and muted green eyes on the screen, though she couldn’t be sure it was her face anymore; it was diluted with their images–a jagged collage of features that belonged to other versions of herself living in alternate worlds. Other versions she had, unfortunately, collided with that harrowing day.

            And since then, she felt nothing of herself.

            Sensed nothing of this world.

            Remembered nothing of her life.

Nothing except November the 20th, but she didn’t want the memory.

“Given your…. situation…. we want you to be as comfortable as possible. When you’re ready for Oblivion, it will embrace you. You will find peace, Asra.” He sounded so sure, she had no choice, but to believe him. The Caseworker indicated to the tinted walls and nodded at the tablet. “Shall we announce it?”

She pulled the tablet closer and froze, a hollowness burrowing deep into her chest. Her thumb brushed the photo of a house in a twilight-kissed field, the black shadows of mountains hovering in the distance. She wondered if she would have once found it beautiful, the fireflies drifting up like falling stars caught in reverse, or what the breeze caressing the patches of weeds would have felt like. She couldn’t see the suspended railway of the old Muika train line over the water, but she knew it was there.

“It’s as close as we could get you to the Fragmentation Zone.”

A memory skipped across Asra’s mind–a kaleidoscope of twisted metal, the snap of bones against water, putrid smoke–before it faded back into the shoebox she’d buried it in.  She blinked, waiting for a voice of reason to echo, to say live, live, live. But nothing came. Nothing but a wetness sliding over her chilled cheeks, dropping in time with the relentless tick, tick, ticks of the walls, and onto the glass tomb housing her death certificate:

Asra Aeilstrom, 26, Fractured, Irreparable feeling of being out of place & time.

Five Glass Flowers Playlist

Writer In Motion | Round One of CP Revisions This week has been PACKED with edits for Five Glass Flowers and navigating round one of the Feedback Phase of #WriterInMotion.