#however almost nothing is impossible really but when something is improbable enough we still call it impossible...

[gay--dog]

every day i just like repeat every time anyone has called me cool in my head and try to figure out if theyre right or not

[emersonfreepress]

What would the ro's be like in a zombie au?

whyyyyy anon whyyy. I'm actually gonna write this in like.. slightly different terms, you'll see. any time I even briefly think of a zombie au I'm just like

I WANNA WRITE IT SO BADDD

i don't even allow myself to entertain it for very long because getting into that would be the worst thing ever for my productivity with the alpha omg 😂😂 so I'll put like the ideas that pop into my head for writing a zombie au, to work some of that creative frustration out 😆

so in this very general, absolutely noncommittal idea of mine, the main cast are older and the setting is in and around a civilian settlement led by the Emersons.

and as a refresher, i like my zombie aus to have fast zombies and fast infections ^ ^ 28 Days Later/Train to Busan style babyyyy, we the Sprinting Dead up in this bitch 😆

= = =

Gabe is, predictably, looking for what's left of his family. Following rumors of safe havens and bunkers and such. Starts the story as someone who tries to be diplomatic, if not outright pacifist, but as times get tougher and resources dwindle, he'd become one of the most cutthroat motherfuckers in the wasteland. Low-key though, low-key. People won't trust you if they know you’re capable of throwing them to a horde for strategic reasons. Like if Rick turned into Shane (for those of us familiar with early Walking Dead--idk did that happen eventually? i gave up before we even met Negan lol). The end justifies the means :) Damn, I can legit see Gabe going full evil in a zombie au omg 😂😂 i want to write it so fucking bad

Preferred weapon for zed encounters: rifle

Preferred weapon for human encounters: handgun

Faith in humanity: fucking zero

Zombie kill count: plenty; the type to kill every zombie he has spare ammo and time for

Human kill policy: When it benefits him or the people he’s looking after

Survival rating: B+; he can make it out of some pretty dire situations through sheer will to live and ruthlessness

- - -

Kile has arrived--clearly, this is the timeline they belong in. They start their journey with Gabe (and their doggo) and stick to him like glue, even reluctantly so when Gabe eventually has them join the settlement. This can only go one way, though: Kile's just too much of a wildcard for the group and hates being told what to do. (Especially now that society has fallen, wtf) They'd make their exit alone and unannounced aside from a brief head’s up to Gabe. It's slightly bittersweet, but also? They get to loot and hunt and sneak around and kill fucking zombies, all by themself. Kile is a loner, a hiker, and a hunter to begin with so they do beyond fine on their own. However, once the inevitable violent human threat comes for the settlement, Gabe is sent out to convince Kile to come out of isolation, just this once please, to be the camp’s super soldier help defend the camp.

Zed weapon: p much anything they can get their hands on, ranged or melee, blunt or sharp, w/e; improvised weapons

Human weapon: hunting knife

Faith in humanity: never had any to begin with

Zombie kill count: lol infinite?? any zed they come across is double-dead if they have the time for it

Human kill policy: at Gabe’s direction or when provoked enough/threatened

Survival rating: A-; they trust no one, live in isolation, and prioritize survival above all else. only reason it’s not higher is they would risk their life for Gabe or their furbaby and also... their own Rambo-esque antics def attracts the occasional horde lmao

- - -

Jack... this poor boy, he doesn't deserve a zombie au 😂 He's one of those people that first believes zombies are just sick people, too squeamish to keep up with TV news coverage at the onset and too upset to consider anything else. He'd hunker down at home, staying holed up even while his neighbors evacuated, and probably be discovered while the main group is looting the same place as him. When people try to tell him the real state of the world, he'd be in denial until he absolutely couldn't be anymore. idk, probably after Kile shooting a bunch of non-lethal holes thru a zombie to make a point (attracting more in the process lol).

He’d almost immediately join the medical team at the settlement and as word spreads about how easy he is to talk to, he quickly becomes the literal on-site therapist. It's a role he embraces but... idk if it's an emotional burden he can bear. He's very emotionally resilient! But he ain't a professional lol imagine a whole settlement of traumatized zombie survivors seeking you out for counseling, yikes. He also can't say no to a person in need, so instead he quietly spirals into a very private depression while continuing to help others!!

Zed weapon: Oh gosh, do I really have to?

Human weapon: ...Kindness?

Faith in humanity: Unrealistically high

Zombie kill count: Single digit

Human kill policy: Not ever, unless completely unavoidable and to defend the defenseless

Survival rating: C...? idk, that feels generous. D+. To be protected at all costs!!

- - -

Jessie also had the initial reaction of hoping zombies could be saved, but she woke up from that dream swiftly. The science-minded person that she is, esp with her interest in biology, leaves her determined to find anybody who's got the intellect, expertise, and resources to start doing actual work toward a treatment, cure, vaccine—anything. Nothing would get her to finally unabashedly embrace her love of science (and innate leadership skills!!) faster than a zombie apocalypse! In fact, it’s thanks to her that the Emerson settlement’s got a small but growing team of scientists doing as much research as humanly possible to best educate the others on the outbreak and zombie behavior. Def no zombie experimentation going on though lol. ...Not yet, at least.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: rifle

Faith in humanity: High! We’ll find a solution! Don’t give up hope!

Zombie kill count: Double digits, but less than 30

Human kill policy: Only in unavoidable self-defense or defense of others

Survival rating: B! She has experience with ranged weapons, farming and gardening skills, first aid, camping experience, and a can-do attitude with a healthy dose of realism!

- - -

Rain remains cargo as I said in the last post about this 😆 They'd be very good for keeping clothes repaired and making useful modifications in the settlement, but their life up to this point has been very sheltered and privileged. We're talking somebody with a chauffeur and a personal chef before the outbreak! They would contribute to quality of life and homemaking efforts more than anything—an overlooked aspect of these scenarios tbh! After as many months of dragging their feet as possible and being nigh impossible to track down when you need them, they eventually become involved in meal planning and even help out with medical stuff if they're asked.

Zed weapon: how do you reload this thing again?

Human weapon: switchblade or other concealable sharp-pointy

Faith in humanity: Very low

Zombie kill count: 0! Can you believe it!

Human kill policy: Well if it’s you or me, of course I’m choosing me.

Survival rating: C. Being so tiny helps them find good hiding spots and their self-preservation is high enough to keep them from unnecessary risk-taking. Plus they're very stealthy! Self-defense is a major issue though, so hiding is always their best option.

- - -

Rupan/Rohan scouts for and leads scavenging missions and is Curt's right hand on the recruitment team. The two of them together are the perfect combo of diplomacy, debate, and deception--although R is more honorable about the last one and will only deceive for strategic reasons. When they aren’t looting and recruiting, they’re doing peacekeeping inside the settlement. Most social disputes end up getting brought to them for mediation and they’re pretty dang good at making and enforcing calls. One day they’ll wake up to realize they’ve basically become a sheriff and feel the need to puke their guts up and do something, anything, to reassure themself they’re still punk 😂

Zed weapon: SMG

Human weapon: shotgun

Faith in humanity: Believes in fundamental goodness but knows better than to trust first impressions

Zombie kill count: decent, more than 40; you won’t catch them having a field day tho, they’re trying to gtfo of most zed situations

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. And they aren’t, at all, immune to a revenge rampage either...

Survival rating: B-. Can handle themself both with humans and zeds but is vulnerable to hostage situations and truly difficult sentimental/interpersonal decisions!

- - -

Vivian/Vincent manages inventory and stock and they run it so efficiently it’s scary! They're the perfect pick: a hawk-eyed tyrant and tattletale 😂 Despite constantly butting heads with just about everyone on every imaginable thing, they quickly become an important part of the inner circle of decision-makers for the settlement at large. Terrible at stealth, jumpy, and squeamish at the sight of blood and gore, they literally never go on missions unless they're 100% needed for their expertise on a supply run. (They would deny all of these shortcomings are that big a problem, meanwhile R is definitely acting as their bodyguard lol.) When they do tag along, they're prone to becoming the damsel in distress. Seriously, it happens near every fucking time. It's like they just attract only the most improbable and perilous zombie attacks and hostage situations 😆

Zed weapon: shotgun

Human weapon: handgun

Faith in humanity: Medium; seeing people work together at the settlement helps restore it a bit

Zombie kill count: Double digits, under 25

Human kill policy: Violent threats have to be taken out. Well, no, not by me! Get one of the ruffians to do it!

Survival rating: C-. They’d be higher if they weren’t such natural zombie bait.

- - -

Heidi is running the settlement, well-organized to the degree of actually managing to bring bureaucracy to a post-zombie apocalypse settlement 😂 People are free to come and go, but getting in if you don't live there requires trading something of value (fuel, med supplies, food, etc), temporary surrender and registry of firearms and explosives, and you gotta GTFO at the time and date specified upon entry! You can stay long-term if you contribute to the community in a tangible way—and each person admitted is approved by Heidi personally. Yes, every individual. No, she has no free time. And she is not known to be lenient with rule breakers—you want rule bending, you’ll have to go to Curt for that. People kind of hate her, but it can't be denied that she runs a tight ship. She kind of throws herself into the work to avoid the harsher reality at large and hasn't left the settlement in a long time. She's out of touch with how bad things have gotten in the wastes, but she knows better than to take reports at anything less than face value--even when she's skeptical.

Zed weapon: rifle

Human weapon: handgun; dagger

Faith in humanity: Medium. It fluctuates, honestly

Zombie kill count: Double digits, less than 20

Human kill policy: Violent threats must be taken out if they can’t be reasoned with. Spare those who surrender, eradicate those who don't, keep an eye on the newbies. Not tryin’ to nurse any vendettas around here lol

Survival rating: B. She's good with a firearm, masterful at persuasion, and savvy enough to calculate risks appropriately. Also far tougher than her prim exterior and demeanor suggests!

- - -

Curt leads the recruitment and reconnaissance teams! When a new person or group shows up in the area, Curt's the one who stalks watches them, decides if they're worth approaching, and if they should be approached with an invitation, a simple acknowledgment/announcement of their presence, or an outright armed warning to leave the area. He also keeps tabs on morale and general confidence inside the settlement, alongside R. When he isn’t leading those efforts, though, he’s flirting with settlers and squirreling his way out of manual labor and other chores. He’s also secretly growing weed at his place--don’t tell Heidi or Vi ‘cause they’ll wanna yell at him and ration it UGH.

Zed weapon: SMG, explosives

Human weapon: handgun, dagger

Faith in humanity: Pft, sorry, what now?

Zombie kill count: ...way more than you’d expect

Human kill policy: I don’t start confrontations, but I sure as fuck end them.

Survival rating: A! He’s good at playing hapless idiot when it suits him to be underestimated, good with firearms, and capable of being ruthless and decisive in life or death situations! Plus he has no qualms about ditching the settlement if he decides it’s not working out for him. Just don’t tell Heidi lol

[bytheangell]

i am so in love with time travel fics so if it's not too much trouble can you please write something re: sad!past!magnus (maybe TID-era, or anything really) somehow winding up in the present day, and finding out that he's gonna be ok, he's gonna be so happy with his husband and children (if you want to include the book!malec kids here) and family, and the world might not be perfect but it's going to be better than he thought it could be

Believe in All the Possibilities (Read on AO3)Magnus just wants a carefree night of music, perhaps a bit of dancing, and most definitely more drinking than would be strictly advisable in his current emotional state. Maybe, if he still feels awful enough by the end of the night, he can end up in a den of questionable moral offerings on the shadier side of London. Who knows where the night might take him?

Instead he finds himself staring across the room at Camille, dancing far too close to be publicly decent with her current conquest. That’s all they are, he reminds himself, but it doesn’t help, not when he was in her arms not that long ago (had it been weeks? months? what’s time to an immortal, anyway?). Not when she’s the reason he’s drinking his heartbreak drink alone at the bar in the first place. He watches her for a while, losing track of time (has it been minutes? hours? time matters so little these days…). It’s the amount of time it takes to drink two bottles of whiskey, he can measure it that way. He thinks he might just continue for the rest of the night until Camille meets his eyes, winks at him, and then pushes her suitor against a wall to shove her tongue down his throat and run her hands down the length of his body and-

He needs to leave. 

Magnus pays his tab and walks out of the party, doing his best not to look back. He almost manages it but steals one last glance, not sure if he’s more or less hurt by the realization that she isn’t even watching him for his reaction, now entirely lost in the arms of her new lover. It isn’t a comfort to remind himself that he probably means nothing to her because that’s only a reminder that he meant nothing to her, too. 

He doesn’t have a place in mind when he opens a portal. He’s only just polished up with Henry a more stable way of opening portals for Shadowhunters to use, with runes drawn intricately around where they wish to form it to channel the magic needed. The one he opens now, fueled only by his own raw power, could be considered a prototype at best. It’s unstable and unpredictable without the runes to ground it, but hell, he’s feeling more than a little unstable and unpredictable himself. 

Magnus knows, deep down, that this is a mistake. The first rule to using a portal is to have a clear picture of where you’re going, but instead he steps into it with only one thought in mind: Take me somewhere I can be happy. I just want to feel okay again.

London vanishes behind him, and everything goes black. 

—

By all accounts he should be dead. Or in limbo. Or some horrifying combination of both.

Instead, Magnus finds himself blinking his eyes open from darkness to take in the scene around him of a city that is most definitely not London. There are street lamps lit along the– no, not lamps. The light coming from them isn’t fire. They’re electric. In fact, electric lights seem to be everywhere, despite the lightbulb barely being functional in the richest of areas testing out electricity in 1878. 

But that’s not the strangest thing. Magnus takes a few tentative steps towards the street only to jump backwards at the speed of the… well, he isn’t sure what the horrifyingly fast cart that passed him is exactly, but he knows that one more step forward and he would’ve been underneath it. Sobering up much faster than he’d like, Magnus starts to realize that however improbable the idea is, he has to face the facts that add up around him. He appears to be in the future - at the very least an alternate timeline, one far more advanced than his own. Regardless, either should be impossible. 

And the most distressing realization (as if all of that isn’t enough) is that since he has no idea how he managed to get here, he isn’t entirely sure how to get himself back. 

If he even can. 

…if he even wants to. 

After all, the past holds little for him outside of disappointments and broken promises. He can hardly find joy in his work at the moment, the one thing he’s consistently turned to as a source of pride and solace, so why bother going back to a life destined for solitude and misery? 

But first things first: he needs to figure out exactly where he is. It takes a bit of poking around and more than a few heavy American accents telling him in no uncertain terms not to so much as look at  them, before he gets the answers he’s looking for. It’s New York in the late 2010s, a little over a hundred years ahead of where he came from. 

But why here? Why now? 

Those questions are answered when he backs up quickly to narrowly avoid two children who turn the corner and nearly run directly into him, followed by the voice of someone calling out after them. No, not someone - that’s his voice. 

“Max! Rafe! This isn’t a game tonight, okay? Something’s wrong and I need to test the wards before you can go inside.”

Magnus glamours himself immediately, pressing up against the side of the building to let them pass while  listening in on the middle of a conversation this future version of himself is holding with a very tall, very attractive Shadowhunter. 

“-I don’t know, Alexander. But something feels off with my magic, like I can sense too much of it? I can’t explain it, but I just want to make sure nothing’s wrong before you and the boys come up.” And then he’s gone, vanishing into the apartment building while the man named Alexander waits on the sidewalk with two children, one warlock and one shadowhunter. Magnus knows because of the runes and blue skin he can see just beyond their glamours; glamours which are good enough to fool mundanes but not strong enough to block out skilled warlocks who are looking hard enough. The children must be keeping their own glamours up rather than relying on ones put on by the two adults. Impressive, especially for children so young. 

The warlock boy starts to poke small jolts of magic into the Shadowhunter boy, who looks about two seconds away from stabbing the warlock boy in the arm with his stele if he doesn’t stop. Magnus has the sudden impulse to give away his own hidden position to stop them but Alexander is already on top of it.  

“Max! No magic on the street, you know that. Rafael, please, if you break another stele this month Izzy’s going to kill both of us. Just stand still for two minutes while Papa checks the wards.” 

“Alright, Dad,” the children say in unison.

And that’s when Magnus realizes. These aren’t just people his future self is working with, or bringing here for a social visit. These are his children. And Alexander is… well, if Dad and Papa weren’t enough, one glance down at the wedding ring on the Shadowhunter’s finger is all the answer he needs there, too. Magnus can sense the magic there, his magic there, laced with more protection charms than should reasonably be contained in an object so small. 

The future version of himself comes back downstairs looking more confused than ever, and just for confirmation Magnus’ eyes immediately drop to the matching wedding band on his hand, standing out in its simplicity compared to the rings surrounding it. I’m married. And more than that, married to a mortal. A Shadowhunter. “Everything’s fine. C’mon kids, grab your things before we drop you back off at the Institute with Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Simon for the weekend.” 

Magnus follows behind as they go upstairs, the wards letting him pass without incident as they’re keyed to his own magic, after all. He’s careful to stay out of the way as he remains hidden from view, listening to the sounds of laughter as the children pack clothing into a bag and his future self enjoys a glass of wine with his husband, eavesdropping on their conversation while he looks around the room at children’s artwork and smiling family photos, feeling the warmth that radiates from this nontraditional family. 

“Once we get back to Alicante I have three meetings, one with Consul Penhallow,” his future self sighs. “Remind me again why I let you talk me into the High Warlock position?” 

Alexander laughs. “Talk you into it? As I remember, the moment you heard Alicante was getting one you practically demanded to be the one to, how did you put it?, ‘put the Clave in their place once and for all’?” 

Magnus nearly chokes on the air he’s breathing. High Warlock is one thing, it’s an honor he’s always dreamed of. But High Warlock of Alicante? It sounds absolutely absurd and he can hardly comprehend the idea of it. Downworlders are barely allowed to exist in the same rooms as Shadowhunters, let alone exist as any sort of authority in their sacred country. He’s broken from his thoughts by his future self speaking again. 

“Yes, well, I also remember the job coming with the clear perk of moving to Alicante with my husband the Inquisitor, so-” 

Magnus watches them smile at one another, leaning in to kiss. It’s a short one, quickly interrupted by a flying pillow and the laughter of children. Soon both wine glasses are magicked away and both his future self and Alexander are each grabbing a child, spinning them before pinning them to the ground, tickling them into submission. 

Suddenly Magnus realizes why he’s here, why now. 

This is what he wanted. This is where he’s happy. 

There is so much love in the room it’s practically palpable. He’s married to someone he clearly trusts, someone he doesn’t believe will hurt him or leave him, because he knows himself. He knows how impossible the idea of finding someone like that feels right now, and how important this Alexander must be for him to go against everything he’s resolutely resigned to in his own mind and allow him into his life in such a monumental way. And a family… as impossible as marriage seems to him, the idea of a family isn’t even up for consideration. This sort of life - settling down, unconditional love, contentment, happiness - it isn’t meant for him. It never has been, and he never thought it would be. 

Until now. 

When his future self opens a portal to the Institute they’re going to drop the children off at Magnus instinctively follows close behind, still glamoured, coming out of the other side and into the New York Institute just as it closes, like it knows to wait for him. The children immediately run into the arms of another Shadowhunter, a woman this time, and then the man beside her. A vampire, who is casually coexisting in the inner sanctum of the Shadowhunters and friendly with his future children. 

“Simon!” The young Shadowhunter boy, Rafe, nearly shouts. “I got my speed rune, I bet I can beat you in a race now!” 

The vampire - Simon - laughs. “Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that…” 

Magnus almost feels guilty for intruding on these moments. He knows they’re not for him, not yet, but he can’t help himself when Alexander and his future self say goodbye shortly after and he’s ducking quickly behind them into another portal, this time coming out somewhere entirely unfamiliar at first. It takes a few moments before the scenery around him registers. 

Alicante. 

He recognizes the demon towers, can feel the strength of the angelic power around him from both the concentrated amount of Shadowhunters and the adamas veins that run beneath the city. He’s immediately uncomfortable, an instinctive sense of unease coming from so much as stepping foot upon the City of Glass… but not his future self. 

He watches his future self visibly relax the moment he steps foot out of the portal and onto the ground of the park below. Can anyone portal into the middle of Alicante at will now or is it just him, Magnus wonders idly. Exactly how much have things changed? 

…exactly how much of that is, potentially, because of him? 

Magnus follows his future self and Alexander down a path he realizes was picked deliberately for the portal to open up at. The pair take their time wandering down it, hand in hand, talking and catching up on each other’s days. Alexander mentions Catarina and Magnus feels his heart swell at the knowledge that they’re still friends, even now. Maybe everyone doesn’t leave him in the end after all. 

When his future self and Alexander finally reach a building that’s most likely their home Magnus decides not to follow them inside. He’s seen enough: enough to know that he may never stop watching this version of his life if he doesn’t leave soon, and more than enough to know that running away from the life he has now is no longer what he wants, not when he has this to look forward to in the end.  It might not be what he thought he wanted out of life, but maybe it’s exactly what he needs.

Magnus feels a lightness in him he didn’t imagine himself capable of just an hour ago. Hope, the smallest seed of it, rests firmly within him after the sights he witnessed tonight. He just has to let it grow, nurture the idea that things may seem bleak now but they won’t be forever. He has proof of that now, a reason to believe that he’s more than just someone to be used and discarded. That one day he’ll find a love powerful enough to see him marrying a Shadowhunter, taking on a job title he never could’ve imagined existing let alone holding personally, and raising a family to come home to at the end of the day. Loved. Accepted. Content. 

Before he came here he simply wanted to dull the ache and numb himself to any feelings at all; now he finds himself overwhelmed by too many emotions to count, and he couldn’t be more grateful for it. 

This may all be his one day, but first he has to get here. Once he’s certain he’s alone he conjures a portal of his own, picturing London and a life that’s only as meaningful as he chooses to make it.His life no longer feels like an inevitable sentence to play out but rather a glowing future that’s his for the taking. ‘Take me home’ he thinks with surprising fondness as he takes his first step towards that light.

[catsafarithewriter]

Day 1: Outer Space

A/N: It’s started! Welcome to the TCR Birthday Bash 2019 - and day one begins with Outer Space. I’m taking a sort of anachronistic amalgamation of sci-fi (a few places from Star Trek, a species from Star Wars, a little actual space science from my meagre knowledge) and smushing them together. None of this fits either series, it’s just an easy little head-nod. (And saves me having to make up names.) 

x

There was hair in Haru’s eyes. 

There was hair in Haru’s eyes and there was nothing she could do about it.

She tilted her head back, her breath echoing back to her in the confines of the EVA helmet, but that just achieved another loose strand falling across her face . Typical. She squinted between her hair and lowered her gold visor down against the glare of Darmok II’s sun that was beaming blindingly through the hole where her ship’s bow had once been. 

At her lowered visor, the sun’s beams became tolerable. It did not, however, stop the flashing red warning lights. 

Something trickled along the back of her neck and into the specially-designed absorption pad at the nape of her helmet. It felt sticky. Sweat, possibly. Another droplet ran down her nose and onto her lips. She tasted metal. 

Blood. 

“Fine rescue mission this turned out to be,” she mumbled to no one. 

It wasn’t even her job. She was just a mechanic by trade, shuttled over to Tanagra Space Station to replace their last expert in Quadex power cores. 

(Quite how they had misplaced the previous mechanic, Haru hadn’t been told, but weird things tended to happen when you worked on a space station on the edge of the Neutral Zone - the expanse of impartial space between Federation and Cathar territory.) 

(She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know the answer anyway.) 

So, long story short, there was really no reason why she should have detoured off course to respond to the weak distress call emanating from Darmok II, except that no one else was close enough to hear it and her mother didn’t raise a quitter. (She had, however, raised a fool, and Haru was quickly learning the two were a potent mix for stupidly rash decisions.) 

Haru pulled herself over to the shattered console, trying to find an explanation for why her ship’s electronics had suddenly cut out halfway through the planet’s meagre atmosphere. The solar panels were still in one piece though, and the backup generator had kicked in and was devoting most of its power to warning its sole occupant that there was a breach in pressure. 

Haru glanced back up to the giant tear in the ship’s hull. “No shit, Sherlock,” she muttered before proceeding to switch off the alarms. The red lights dimmed and were replaced with an unsteady glow. She began to appraise the situation. 

The communication console was shattered beyond repair. A shard of the hull embedded into the panel had seen to that. Well, better the console than Haru, although if she couldn't get a signal up to Tanagra, then she was probably as good as dead anyway. The shuttle had an oxygen reclaimer that would work indefinitely, but that required water and power and not being open to the vacuum of space. 

Her suit, on the other hand, was still intact, but it only had about six hours before the carbon dioxide scrubbers ran out. She shifted across the wrecked shuttle and felt the stronger gravity of Darmok II weigh her down. Five hours, she amended. Her suit readouts confirmed her heart rate was already rising, along with her oxygen intake. Not fatal. Not worrying, short-term anyway. She wouldn’t be on this planet long enough to test the long-term effects - one way or another.

The scanner was still working though. Great. So she could be extra sure she was dying alone while the life support system in her suit ran dry. Typical. 

A single dot onscreen beeped to the ship’s starboard. 

Or... not so alone, she amended. 

She fumbled with the display until it informed her that, yes, there was another life form on this planet. Faint, but alive. And close. Two kilometres, as improbable as that was. 

The SOS call. It had to be. 

So, option one: Attempt to revive her ship to send out a distress call to reach Tanagra. Hope she could get it up and working in under five hours.

Option two: locate the SOS ship and modulate their communications system to Tanagra’s signal. Hope it was possible. Hope their console was in better state than hers. Hope their ship wasn’t running out of oxygen. 

If she had any common sense, she would side with option one. 

The little dot continued to beep and Haru muttered a curse. 

Common sense had never been her forte.

x

The SOS ship was, ironically, in a better shape than Haru’s. 

She clambered onto the rocky outcrop it had crash-landed on, and leant heavily against the hull. Geez, the extra gravity was taking its toll. Her suit informed her that it was 1.2g - just a little over Earth’s usual gravity, but she wasn’t accustomed to Earth. She was accustomed to space and floating and not having to carry her own weight. 

She leant there for a few moments longer. The carbon dioxide scrubbers levels sank a little lower. Time was marching on.

She rolled her head to one side and eyed the ship. It was damaged and dented and dull, but there was no insignia on it. She located the exterior hatch and, after some prodding and poking and muttered curses, navigated her way inside and through the airlock. 

She froze at the hatch. 

The source of the life signs sat in the cockpit of the shuttle. Unconscious. No blood. They wore an EVA suit - similar in function to Haru’s, but altered in design - with helmet removed. Haru tried to focus on those details and not the fact that she was staring at a Cathar. 

His face was feline - although Haru had been told that there was no actual feline ancestry in the Cathar race, just a coincidence of the universe - but it was quite one thing to know, another thing to see. Ginger fur ran across his face, cream markings resting beneath his eyes. His mouth was ajar. Haru could see sharp canine teeth. 

A Cathar. She inhaled sharply. The pure oxygen intake made her momentarily dizzy. What was a Cathar even doing on this side of the Neutral Zone? The Federation and the Cathar weren’t exactly enemies but... there was a reason for the Neutral Zone. Relations were taut. History was fraught. And she was standing in a Cathar shuttle. 

She exhaled and made herself approach. Enemy or no, she had responded to his distress signal. And she was here now. 

She gently set the helmet onto his head, clicking it into place and trying to avoid catching his whiskers. His suit’s readout confirmed he wasn’t dead. Somehow. There was a heartbeat - slow, almost impossibly slow - his body in complete shut-down. A form of hibernation, perhaps? Torpor? A way to survive the killing environment he was stuck in? The suit looked undamaged. Power still running. His oxygen tanks were empty. 

She shouldn’t do it. Time was tight enough against her even as it was, let alone halving her remaining air to save - to try to save - someone who could turn against her. 

She replaced one of his used oxygen tanks with one of her full ones. It probably wouldn’t be enough to revive him, but perhaps it would be enough to stop him dying. The hibernation would only sustain him for so long, after all. 

She collapsed down into the seat beside him and located something resembling an update of the ship’s functions. It was airtight, but unbreathable. The oxygen reclaimer - or the equivalent on the ship - looked to have been damaged in the crash. The power was low, but only because the solar panels had been misaligned. The communications console was working - and still sending out the SOS - but the system was unrecognisable. She’d need to be a Cathar to understand it. 

Maybe if she could get the oxygen reclaimer from her ship, she could buy a little more time... 

Movement flickered in the corner of her visor and she turned just in time to see the Cathar lung at her. She screamed, jolted back, and smacked against the side of the ship, the Cathar pinning her into place and his visor inches away from her own. 

He growled something in a language Haru didn’t understand. 

“I’m not here to hurt you!” Haru yelped back. She tried to shift away, but the Cathar’s grip was strong. “I’m just trying to help!”

The Cathar didn’t release her. He said something else, something Haru again didn’t recognise. 

“I... I don’t understand,” Haru faltered. Dammit. Naturally the universal translator would be broken too. On both their ends, it would seem. “But I was trying to help.” She held up her hands in what she hoped was a universal sign for placating. “I’m just,” she repeated, calmly, “trying to help.” 

The Cathar’s gaze flickered over the rest of his ship, over the console Haru had manhandled to bring up the ship’s readouts, and then back to Haru herself. His eyes were bright green, almost gemlike. Slitted and feline. Definitely not human. He started to say something else and then those gemlike eyes unfocused and his legs buckled. 

Haru caught him, to the surprise of them both. 

“You’re welcome,” she grunted. She set him back in his seat and, against all her survival instincts, clattered down into the chair beside him. “That’s what you get for trying a stunt like that so soon after waking up.” She groaned and watched her air tick ever lower. “Look, I know you can’t understand me, but we don’t have much time and we need to do something otherwise we’re both going to die in...” She did the calculations, “two hours.” 

The Cathar didn’t say anything. 

“Honestly, I came here to help. Check your oxygen levels if you don’t believe me.” She motioned weakly to the tanks attached to his back and hoped it was self-explanatory enough. 

He gave her a long, baleful stare, but eventually cast his attention to his suit. She could tell he had found the oxygen readout when he went very still. He uttered a single, questioning word. 

She tapped the communication console, where the distress call was just about still working, and then tapped the side of her helmet. “I heard you. I didn’t realise it was a Cathar ship at the time,” she muttered to herself, “but I still heard you.” 

From the confusion in his eyes, her answer didn’t seem adequate. 

She moved onto other matters, pulling herself out of her seat and towards the back of the small craft. She ignored the way the Cathar leant away from her as she passed. She tapped the defunct oxygen reclaimer. “I have a working one in my ship,” she said, motioning her words as best she could. “We could bring it here and survive a little longer. But I need your help to move it. Do you understand?”

The Cathar rose to his feet, and now it was Haru’s turn to lean away. He was tall. Not beyond human height, but still... tall enough for her to step back. He eyed the oxygen reclaimer, his gaze no longer aggressive, but still wary. He nodded. 

x

Moving the oxygen reclaimer alone would have been completely impossible. 

Between two, it was just nearly impossible. 

Haru collapsed down into the small craft, alarms beeping inside her suit and red warning signs on the life system readouts. 

Stupid, really. She’d accounted for collecting the oxygen reclaimer, but not for the extra oxygen intake/carbon dioxide outtake while dragging it across Darmok II, or for the hour it would take to refill the Cathar’s ship to a breathable atmosphere. 

She was going to asphyxiate by an error of sixty minutes. 

The world swan before her eyes, the headache she’d been ignoring for the last hour now pulsing through her brain. The Cathar had his back to her, fiddling with some panelling in the wall and barely sparing her a glance. Charming. 

“See if I save your life next time,” she wheezed. Typical. If she’d known Cathars had a lower respiration rate, she would have saved a little more air for herself. 

He turned to her, tubing and mask in one hand, and detached his oxygen tank. Haru inhaled sharply - or tried to, anyway. Her head just span some more. The world momentarily flickered. “What...?”

He approached. Haru couldn’t have scooted away even if she’d wanted to. She was concentrating on not blacking out. She couldn’t even spare the energy to flinch as he placed his gloved hands around her helmet. After a long moment, he found what he was looking for and removed it. He attached the mask to the lower half of her face and motioned for her to breath. 

She gasped and oxygen - wonderful oxygen - rushed into her lungs. She didn’t even realise she was leaning against the Cathar until he tapped the mask and she looked up. 

Satisfied she wasn’t still inhaling, he removed his own helmet and took a breath from the oxygen mask himself.

“Thank you,” she mumbled the next time it was her turn. 

The Cathar tilted his head. 

She motioned to the makeshift oxygen mask, and then between the two of them. “For, you know, not leaving me to die.”

She wasn’t sure he understood, but he almost seemed to smile. Maybe that would be enough. 

She leant away, straightening and patting her chest. “Haru.” If they were going to be stuck together until they figured a way off this planet - or until death came for them - she would at least know the name of her companion. “Haru,” she repeated, and then gestured to him. 

There was definitely a smile this time. 

“Baron.”

[thecoleopterawithana]

So John was basically a fanfict writer writing about him and Paul before it was cool but basically in conito? But damn if that story wasn't trippy as f...what next level LSD hallucinatgenic romance novel shit was that guy on? 😂😂😂

Sorry for the late reply @sarahthefluff but thanks to how your reblogged commentary and this ask itself made me laugh, I waited until I could give the answer my undivided attention. (I must also apologize about how this run away from me, so feel free to stop reading whenever you like…) 

But yeah, they do seem to yearn to tell their own story ‘in their own write’ as it were. And John, especially, appeared rather frustrated that people wouldn’t pick up on the hints he was constantly dropping about ‘that Paul and John business’.

And if you are able to decrypt all the little references littered within this ‘Lewis Carroll dialled up to eleven’ of a piece, as the OP kindly did, you begin to find either a fantasising work of fiction (basically a fanfic) or a delightfully masked account of true events. 

I must admit that in order to remain somewhat objective (or as objective as one can when looking from the outside at limited data and trying to judge what it was), I try not to hold too fast to one single narrative that I personally define as The Truth. Because I’m afraid we’ll never really get it all, even if Paul came forward with some kind of confession or definite statement on the matter. And so, I’m always a bit on the fence at just exactly how did their love manifest.

It always seems to comes down to how aware were they of their own feelings and the corresponding depth in the other. 

From everything I’ve seen, it’s obvious that the love was there. Now, if we want to go ahead and label it (as limited and reductive as labels can be), I think the dynamic itself, the perceived exclusivity in the relationship and all the intimacy involved, tends rather heavily to what we would call ‘romantic’ rather than ‘platonic’. 

If nothing else, the fact that when attempting to describe the relationship, both John and Paul inevitably end up referring to it as a marriage, is rather telling. It’s amazing to see just how often terms like ‘in love’ (note the difference between saying they ‘loved’ each other and that they were ‘in love’ with each other), ‘love affair’, ‘trial separation’, ‘divorce’ and ‘estranged fiances’ pop up in their conversation. That, together with John’s constant lumping of Paul and Yoko in the same category and their vows of devotedness to each other, paint a strikingly clear picture. There are also overlooked pearls such as this:

And throwing in the line “the Walrus was Paul” just to confuse everybody a bit more. And because I felt slightly guilty because I’d got Yoko, and he’d got nothing, and I was gonna quit. [laughs; bleak] And so I thought ‘Walrus’ has now become [in] meaning, “I am the one”. 

- John Lennon on ‘Glass Onion’, interviewed by David Sheff, August 1980.

Now, how aware were they of their own feelings? Well, it might seem a stupid question, considering all the aforementioned attitudes. But one must learn not to underestimate people’s capacity for denial and avoidance, especially from these two Liverpool lads, John ‘agression as an armour’ Lennon and Paul ‘if I ignore it long enough it will disappear’ McCartney. 

Looking at their songs - something they intentionally wrote and put out there, not something that could be an oblivious slip - it appears improbable that they could lack self-awareness that much. At the same time, both have said that sometimes they only later realize what they were unconsciously trying to communicate in song. 

However, I think it’s safe to say that in the later years, before the break-up, amid all the tensions and Yoko-shaped wake-up calls, Paul at least was very much forced to come to terms with it. Otherwise, blatant conversations like those they were singing at each other on record would be impossible. I mean, you can’t get more desperately obvious than ‘Oh! Darling’, even without the change to ‘Oh! Johnny’ later in the track. But still, people at the time seem to miss the point, with Geoff Emerick wondering why Paul was insisting on doing this song himself when it was better suited for John’s voice, so maybe it wasn’t obvious enough… There’s also those that Paul has stated were not intended to be about John, but that the latter man claimed anyway, like ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Two Of Us’. 

But I think that perhaps John accepted his feelings earlier, as his track record of love letters stretches way back, to the times of ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’ and ‘If I Fell’. There are countless other little messages, some of which we may never realize, though the later period ‘letters across the sea’ were so obvious in their intended recipient that there are whole books examining the correspondence. (In fact, it might be a good idea to do a masterpost putting them all together and in order/context, though I’m pretty sure that exists already in the fandom. If so, please link me to it!)

So yeah, I’m pretty sure they were aware. But then, were they able to recognize the same level of feelings in the other?

This is the part where I think a lot of the tragedy comes in… Because for all their huge egos, they were simultaneously terribly insecure, especially concerning the matter of just how significant they were to the other. 

That’s where a lot of the hurt on John’s part came from, at Paul’s perceived indifference and disregard for the monogamy of their partnership/relationship, with famous anecdotes such as the making of ‘The Family Way’ or ‘Eleanor Rigby’. The pain he was feeling was immediately translated in a rabid need to wound back, if only as a desperate cry for attention. 

Paul, for his part, wasn’t readily able to recognize the lashings for what they were, and so the blows connected. In fact, he internalized John’s attacks to such an extent, that to this day he appears to need to actively convince himself that the other did love and respected him.

There’s also Paul’s constant regret at not clearly telling John that he loved him (perhaps increased by the doubts he himself was left with), and his following life mission to try an rectify that, both through wonderfully poignant pieces like ‘Here Today’, ‘This One’ and the heartbreaking ‘The Lovers That Never Were’, and by stating it publicly as often as he can.

It’s this abundance of doubt and regret, the tragic taste of missed opportunities, that makes it seem as if the relationship was left unresolved… That they lacked a confession or consummation of some kind… 

Could it be that they were in fact at some point romantically and sexually involved, but that they were so emotionally constipated that they were never secure in the depth of the other’s affections? Or that the break-up was so brutal that their confidence in the realness of the relationship was completely shattered? That feels almost sadder than the ‘unresolved tension’ narrative… Because it means they did have it, but it still failed…

But going back again to the McLennon fic penned by Mr Lennon himself, that piece, together with all the bed talk Paul seems so fond of, and other cute nonsense such as fusing their signatures or outright signing the McLennons in that rather obvious postcard, make it seem as if they did assume it among themselves at some point… Oh, and one should never overlook the songs!

The time has come, the Walrus said, 

For you and me to stay in bed my love 

It’ll be just like starting over

- Early Demo of ‘(Just Like) Starting Over’

So, yeah, I don’t really know what to take off all of it. Just maybe that they could hardly be more explicit about how they liked the other that way, and people (themselves included) still doubt it. No, even if they never got together, they were more than ‘just good friends’. 

[baronessblixen]

Please will you write me a sick/comfort fic? Those gifs of sick puppy Mulder have made me yearn for some good old fashioned sweet nurturing. I don't care who nurtures who. Illness or injury I'm not fussy! There is no one in the fandom more qualified to do this than you. Pleeease? 🤗🤗🤗🤗

Thank you for your prompt and your confidence. I fear that a) it got long, and b) it is not really what you asked for. It’s where the muse took me. 

Tagging @today-in-fic

“Mulder,let me at least help you.” Scully stands in the doorway of her kitchen with alook of mild concern on her face. Or maybe that’s the nausea that’s been plaguingher for over a week now. Mulder feels her eyes on him as he unpacks the plasticbags from the store. He’s never been grocery shopping for her before; they’venever even done it together. Lately, though, they’ve had a lot of firsts.

“You’dhelp me if you stayed in bed, or at least on the couch, and rest,” Mulder tellsher with a stern look. She opens her mouth and he stops her before she can saya single word. “Don’t tell me you’re fine, Scully. We both know you’re not.”

“It’sjust a stomach bug. You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Butcan I, please? I want to take care of you.” They’ve been over this beforeplenty of times. Mulder finally won the first round when Scully sent him off tothe supermarket all by himself. She stares at him and sighs. He gets it. Atleast he thinks he does. Scully hates being sick. Even if it’s just a stomachbug – and that, in Mulder’s opinion, is still debatable anyway. He keeps thatparticular opinion to himself for now. This is new for her; for both of them.It’s the first time either of them is sick now that they’re… whatever they are.They have yet to put a label on it. As Mulder looks at her now, her skepticeyes and crossed arms, he thinks nothing has changed at all. Except that theykiss now, sometimes, and share a bed, every once in a while.

“Whatif you catch this bug too?” Scully asks instead.

“Thatis the least of my concern, Scully. And if I do catch it, you can take care ofme. Deal? Now go take your hot-water bottle and let me make you soup.”

“Soup,Mulder?”

“Yes,soup. You need to eat something besides these tasteless crackers you’ve beenmunching on.”

“Doyou know how to make soup?”

“Ido know how to open a can, Scully.”

“Ifyou need my help-“

“Scully…”

“If,Mulder. I’ll be on my couch.”

Hewaits until he is certain that she’s back in the living room before he unpacksthe last bag. Mulder stares at the rather small, rectangular box. He shouldn’thave bought it. He knows this. But as he walked through the aisles he came pastit and paused. The chances were slim. Nonexistent, Scully might say if sheknew. He hears the TV come on in the living room and he puts the box back inthe bag. He hides it in the highest cupboard behind an old, dusty cow-shapedmug.

Soup,he reminds himself. Scully’s kitchen is equipped with the best and newestgadgets. No rusty can openers in her drawers. Mulder stares at the kitchenhelper and is baffled. How is that thing supposed to work? He stares at theopen doorway and wonders if he should just ask Scully. But no. He can open thiscan of soup by himself. Mulder applies the can opener in the only way thatseems logical to him. Nothing happens. He tries again with the same result.Mulder inspects it and then applies it again in a slightly different way.Finally, the blade digs into the metal.

“Ha!”He twists the opener again and again and it barely moves. “Are you kidding me,”Mulder mumbles under his breath and twists harder. The metal blade jumps offthe rim of the can and right into Mulder’s finger. Blood splatters comicallyonto Scully’s kitchen counter and Mulder yelps. Or screams. All he knows isthat he makes a noise. One that doesn’t sound funny at all.

“Mulder!”Scully rushes into the kitchen and he turns to her, a simple reflex, and theblood drips, drips onto the floor. “What did you do?”

“It’sa good thing you’re a doctor, Scully,” Mulder says feeling light-headed,“because I feel just about ready to faint.”

“Noone is going to faint, Mulder.” But he feels dizzy and leans heavily againsther; she huffs and pushes him towards the kitchen chairs where he slumps downinto one. She grabs a dishtowel and hands it to him. “What on earth did youdo?”

“Thesoup,” he says with a voice that is barely there. “I just wanted to make yousoup.”

“OhMulder.” Scully runs her hand through his hair. “Let me see.” Gently she takesthe towel away; it’s already stained with red splotches. Mulder looks at herface instead, feeling as queasy as Scully has lately. “It needs stitches.”

“Thisis not how the evening was supposed to go,” he says with a pout but she giveshim a smile and pats his cheek.

“It’snot a deep cut, at least. We can fix it here.” His eyes light up. “You reallyare lucky I’m a doctor.” She kisses his cheek softly and he almost forgetsabout the cut and the blood and the pain. “I’m just going to get my first-aidkit. Don’t move, Mulder. I mean it. And keep the towel tightly wrapped aroundyour finger.” Mulder does as he’s told and waits for her to return. As she sitsdown across from him, he realizes how pale she looks.

“I’mso sorry, Scully.”

“Iwas kind of looking forward to the soup,” she says with a mischievous smile asshe disinfects his wound expertly. He hisses in pain.

“Iknow I said I could open a can, but Scully, what even is that thing you call acan opener? You’ll have to do it yourself, I’m afraid. I can, however, heat itfor you.”

“Ithink I better do that, too. I’m not in the mood to extinguish any fires tonight.”They’re quiet for a moment and Mulder tries not to look at his finger. But withher face so close he sees pearls of sweat on her forehead.

“Howare you feeling?” He asks her. He’s been asking the same question for over aweek now. Ever since she was late on Tuesday because she wasn’t feeling well. Heasked every time she spent more than five minutes in the bathroom at work andreturned with an ashen face. The answer has been each time and he doesn’texpect her to reply with anything but I’m fine. The moment stretches on andScully doesn’t answer, concentrates on stitching him up.

“Doyou need a painkiller, Mulder? How bad is the pain?” She doesn’t look at him.

“I’lltell you when you tell me how you’re feeling. You’re not fine, Scully.” Still,she refuses to look at him. Mulder puts two fingers under her chin and gentlylifts it. Her pupils are dilated, her cheeks hollow and pale.

“It’sjust a stomach bug.” Scully’s voice wavers, uncertainty sneaking in unasked.

“Youneed to see a doctor,” he says in a soft whisper.

“Iam a doctor, Mulder.” She points at his perfectly stitched up finger.

“Whatare you so afraid of? You don’t think it’s…” He can’t even say the word.Cancer. Mulder refuses to think it. Scully shakes her head, puts her hand onhis cheek to reassure him. Her fingers are cold and he almost shivers from itso he puts his own hand over hers, warming them both.

“That’snot it… I- the symptoms are, well. It’s just a bug, Mulder.”

“Whatif it’s a different kind of bug?” She furrows her brows. “I mean what if… it’snot like we talked about it or,” he swallows hard. It’s not like they havetalked about anything. One day they were partners, friends. The next night theywere kissing for the first time, then suddenly for the hundredth. Now they’rehere, a matching, damaged pair, glancing at each other in silent confusion. “Orused any protection.” Mulder says, takes her hand off his cheek and into his.She stares at him with wide-open eyes. He knows she entertained the thought;it’s as clear as day now. Yet neither dares to say the actual words.

“That’snot a possibility. Can we please not talk about it?”

“But…”Her eyes plead with his and he nods, gives in. “I say we heat up this soup andthen you can do with me whatever you want.” Mulder waggles his eyebrows at herand she smiles, though it looks sad.

“I’mnot really hungry. Can you just hold me for a while, Mulder?” He swallowsagain, takes a deep breath and puts on a smile just for her. He holds out hishand and she takes it. Before she lets him lead her away, she pauses. “Mulder,all the blood. We can’t leave it like this.” He grabs another, clean towel,wets it and quickly swipes the counter and the floor.

“There.”

“Mulder,please tell me this is not how you clean.”

“It’snot. But it’s enough for tonight. Come on. You’re sick and you need bed rest.”Scully snorts but follows him. He switches off all the lights and the TV, andthen he joins her on the bed, spoons her. Scully sighs, a shaky sound.Tentatively Mulder inches closer and puts his hands over her stomach.

“Thisokay?” He whispers against her ear, kissing her there. She nods. They’re quietand Mulder thinks Scully has fallen asleep when her own hands land over his,mindful of his stitched-up cut.

“Mulder?”

“Hmm?”

“Ithought about it.” He remains silent. “The bug. As in what if it’s… a differentkind of bug. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Youknow me, Scully,” he leans over to kiss the corner of her mouth, “I want tobelieve. In the impossible, in the improbable. In us.”

“Ifit’s not better by Monday, I’ll see a doctor. I promise.”

“Thankyou.” He tightens his grip on her and wonders what it would be like. If theybeat the odds, if it were true. “I- when I was at the store earlier, I- Ididn’t mean to and I don’t know why I did it, but… if you want to check beforeMonday, I um, bought a pregnancy test.” She stiffens in his arms for thefraction of a moment, but then she relaxes and chuckles.

“You’reincorrigible, Mulder.”

“Hmm.”He nuzzles her neck, breathes in deep.

“I’mnot ready yet.” Her tone is serious now and he leaves a lingering kiss on herneck to let her know he understands.

“I’llbe here whenever you are ready, Scully.”

[athyrabunlord]

A Bet

A/N: random burst of muse. This is inspired by a popular tag on twitter #魔女集会で会いましょう (Let’s meet at the witches’ Sabbath”), where the theme is ‘a witch finds a human child and ends up raising him/her’. People mostly post original works but of course there are many fanarts under this theme as well. I have many ideas but ended settling on this one

Characters: Dia & Kanan Words: 3,096 ***This oneshot is written in second-person!*** Never written in this format before but I feel it really fits this story so, I gave it a try!

“A bet, you say?”

The human girl gives you a big grin. Those amethyst eyes are filled with an innocence that only a child could possess, blissfully unaware of the harsh world they have yet to see.

“Uh-huh! And if I win, you have to do anything I ask!”

No fear, just absolute trust and adoration. Such traits usually lead to certain death in the ruthless tundra that they live in but ah, she is with you, is she not? You are perhaps the Continent’s most feared Witch, infamous for surviving through many catastrophic wars unscathed.

This child is under your protection. Unwittingly yes, nevertheless still your responsibility. You pride yourself in never leaving any task unfinished, and so you could not bring yourself to abandon her. By chance, you had stumbled upon this orphaned child and had taken her with you on a whim. You had observed humans for centuries yet failed to understand, even now, how they have thrived in this world in spite of their countless shortcomings.

You simply want to understand, and it appears this child is just as curious as you are.

“You have heard stories about me. Surely, you can see the improbability of ever winning the bet?”

The girl furrows her brows, trying to process the difficult words you just uttered. She learns fast, as she always has, and the characteristic grin is back on her dirt-smudged face again.

“Oh I’ll find a way! This bet has no deadline, so I can just keep trying, can’t I?”

“I suppose you can.” You couldn’t help but sigh in mild exasperation. If anything, the child’s zest is impressive. Whenever she has a goal in mind, she strives to achieve it despite her young age and limited resources.

You had no idea how to raise a human child but somehow, between the two of you, an unlikely pair in this desolate terrain with sparse villages, she had grown from a toddler to an energetic kid who could climb trees on her own.

There is a slight swell of pride, much like the vague memories of when you learned to cast your very first spell and brew your first potion.

“Very well, you have a lifetime to learn how to get past my defense and land a hit on me.”

“Even a simple scratch counts!” The girl then holds out her pinkie. “I learned this in that last town we visited - it’s like a promise. You can’t go back on this bet.”

Amused, you crouch down to her level and hook your gloved pinkie around her tiny one. “Very well. I look forward to your attempts, Kanan.”

The girl laughs, a sound full of vitality and optimism. “Just wait, I’ll definitely win this bet, Dia-onee-san!”

With that proclamation, the child wraps her small arms around your neck and hugs you as tightly as her tiny body could muster.

Having lived a long, long time without any emotional upheaval, you are rather puzzled by this spur of warmth in your chest at that moment. Anticipation? A challenge to your monotonous quotidian life? Finally, a factor your power has no control over?

You find yourself smiling and returning the hug.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Gotcha!”

The ponytailed girl smirks, full of confidence and thrill as she leaps down from the tree branch. Her amethyst eyes are sharpened from various experiences and refined like a beautiful gem, blazing in a way only a lively adolescent could cause.

Her movements are agile and her strikes are a force to be reckoned with. You are certain that she is beyond any average human and could probably become a powerful Knight in due time. You are the one who trained her after all.

The sword she wields is also imbued with your magic and can cut through even the thickest of armors.

Alas, you are the Diamond Witch. Nothing can hurt you, not even an enhanced weapon.

“Not again?!” After your automatic shield deflects and flings her into the bushes, she rolls for a bit before bumping against a trunk. Grumbling, she sits up and rubs her head.

Seeing her pout and her dirt-covered face, you couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle. This human is quite troublesome in a way. She always gets into trouble, returning to their little cabin with scrapes and torn shirts. It’s nothing your magic couldn’t amend of course, but it’s exasperating to scold her again and again not to be so reckless.

“I did catch you by surprise, didn’t I? I saw it in your eyes.” Kanan scowls, seemingly indignant about your reaction. “So, what did I do wrong this time?”

“Nothing. You did catch me by surprise - I was not able to sense you until you jumped from that tree.” You subconsciously reach towards her messy hair and dust off all the leaves and dirt. She squirms a bit, possibly embarrassed about being treated like a child. That’s something you also don’t understand as time passes by. She will always be a child in your eyes, but just because she has grown to your height, she’s been insisting to be treated like an adult.

“Then how come your barrier still tossed me away like I was a fly or something?” She stands up and rests her large sword on her shoulder, not at all troubled by the weapon’s weight. It’s sometimes hard to superimpose the image of this muscular adolescent to the twig of a child from a decade ago.

“Because my shield is automatic, like an instinct. It is my ultimate defense, and why I was called the Diamond Witch.” You give her a patient look as you fix the rips in her sleeveless shirt.

Perhaps it’s time for another trip to the nearest human village. There are only so many times magic can mend a piece of clothing. You have always avoided any interactions with humans, but Kanan is free to do whatever she pleases. Some of the human confections she brings back from time to time taste rather delicious so the idea isn’t completely bad.

“Whaaaaat! Then I’ll never be able to win then?”

“Well, that is exactly what I have been telling you. It is impossible.”

“No it isn’t, I’ll prove you wrong.” As expected, Kanan’s dampened spirit doesn’t last long. A familiar smile brightens up her features as she laughs. “Remember the time I fell into the river? You thought I was going to drown.”

“I did.” You definitely remember the inexplicable clench in your chest watching the pre-teen plummet under the unforgiving torrent; the difficulty to breath as you urged your broom to fly faster and poured your magic to freeze the water, and the subsequent sigh when the girl popped her head out of the surface, mostly unharmed.

That day, the girl had learned how to swim, while you had learned to believe in the human’s adaptive ability a bit more (but also to keep a closer eye. Apparently this is something known as a rebellious phase when it’s hard to rein in a growing teen’s behavior).

“But I surprised you, didn’t I? Just wait, I’ll find a way somehow.” Kanan rests the sword against the tree trunk before starting her usual warm-up exercise. She appears ready for another go at this bet.

“But I have already told you… you know what, never mind. You have always been too stubborn to listen.”

The adolescent grins cheekily. You shake your head and stare at her in contemplation.

“What is it that you wish to acquire, anyway? I believe I have already provided anything you need. I have been compliant with your requests, perhaps except for wanting to see the ocean. That should come soon enough, however, for we have journeyed far and should reach the coast-”

“Oh that, yeah, I look forward to it. I like swimming and I’m good at it~ As for what I want as prize for winning the bet, uh...” For some reason the human looks embarrassed then, looking away and rubbing the back of her head. “I think I had something else in mind when I was a kid, but now…”

“But now-?”

“Y-You’ll see!” Kanan’s cheeks are still flushed when she faces you with a determined smile. “Anyway, Dia-san, I’m gonna do some laps and I’ll be back before sunset, okay?”

Though intrigued, you nod at the ponytailed girl and allows her to pull you into her arms. It’s become somewhat of a custom between the two of you, that she would hug you whenever she leaves your side for a while. And every time, there is that rush of warmth that lulls you into a sense of peace. You somewhat miss her childish way of calling you ‘onee-san’, but this is fine as well.

“Do not be late.” You whisper against her ear and chuckle when she hastily pulls away wearing an even deeper blush.

“I won’t!”

You watch the adolescent’s ponytail fluttering behind her as she jogs down the hill, her silhouette becoming smaller and smaller until she could no longer be spotted by your excellent vision.

More and more, you find yourself smiling for no particular reason. You are content from just gazing at her and waiting for her return.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you…”

The ponytailed woman smiles upon meeting your gaze as she hurries towards you. Those expressive amethyst eyes are full of relief and something else, a particular softness that coaxes a smile from you as well.

“You know I do not like crowds, Kanan.”

A light breeze brushes past your long hair, its dark hue almost blending in with the evening sky. Almost. The lights from the summer festival in this seaside town is giving you the illusion of daytime. So full of bustling crowds, lanterns and torches and so much noise! This is definitely the closest you have touched upon a dense human population since the last war.

You do not fear being discovered as the Diamond Witch, not at all. Rumors of your existence should have faded into the sands of time. There are soldiers mingling with the civilians, some local ones and some who had come from other places via ships, but none of them recognize you. In fact, they are more interested in your companion, either attracted by her beauty or her startling strength when they competed in friendly matches.

No, you simply do not like being surrounded by people, that is all. It is only because of Kanan’s plea that you accompany her to the festival in the first place, but there is only so much you could endure.

Here, at this secluded hill that oversees the port, you are finally able to regain your bearings and breathe in clean air in peace.

“Right, sorry about that.” Kanan at least seems apologetic as she sits down beside you. “I hope you did enjoy it, just a little bit?”

“... a bit.” You admit reluctantly. The various snacks sold at the stalls and the simple arcades were refreshing for you, never having experienced such human activities before. After all, you have never ventured this far into their world and would have never done so if Kanan wasn’t with you.

Indeed, you had fun, and fun hadn’t been a frequent emotion in your long life.

“I’m glad to hear that!” Even at a quarter-century of age, the woman’s smile still holds that childish edge and guileless warmth much like when you first found her.

“Why are you here though? Shouldn’t you be with your friends?”

You know for a fact that Kanan has settled down into this seaside town quite well and has made many friends, even with the out-of-towners who frequent by ships. Though her swordsmanship is just as good as a Knight’s, she chooses to live a humble life as a fisherman. Now as an independent adult, she is making an honest living here while you still live like a recluse in a hut within the forest. She visits you often enough, but it just isn’t the same anymore.

Many times, you have wondered if you should just let her be and continue with your wandering. At the end of the day, Kanan is a human and should be with her kind.

Who are you to stop her?

“The festival’s great and all, but I’d rather spend time with you,” Kanan laughs sheepishly and scoots closer to you. “When was the last time we just watch the stars together, just the two of us, just like old times?”

“... indeed, it has been long.”

Neither of you speak for a while, content with each other’s presence close by and enjoying the tranquil atmosphere blessed by the night. It takes you a few moments to notice Kanan’s hand covering yours, but you do nothing to reject such contact. In fact, the warmth from the contact is pleasant and welcomed.

“Perhaps it is time that we part ways.”

Startled, she squeezes your hand and places her other hand on your shoulder so you would face her. “W-Why do you say that? You don’t want me around anymore?”

“No, that is not it. It is… simply time that we move on. You have your own life, while I-”

“I don’t understand. I-I want you to be in my life.” She shakes her head vehemently. “You are my world, Dia.”

You are unprepared for the slight quickening of your heartbeat when Kanan’s warm hand cups your cheek. The way she utters your name also sends an odd tingle down your body, and you find yourself lost in those beautiful amethyst eyes.

“Remember the bet?

“I do.”

“If I win, you’ll have to stay with me,” Kanan’s firm voice leaves no room for argument. You lean against her hand when her thumb whimsically caresses your cheek.

“Certainly, but you have never been able to land a hit on me, have you?”

“That’s…” She drops her gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you… but really, you have no weak point. No matter what I do, I can’t get past your shield.”

“But you are touching me right now, are you not?” Suddenly, you no longer care about anything else in the world. All those centuries of knowledge and self-preservation become nothing but a muffled whisper as you divulge your one secret to the precious human in your life. “Any time you touch me or hug me, my shield is never activated.”

“E-Eh?” Kanan doesn’t seem to understand your words, so you elaborate for her with a small smile.

“If you hold a knife while hugging me, you could easily stab me in the back-”

“Don’t joke about stuff like that!” Kanan recoils away, and you fleetingly lament on the loss of contact. “I would never do that to you!”

“It is your only chance.” You tilts her chin so she would look at you instead of down at her lap. “It is the only way to get past my defense.”

“I will not do it. I’ll find some other way to get you to stay. With me.”

Kanan leans close and gently presses her lips against your own. The rush of heat is like nothing you have ever experienced before. Through this chaste kiss, you could feel both her determination to convince you as well as her uncertainty at such an intimate gesture. Most of all, however, you could feel the missing piece between the two of you.

This is love, is it not? The emotion that drives humans, that makes them protective of one another and allows them to thrive even under unfavorable circumstances.

You did not understand love but you are starting to. You close your eyes and smile into the kiss as Kanan’s arms wrap securely around you. Her embrace makes you feel more invincible than any magic ever did, and you allow yourself to relax and melt against her.

The blissful daze is suddenly shattered by the whistling of something piercing through the air. One moment Kanan is hugging you, the next she has shoved you down and covered you with her body. There are several muffled sounds, and a pained cry escapes her gritted teeth.

Stunned, you could only lie there and stare at the many arrows embedded in Kanan’s back. The clamoring of metal and frantic footsteps of strangers soon enter the surrounding but you could barely pay them any heed. All you could feel is the hot liquid soaking through her shirt and staining your dress.

Her breathing is shallow, alarmingly so, and blood is trickling down her chin. You grasp desperately for those arrows, aiming to heal her wounds as soon as you yank those out but deep down, you know it is already too late.

“Dia… “ She gasps weakly, her voice barely audible beside her ear. “I…”

You do not understand why she is smiling at you.

And you never will.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Are you here to visit Kanan-chan too?”

You nod solemnly at the young woman holding flowers, vaguely recognizing her as one of Kanan’s friends from the town. With your face covered in veil, it is easy to blend in with the rest of people coming to mourn for Kanan’s death.

The Knights, who had come all the way from the other side of the Continent, talked about the Diamond Witch and how dangerous she was. The folks from the seaside town would have none of it, enraged by the murder of a beloved resident. Against the might of the united people, the few troops had no chance and they were soon banished.

With the outsiders gone, the locals had fallen into a forlorn trance as they prepared for Kanan’s burial. They think she would have liked being close to the sea, and you approve of their decision to rest her on the very hill when she had hugged you for the last time.

You reach out to touch the tombstone, its surface cold and foreign, so unlike the spirited woman you once knew. You could still feel the phantom brush of her lips against yours, and the heat from those beautiful amethyst eyes. Her voice, ranging from bubbly young to tenderly mature, speaks of a bet made long ago, and you find yourself on your knees as the words repeat in your mind.

There is terrible pain in your heart, a wound invisible to naked eyes and impervious to any healing spells you know. You clutch at your chest as you rest your forehead against the tombstone, an unfamiliar wetness leaking from your eyes onto the stone surface.

“You won the bet, Kanan.”

[lxveille]

acquiescence

hoshi x reader

word count: ~3200 a/n: paranormal disaster/societal collapse!au; a continuation of trust fall that i wasn’t planning on writing (at least not so soon), but i had to trudge through snow the other day & got to thinking; also slightly nsfw for some intimate touching.

In the quiet of a freezing night, you and Hoshi stumble over a line.

It’s too cold to snow, you think to yourself bitterly. And you’re glad that you and Hoshi didn’t have to argue about whether or not you were going to steal blankets from the safe house. There hadn’t even been a discussion over it. After a mere three days appreciating the relative safety and promise of a bed, neither of you were willing to give up the simple creature comfort of a few well-stitched, soft blankets.

One of which is doubling in purpose as an impromptu shawl around your head and shoulders. You cling to it from the inside, and it does a better job of keeping your fingers warm than your pockets alone have done before.

The safehouse must be miles away now. Hoshi had woken you up at some unknown hour, and the sun had barely begun to rise when the two of you started making your way out of the forest. Trees still lined either side of your trail, but the frequency of abandoned vehicles and snow-covered partitions are enough to tell you that you’re walking along a road now.

The two of you trudge on without many words exchanged. The sun has already peaked and started creeping westwards in the sky. There’s little energy left for making menial conversation at this point in the trek.

Hoshi comes to a stop. It takes you a few steps to realize he’d fallen out of synch with you. You turn back to look at him and find him staring off to the left of the road up ahead.  You follow his line of sight to notice a billboard in the distance, only partially visible through the bare branches of trees. What parts of it you can see are impossible to read or make out what’s depicted. There’s too much snow stuck to it, and most of what is left exposed after that has long been infested with the sickly yellow, stinging mold that had flourished as the second plague.

You call out Hoshi’s name -- or nickname, as it is -- only for the sound to be too muffled by the cover of blanket you have covering your face from the nose down. The thought of uncovering your features to the biting cold is dreadful. So you try again, nearly shouting into the fabric.

“What, Daydream?” he responds without faltering in his stare at the distant billboard.

At this moment you realize you didn’t really have anything to say. You’d just wanted him to acknowledge he was still there. It’s odd to see him as still and as contemplative as he looks right now.

To save your throat from having to tell again, you pull at the blanket so it’s tucked under your chin. Immediately, the freezing temperature stings at the tip of your nose and the apples of your cheeks. “Do you think the beetles will stay away in winter like must bugs do?” you think to ask at the last minute. You don’t need to clarify which beetles you’re referring to. They may have appeared after the electric grid had gone out, but you and Hoshi had already encountered them plenty of times since you began navigating the world together.

“I don’t know,” he says. His tone is fatigued and almost irritated, but he looks your way at last. “Nothing goes the way it should anymore.”

It feels hyperbolic despite the fact that on most other days you would agree with the sentiment.  

After so brief an instant, Hoshi returns his gaze to the horizon. You take a few steps towards him with snow crunching unsteadily under your boots. You pull the fabric back up over your nose and mouth and exhaling heavily, trying to gain some semblance of warmth from your own breath.

“We aren’t gonna make it to the next town before the sun goes down,” Hoshi admits at last, finally letting you in on what has him looking like he’d been kicked.

Bad news, regardless of how it’s framed. He doesn’t need to explain why this reality has made him so despondent. You bury your nose further into the cloth wrapped around your face. It will only get colder when night comes. Averting your eyes down to your shoes, you do your best to summon some kind of positive thought for your sake and his. A dramatic thought comes to mind (hope might be the only thing to keep you warm tonight) and you start to wonder if it had come from some line of literature you’d only half-read for school.

“If we keep moving, we might find some sort of shelter before it gets too dark,” Hoshi provides for you, shoulder brushing yours as he passes.

You shoot him a look that aims to say, but you were the one to stop first. He catches your near-glare and sends you an improbable smile. Hoshi is the only man you’ve met who could manage a smile like that only moments after indirectly admitting there’s a chance he may freeze to death.

The sun has all but disappeared when the two of you find the closest thing to shelter you can hope to come across. Wind has already blown some snow into the ground otherwise covered by the underpass, but it’s not even half as deep as the rest of the snow you’ve been walking through thus far.

By Hoshi’s request, you’re checking the walls and pavement of the underpass for any signs of mold or ominous cracks. While you’re scanning the darkening surroundings, Hoshi climbs the hill to check the overpassing road for any better options. You’re still kicking at snow to expose the cold ground beneath it when Hoshi comes back into sight.

“This is gonna have to be it, unless you’ve found something,” Hoshi announces, looking at you expectantly. There was a time when he might not have entrusted this task to you, you realize at the back of your mind.

“It looks clean,” you tell him with a sigh, tugging the blanket back around your shoulders as it nearly falls off. “If the ground does open up under us, I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted it.” The seriousness required to speak of such a prospect doesn’t shake you as much as it once did. But you only needed to see one sink hole appear to accept that even the most solid of surfaces were a risk now. It’d been a risk in the safehouse. It’d be a risk the whole day the two of you have been walking.   

If guarantees of safety still existed, society might not have given way to chaos as quickly as it had.

The two of you set up your makeshift camp as such: one blanket laid out flat on the ground with two to go over your bodies, and a third pulled up over your heads to help seal in body heat. Hoshi keeps his hat on; you keep the hood of the winter coat you despise pulled up over your head.

You lie with your backs to one another, fingers holding down the edges of the blankets in place as you shift into comfortable positions.

“Are you good?” you ask him when it seems you’ve both come to still. He hums back in agreement.

Cloaked and covered in stolen blankets, the only sound that passes between the two of you is steady breathing. Gradually, the layers of cloth work in combination with your natural body heat in making it feel a bit warmer. Or, your worried side chimes in, perhaps you’re numbing in some kind of subzero temperature already.  

“I remember the first time I got really sick. I must have been… four or five,” you begin to mumur, hoping to quiet down your fretting thoughts, “I had this horrible fever and could barely talk my throat was so sore.”

Hoshi doesn’t know what’s brought this thought on for you, but he doesn’t interrupt. He does, however, turn onto his back, head lulling to his right so he’s staring at the back of your head.

“My mom always said the worst of it was how much I cried. But I remember crying mostly because I just didn’t get it. I hadn’t yet learned what ‘sick’ was and I didn’t understand why one day I was fine and the next I wasn’t. …I think I was scared, too, you know? That I’d feel that way forever?”

He pictures you, not as child but just the same as you are now, in tears and frightened. Hoshi hasn’t really seen you cry. There have been moments when you’ve been close to it, when you’d been visibly distressed and scared. But you’d mastered some kind of technique of taking a very slow breath and swallowing down that impulse. He knew because he’d seen it happen. Because it had been the very first thing that made his heart pang for you, back when he’d been part of a discussion on what to do with you; a conversation that feels utterly foreign now that he’d long since chosen an option that hadn’t even been on table then.

“That’s the worst part now, too, isn’t it?” you posit after several moments tick by, “The not knowing why.”

Before Hoshi can agree or disagree, a harsh wind whips through the underpass. Both of you sit up and grasp at the blankets as quickly as you can. All the warmth that had been so preciously trapped in your careful cocoon is gone in an instant. There’s no words exchanged on how urgent it is to rearrange everything as it had been before. There are a few curses released in little more than puffs of freezing air from either one of you. Beyond that, the task is carried out without even a spare glance at each other.

It takes both of you a moment to fully realize how much closer you’ve arranged yourselves to one another once everything is back in place. Huddled together, Hoshi finds his chest only inches away from your back. With every exhale, you feel his breath hit warm against the back of your neck.

It seems to warm up faster with the new proximity.

Hoshi closes his eyes and imagines pressing his lips to whatever patch of exposed skin he can find along your neck. He pictures brushing your hair aside, or tugging down at the fabrics of your jacket and sweater just to skim along the very tops of your shoulder blades. He refrains. He’s certain all he’d get out of it would be you disappearing from his side.

Compared to his thoughts, letting an arm fall over your waist seems like the most chaste of actions. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t notice at first when he’s done just that. You, on the other, notice right away when the weight of his elbow settles into the curve of your side. You tense at the sensation of his fingers skimming over the front of your sweater. You take a deep breath and try to calm the nerves that have suddenly jolted to life at such a simple touch.

It’s the noticeable rise of your lungs filling with air on that deep intake that makes Hoshi realize just what he’s done. Impulse shouts at him to pull away, to preserve the lines he’s already crossed inside his mind. But something unfathomable and seated left of center in his chest makes his stay just as he is.

You tell yourself that this is realistically just a better means of survival. Preserving body warmth was exactly why you’d covered yourselves from head to feet with blankets. Surely having each other closer would only contribute to the cause of making it through the night without freezing. Though that reasoning doesn’t explain why his fingertips are tracing meaningless patterns into the clothing covering your stomach.  

He has never been this close, you think to yourself. For every time the two of you have been near over these months, there have never been any touches such as these. Even if you had thought of them, or dreamed of them, or nearly caved to the temptation of them during those fleeting nights in the safehouse. Contact has always been practical. Or has always had the guise of practicality. In very little time at all, Hoshi makes it difficult for you to convince yourself that these touches are only aimed at giving the two of you a better chance of making it through the night.

Hoshi lets his hand slip downwards slowly until he finds the bottom hem of your sweater. He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the woven material softly back and forth just as one might do with worry beads. Like he’s seeking satisfaction enough from man-made fabric alone. An effort that’s in vain. A testament to that much comes as he releases the cloth and lets his hand slip under it instead, splaying over your abdomen directly.

You shudder at the skin-to-skin contact.

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You feel the question against the back of your neck more than you hear it. You want to remain silent, to feign sleep to avoid having to answer, to take no side even if a part of your thrills at the feeling. Your lack of response doesn’t encourage him. His hand retreats immediately.

“You’re warm,” you speak softly, feeling your own warm breath come back against your face within the cocoon of blankets the two of you have constructed. It’s an excuse to let him put his hand back on your skin. You’re embarrassed at how quickly you miss something that had been so brief to begin with. Your vague words aren’t enough to convince him. You close your eyes and admit, “It’s okay.”

There’s a hesitation, and then his fingers are under your sweater all over again. His breath stutters against the back of your neck as his fingers trail a path up your stomach. They roam up and down the slope of your side, then delve towards your sternum. His palm settles there for a minute or two, and a part of you is certain he must be able to feel your heartbeat from there, even if not directly over that organ directly.  

Then they begin again, moving down to flit over the side of your ribcage pressed to the ground. You realize your sweater is half-pushed up at this point, but the warmth radiating off Hoshi’s hand and forearm make you less inclined to pull it back into place. His fingers move in circular patterns over your abdomen, never touching with fewer than three fingers.

“You can be closer, if you want,” you tell him under your breath, too self-conscious at your own words to utter them any louder.

“I can stop,” he offers alternatively, hand retreating from where it’s nearly cupped over one side of your chest.  

It is strange, this interaction that seemed to rise out of nothing. It is the most intimate you’ve been since the world began to fall apart. You wonder if the same is true for Hoshi. It isn’t inconceivable that you’re both simply starved for human contact that isn’t either aggression or helping hands.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper back, then close your eyes before you admit, “I don’t want you to; if you want it, too.”

Hoshi answers by moving closer, his shoulder knocking against yours as his hips come to press against your own. Through layers of clothing, you still process this spooning position as being one that yearns for something more.

The same hand begins moving downwards, asking a tentative question over each inch of your skin. It comes to a stop over the hem of your pants. Instinct as your spine arching, pressing your points on contact further into him. He must take the action as an invitation, because the next thing you feel is a thumb hooking into your waistband. He pauses there, knuckle running back and forth over the warm flesh between your hips as he skims his hand back and forth along the fabric.

You rock into him again, the verge of sensation already being enough to have your heart beating heavy in your chest. He laughs, and it tickles against your ear as it passes over as nothing more than a hot puff of air. His hand adjusts, slipping into the crotch of your pants with some strain from the positioning. Fingers spread over you, separated now by only one minuscule layer of fabric.

“I think it’s too cold for me,” he confesses, and you can nearly hear the flush of some uncalled for shame in his tone. He curls his fingertips to press into you more sturdily. “But I can try to help you.”

Putting a name to it makes a quiet mortification rise in you; it’s a shame parallel to his own, even if they sit at the opposite ends of arousal. You press your teeth into your lower lip, and try not to think of yourself as unappealing as Hoshi’s fingers start to seek a reaction from you.

You move your hand to his wrist, calling his actions to a halt almost as soon as they’d begun. “It’s alright,” you say before he can question what it means, “We should really just sleep.”

He pulls his hand out from your pants in compliance, and your own falls away from his wrist in response.

There are no exchanged wishes for good nights or sweet dreams. Nothing more is said before the two of you fall asleep in the same position, pressed tight to one another with one of Hoshi’s arms hanging over your midsection.

Morning comes, and you’re unsure if you’re more surprised by the position you wake up in or the fact that you’ve both made it through the coldest night yet.

Natural aches have settled into your muscles from sleeping on the ground with only one blanket to call a mattress. You both sit up and stretch before packing all but one of the blankets back into your packs. No mention is made of what occurred in the night.

You wrap the same blanket from yesterday back around your shoulders and up over the lower half of your face. It occurs to you that some part of the smell lingering on it now may be Hoshi’s. Immediately, you’re glad that the fabric is covering your surely blushing cheeks.

Hoshi is waiting for you at the other end of the underpass from where the two of you had entered the night before. When you come up to his side, he tilts his head back up at the sky and lifts one hand to shield his eyes.

“At least the sun is out today,” he comments, voice still carrying the rougher tones of morning. You nod and ask if he thinks today you’ll manage to reach whatever town is your next hopeful destination.

“We should,” Hoshi confirms, and looks at you properly for the first time that morning. You swallow and seek some sort of message in his eyes. But he is inscrutable today, so you are the first to break the silent exchange of curious gazes. “Are you ready to go?”

“There’s no reason to stay here,” you answer. The cloud the leaves your lips with the words is a testament to the fact that the sun alone does not make it any warmer than it was the day before.

Like any decent survivors, you leave nothing behind. Even when you’d rather leave certain complications buried in the snow.

[snezfics-n-shit]

Whumptober Day 24: Flushed

Fandom: Ace Attorney 

Characters: Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, Dick Gumshoe

Notes: And now for something completely different. Early in the 7-year gap, Hobohodo!Phoenix accompanies Miles and Gumshoe on an investigation and start a new investigation of their own. The three work together to eliminate the impossible and find the truth in something highly improbable. Phoenix has some really bad luck and gets a pretty big ego hit.

     When Phoenix made his New Year’s resolution to be more involved in Miles’s work after moving in with him, he thought he would only commit to the act of saying he wanted to do it. He did just that last year when he said he would go to the gym every week, but Miles was determined to make him follow through this year. It wasn’t so bad, though, and it was the least he could do in return for all the times Miles had assisted him on a case. 

“You have no idea how much we all miss you at the Criminal Affairs Department, pal!” Detective Gumshoe picked up a box of donuts from the snow dusted picnic table to offer a few to the couple. “Without you around, investigations have been real boring. Mr. Edgeworth can attest to that!”

“You did make the investigation period much more lively.” Miles agreed with a nod before picking out a chocolate donut. “I’m pleased to have you participating in an investigation for the prosecution for a change.”

“That gives you special permissions to our donut station, pal!” Gumshoe gently jiggled the box in front of Phoenix’s face, unsure why he would be so hesitant to pass up specially authorized donuts. “Come on, take one before we start! It won’t bite, I promise.”

“Oh, I don’t think I should. I’m getting over a cold, so it’s probably not a good idea to risk putting my hand in.” Phoenix smiled nervously. He was telling the truth, though. If he had to rank how he felt over the course of the last week, he could easily describe it as one of the worst colds he’d ever experienced. Even now, he was still feeling that ever persistent malaise. 

“You want apple cider flavored, right?” Miles, attentive as ever, took an apple cider donut to hand to his boyfriend. “Now  you won’t have to worry about touching any.”

“Thanks, babe.” Phoenix smiled and took a large bite of his donut. “So, where’s the crime scene again?”

“Up that hill, pal!” Gumshoe pointed to the top of a steep hill marked with police tape. “It’s a pretty tough walk, especially with the wind we’re having right now, but it does a body good.” He grinned. “I bet if I walked up and down there a few times, I’ll be in such great shape, I could dance with Maggey all night long at our wedding reception this June.” 

“As much as we’d love to discuss your upcoming wedding, perhaps we should get this hill climbing done and over with first.” Miles slid his gloves back on before he beckoned to Phoenix and Gumshoe as he led them up the hill.

Gumshoe did not exaggerate when he said the climb would be difficult. Miles occasionally felt like he should check that this was indeed a hill rather than a mountain. The one thing that grounded him in the fact it was a hill was whenever Miles and Gumshoe would need to stand in place, waiting for Phoenix to catch up to them. At least the trip was long enough for the two of them to finish their donuts before investigating.

“Since when did you two get so fast?” Phoenix bent over to massage his knees with gloved hands. “I can’t already be turning into an old man.” He refused to imagine the pain in his joints as an inevitable sign of aging. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, love.” Miles took a few more, albeit slower, steps up the hill. “We’re almost at the top.” He turned to look at Phoenix as the tired disbarred attorney looked up. “It’s certainly windy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s hard to fight against it.” Phoenix tried shielding his face from the wind with his arm. He felt something like his skin was drying out, but only on his face.

“That, too, but I mean your cheeks look awfully flushed.” Miles looked at Gumshoe beside him, puzzled why the wind didn’t have this effect on the detective. “Like the wind slapped you in the face.”

Phoenix made a groaning noise as he finally approached the top, practically on all fours by the time he reached the actual crime scene. He looked up at the detective and prosecutor, surely enough displaying patches of reddish pink on his cheeks.

“Wow, Mr. Edgeworth was right.” Gumshoe took a long look at Phoenix’s face, followed by a quick glance at Miles. “Looks like the wind only got a good hold of you, though, since only Mr. Edgeworth’s nose is a little pink.” 

“Can we sit down for a minute?” Phoenix flopped forwards, lying on his belly on the cold ground with only his head lifted by the support of his hands. “I think I pulled my everything.”

“You certainly exerted yourself this time, haven’t you?” Miles examined Phoenix’s face, this time much closer. “I hope you’re not running a fever again.”

“I don’t think so.” Phoenix shook his head. 

As much as Miles denied the effectiveness of Phoenix’s personal ‘tried and true’ method of checking for a fever, he couldn’t make a thermometer appear out of thin air. He kissed Phoenix’s forehead, letting his lips linger there as he assessed whatever temperature he could feel. 

“Hm.” Miles stood upright once more. “You’re not that warm.”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think that’s any old flushed face. Looks more like a rash.” Gumshoe observed, sitting on the ground at Phoenix’s request. “Maybe it’s that thing where you break out from getting cold?” Quite a handful of the police officers at the station had that, so he wouldn’t consider it so rare that it would be out of the question for Phoenix.

“Wouldn’t that have started as soon as we went outside, though?” Miles hummed and turned his head to look at Phoenix. “That, and I’ve never seen you have such a reaction to the cold.”

“It would be pretty weird if it just started now.” Phoenix pondered. “Could it be frostbite?” He had never had frostbite before, and his face didn’t feel anything like he thought frostbite would be like, but it was worth a shot in the dark.

“It certainly is odd.” Miles held his chin, staring at the ground in thought. “I’ve seen frostbite before on a few occasions, and your face looks nothing like it.”

"You ate a donut earlier." Gumshoe’s eyes widened in panic. "If you're allergic to apples or anything like that, you made a big mistake, pal! I'll call an ambulance if you need me to!"

"No, I eat apples all the time." Phoenix waved his hands to gesture dismissing the thought. "They're my favorite. Never had a reaction to them in my life."

"Well, that's a relief. I do have an EpiPen on me just in case, though." Gumshoe dug through his pocket to present said EpiPen as proof of his claim. "You can't be too careful!"

"It's admirable you're so prepared, detective." Miles complimented him. "I hope you haven't needed to use it yet, though."

"Well, bees aren't typically out in January, so I think I'm safe for now." Gumshoe laughed heartily, his breath visible in the winter air. 

“If we encountered bees that could withstand the January cold, I think we’d all be in trouble.” Phoenix joined in laughing, occasionally rubbing his cheeks, alternating from left to right. 

“You know who you remind me of, pal?” Gumshoe leaned forward. “Mr. Godot when I visited him in prison to bring him a Christmas present.” Come to think of it, Phoenix really did look similar, minus the whole white hair and fancy visor.

“I believe I know where you’re going with this, Gumshoe.” Miles nodded. “I remember you telling me about his condition shortly after your visit.”

“So what was wrong with Godot?” Phoenix cocked his head. Gumshoe never told him anything about visiting Godot for the holidays, let alone whatever he looked like then. Was delivering presents to convicts a normal thing Gumshoe did, or was it because he respected Mia and wanted to show that by reaching out to her old boyfriend?

Gumshoe bit his lip as he tried to jog his full memory of the event. “He had something called uh… Fifth… Fifth something.”

“Fifth disease.” Miles corrected. “It’s recognizable by a rash much like yours, but it’s much less common in adults. I looked up Mr. Godot’s files when Gumshoe first told me he had it. When he was poisoned, his immune system took extraordinary damage and left him vulnerable to most diseases an adult typically wouldn’t think twice about.”

“Well, I can’t have this ‘fifth disease,’ then.” Phoenix finally shifted his position to sit upright. “I wasn’t poisoned and I think my immune system is pretty good. I’d say it’s pretty unlikely at best.”

“I don’t believe ‘can’t’ is the right word here.” Miles sighed through his nose. “Just because it may be unlikely, does not make it impossible. I believe we’ve already gone over the truly impossible conclusions.” 

“There’s a famous detective who said something like that.” Gumshoe recalled. “If you eliminate the impossible, you can find the truth, no matter how, uh, what’s the word?” He snapped his fingers a few times as he thought of what he wanted to say.

“Improbable.” Miles finished the detective’s paraphrase. He returned his attention to Phoenix. “It’s still possible, though, for you to have caught it somehow.” 

“How come I’ve never heard of this disease before?”

“Probably because you’ve never had it, which would explain why you have it now.” Miles deduced. “However, it’s unfortunate that you have that rash at your age. It’s more common for an adult to not have any symptoms at all.” He watched Phoenix massage his wrists. “Joint pain, on the other hand, would be the exception.” It was expected of Miles to have done this amount of extensive research. In fact, for example, whenever he tried cooking something new, he would dedicate himself to not only learning the recipe, but also the history and cultural impact of the dish. 

“Well, what does that say about me?” Phoenix fought against the deep ache that accompanied his barely successful effort at standing up.

“Nothing, love.” Miles put an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulder. “It simply means you’ve found yourself in some bad luck.”

“Maybe you walked under a ladder or a black cat crossed your path, pal.” Gumshoe shrugged. “Or spilled some salt, or cracked a mirror…” He trailed off on a list of various superstitious hypotheses. 

“Here I thought getting disbarred was the worst luck I could find.” Phoenix frowned as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “This just takes the cake, huh?”

“Are you still up to investigating?” Miles asked, acknowledging that there was more to Phoenix’s poor mood than just feeling unwell. He imagined such circumstances would leave a noticeable dent in Phoenix’s confidence, or dare he say ego? “I’m sure Gumshoe would understand if we went home early.” He reached for his boyfriend’s arm.

“I’m not that sick, Miles.” Phoenix pulled himself away. “I can keep going.”

“I’m not talking about just you feeling sick.” Miles crossed his arms, tapping his right elbow with his left index finger. “You know that as well as I do.” He watched Phoenix’s face turn a shade of red similar to what was already on his cheeks. “No one is going to blame you for not taking kindly to what we just discussed.”

“Yeah, I’d feel pretty embarrassed, too.” Gumshoe tried to cheer Phoenix up, but he backed off when Miles stared daggers at him. “How about I, uh, just take you guys home?”

“If you like, we can take you to a doctor, and it could be something completely different.” Miles suggested, punctuated by a kiss on Phoenix’s cheek. “Then we can return home and see that movie you’ve been meaning to see for the past three years.”

“Alright, on one condition.”

“What would that be, sweetheart?” Miles would stand on his head and recite the entirety of Macbeth if he had to, so long as it meant improving Phoenix’s mood. 

“If it’s what you say it is, please don’t tell anyone.” Phoenix buried his face in his winter coat. He paused before amending his request. “You can tell Trucy, but no one else.”

“My lips are sealed, darling.”

[gregellner]

Promo picture by HBO.

This is unusual for me, but nonetheless I will be reviewing the entirety of the seventh season of Game of Thrones in hindsight, as it is panned out.

In order to keep this all from seeming like nothing more than one side, I will start by acknowledging that yes, there are some elements of this season that I enjoyed. Two parts in particular: Euron Greyjoy’s ambush of his niece Yara’s fleet and Theon Greyjoy’s brutal hand-to-hand fight with a nameless Ironborn raider.

The ambush was well lain out, and made military sense. Euron managed to catch the Dornish-Greyjoy fleet (hereafter called the Targaryen fleet) unawares, and the fight between his men and those of the Targaryen forces included casualties on both sides. Furthermore, unlike the attempted rescue of Theon in Season 4, the main antagonist of this arc actually is hit and suffers some damage, with his armor having meaning beyond being just metal clothing that has been ignored since approximately Season 4. Furthermore, he got rid of some characters who had grated on fans, though admittedly this is more a case of cleaning up the showrunners’ own mistakes than actually good writing in its own right.

Theon’s duel showcased a different kind of fight, one of pure endurance. There is nothing flashy about the hand-to-hand beatdown on the beach, just blood, punches, and kicks. However, the fight goes to show something that many recent fights have ignored: giving character progression in a meaningful way, with the actual possibility of death for a major person. Theon’s castration proves essential to this fight, giving a mixture of triumph, brutality, and even humor to the fight itself.

However, there is only one word that I really need to say when discussing the rest of Season 7 of Game of Thrones.

 Failure.

I see this entire season as a failure on almost every level. While there are a few good character moments, they are few and far between, with far more time spent treading water than actually moving forward in the plot. In order to best articulate this process, I will go into depth on the different elements of the plot, and its different developments, especially how they are presented (which is one of the most important things about the plotting).

First, I’ll go into the general problems that have cropped up in the season, then I will turn to specific elements.

  Fast Travel

For those who are unaware, the phenomenon of “fast travel” is a concept in video games where a player can move across a distance that would normally take a very long time (perhaps half an hour to an hour at times, if not more) in the space of about a minute with a single button press, only having to wait through a loading screen before they are spontaneously at their destination.

This phenomenon seems to have been injected into nearly every single force in Game of Thrones for this season, all in the name of moving the plot along faster. Euron Greyjoy can travel around the entire continent of Westeros over the course of fifteen minutes. A call for aid can travel to the far south of the map and allow for travel right up to North of the Wall (with time for a new outfit to be tailored) in perhaps the same amount of time, if not twenty minutes.

This type of problem would not have a significant effect on some fantasy stories. After all, the only thing anyone needs to say is that “a wizard did it.” The issue is, there is no actual mechanism to allow this kind of speed. In every other season, people would be hard-pressed to find transportation from one place to another. In fact, the entire reason the Red Wedding even came up in the first place was a lie about a deal that had allowed for easy passage of the Northern troops south. If this kind of mechanism were in place, we wouldn’t have ever needed to see the Freys or their castle in the Twins, instead able to just move the characters off screen and magically have them be on the other side of a major river.

The effect is similar to one people had in hindsight about The Lord of the Rings: if Frodo and Sam could have just used the eagles in the first place to just go right to Mordor, why walk all the way and allow so much death? Because it wouldn’t make a good story, yes, but it still relies upon a completely new system that could, logically, have existed earlier. But I digress.

In fact, the only army that doesn’t seem to have that kind of speed is that of the White Walkers. If they did have it, this season would have been over before it began, and, heaven forbid, the Night King would have had to actually do something more than once in a season.

 Plot Tailored to the Audience, not the Story

While television does have its own limitations, they should be tailored to making a good story, not just a vast spectacle or a shocking drama. The seventh season of Game of Thrones seems to fall into the trap of tailoring character actions to a plot for “intensity,” rather than creating an organic, interesting plot through the actions of the characters themselves.

When questions are asked in this section, there is an implicit response you should assume: “Because the showrunners said so.”

  Blackwater Rush

The massacre at Blackwater Rush is highly praised by many a viewer, but there remains a serious issue that people tend to overlook: how would she even know that the Lannister-Tarly forces were still there? How would she get her own forces, her Dothraki horde, across the entire country in time to catch up with them? And perhaps most stupidly, why would she go into battle in nothing more than her regal dress, rather than, say… attempting to wear any sort of armor? Is she aware of the plot armor she has? I will discuss “plot armor” below.

  Great Wight Hunt

This hunt, first brought up in Episode 5, then carried out in Episode 6, is far and away the most infamous example of the plot being tailored to television audiences rather than even the most basic logic.

As anyone who knows about zombie apocalypse stories would know, the idea of grabbing a single member of the undead from a horde is virtually impossible without alerting the others, especially without it being killed. Jon, who has actually faced wights, would have known this and accounted for it, even told the others how stupid of an idea it was, had he been given an ounce of actual logic to use. And, surprise, surprise, it doesn’t go according to plan. Catching one wight led to a bunch of wights seeing the group, followed by some more, and then an entire army. Who could possibly believe this was a good idea?

On top of that, the reasoning for the hunt is completely pointless. If the idea is to bring back a single wight for Cersei Lannister to learn of the imminent invasion, she, being a narcissist par excellence, would ignore the threat and let other people handle it just so that she could gain more territory for herself on the throne. Again, surprise! This is exactly what happens. On this count, Tyrion, the one who has the most experience with Cersei, would have been the one to say how stupid of an idea it was… but the entire plan was his idea in the first place!

Let’s not fool ourselves: the real reason this plot even happened was because of the need for a traditional major event for the penultimate episode of the season. However, it failed at even that, owing to the imperviousness of plot armor (again, to be explained below).

  Sansa and Arya’s “Plan”

Some believe the “plan” that Sansa and Arya Stark had to trap Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish was very clever in hindsight, but that’s all it was: a good idea in hindsight. The actual plotting of the scenes leading up to the revelation in the season finale was idiotic at best, and nonsensical at worst. The two sisters would have had no reason to keep up their act of hostility to one another in private, especially given there is little indication at all that Littlefinger has actual spies in Winterfell. All of his “knowledge” is that which he gains by himself in this season. The only reason to keep up the charade is for the sake of the audience, which, again, does not actually exist in the world. Their scenes play out, especially in hindsight, as if they were acting out in a play to go off of reactions… to something that isn’t even there.

This all could have been solved by using a character with had almost nothing to do this season: Brandon “Bran” Stark. Given his omniscience, all that was needed was a single line after one of the Sansa-Littlefinger conversations about how the former’s brother wanted to speak to her, with her going off to talk to him off screen. That way, it wouldn’t come across as nearly as contrived as it was.

  Impervious Plot Armor

“Plot armor” is the phenomenon of people in a story surviving seemingly impossible, if not highly improbable, situations because they are important to the plot later on down the line, storyline logic possibly being ignored in the process. Game of Thrones once prided itself on the idea of nobody having such immunity, but over time, this kind of story-driven immunity has become more and more prominent. Though the most infamous case was Ramsay Bolton, who could wade into combat against heavily armored foes shirtless and come out fine, this season has given a serious case to all major characters with important roles. The most glaring cases of this phenomenon come in the form of the assault on Blackwater Rush (the battle of the loot train) in Episode 4 and the infamous “Great Wight Hunt” in Episode 6.

In the case of Blackwater Rush, not a single person with a name died in the entire battle (if one could call that massacre a battle at all). The only named deaths came after the fight was over, and were limited to Randyll and Dickon Tarly (who each barely had a role in the story in the first place). On the other hand, Jaime Lannister was tackled into inexplicably deep water in heavy plate armor, which should have been enough to drown him, and not only managed to get away more or less completely unscathed, but apparently managed to, with Bronn, swim the entire length of the apparent lake with said plate armor on, while underwater.

The Great Wight Hunt is even more egregious. There are a grand total of three deaths, and only one of them is even a member of the crew on this completely idiotic plan in the first place. Jon not only offers to give his White Walker-slaying sword back to Jorah (despite the fact he could have tried to do this before leaving Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, outside of wight country), but is saved from imminent death no fewer than four times, including somehow killing two wights off-camera without a single weapon in hand in the freezing water (what hypothermia?). Tormund is seemingly nearly killed, and put into a position where he could logically die, only to be saved by Sandor Clegane because… reasons. Gendry is sent running back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea without any weapons whatsoever, and his only real injury is exhaustion and perhaps cold. Jorah seems to almost fall off of the back of Drogon, only to be completely okay, negating that threat.

The only three deaths in this hunt were all more or less inconsequential (dragon-turned-undead be damned).  Thoros of Myr lost any relevance he really has when the magic system he uses spontaneously changed for the sake of spectacle (more on that far below), with his only real use thereafter being a means to bring Beric back from the dead if he falls. However, there’s only one season left, and Beric doesn’t really add much to the plot anyway, so who cares? Benjen dies as he unlived: appearing out of nowhere to save someone before leaving the narrative altogether without much importance. What interest he did have, from Jon finding out he’s still around (which he barely even mentions) to his employers the Children of the Forest (who are seemingly all dead), is gone, and his plot went pretty much nowhere. Viserion… while there is an interesting thing of an undead dragon (which can somehow still breathe blue [even hotter] fire despite fire being deadly to wights because… reasons), both Viserion and Rhaegal are barely even characters. Their entire role in the story has been “the other two dragons who aren’t Drogon,” so honestly, he wasn’t much of a loss. If anything, he’s marginally better undead (or a White Walker, or whatever) because he has something to actually distinguish himself. The plot didn’t lose anything by having him die; it gained an actual character, and one with somehow less personality than anything else (which given it’s in an army of thoughtless wights, is really saying something).

 Modernization of Symbolic Unimportance

 As said by Tywin Lannister in the “Histories and Lore” video for the Westerlands, “Fools look at the Westerlands and see gold. Fools see our wealth and call it strength. Gold is just another rock. The Westerlands are strong because of House Lannister. From strong leadership comes unity. From unity comes power.” In fact, the strong leadership shown by House Lannister is not because of their gold, but in spite of their lack of it. Their mines long since went dry, but they manage to keep an air of importance due to Tywin Lannister’s careful, ruthless politicking.

The fall of an ancestral home is seen as a major defeat in most seasons. The fall of Winterfell to the Greyjoys and then the Boltons meant the end of House Stark. Brynden “Blackfish” Tully died holding the line against invader to his own home of Riverrun rather than abandon it.

This season does away with all of that. Jaime sacrifices Casterly Rock to Tyrion, and both of them agree on it being a strategically beneficial move, for the sole reason of the gold mines having run dry. The importance of the fort was not the gold alone, but its symbolic power. By abandoning it, Jaime should have lost favor, as he would have shown its unimportance (and by extension his poverty) to the world, but none of that happens at all.

The increasing importance of the Iron Bank of Braavos can be excused as Cersei dealing with things very differently from her predecessors, but the overt decision to abandon all pretense of wealth doesn’t make any sense from a medieval perspective that the show is ostensibly supposed to use.

 Romanticizing Incest

Earlier seasons of Game of Thrones, while treating some incestuous couplings as loving, did not shy away from the idea that they were disturbed and often resulted in problems, the most commonly cited example being House Targaryen, with Cersei Lannister’s relationship with her twin brother being more up front in how it was shown.

In this season, however, the budding romance between Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, unknowingly nephew and aunt, is treated as a true loving pair. The fact that they seem to have absolutely no chemistry aside, their relationship is disgusting to some in a way only outstripped by Lysa Arryn’s… mothering of her son Robin in earlier seasons. Is this relationship supposed to suddenly be okay because it is between two protagonists? Is incestuous romance only looked down upon when it is performed by villains? These seem to be indications by the showrunners.

  Character Developments

 Euron Greyjoy

While the newest King of the Iron Islands is a fun character in his own way, mostly in how he seems to be a more fallible version of what Ramsay Bolton had been before, he has an enormous amount of logistical problems.

First and foremost, his fleet of a thousand ships. Not only did he manage to have them made on a collection of islands that has almost no trees, but he managed to make them all in the span of…what, a week? A month? Not only that, but the ships are purported to be better than the original ones, again without any supplies whatsoever. Raiding can only justify so much.

On the other hand, we have his sneak attack on the Unsullied at Casterly Rock. The fact that his massive fleet that could be completely missed until the first shot is fired stretched credibility far beyond the breaking point. While their assault on the Targaryen-allied fleet commanded by Yara Greyjoy is possible, even well done, this one smacks of incredible stealth skills that do not at all mesh with the borderline psychopath Euron. Not only are his ships still black-sailed, but they are able to sneak up on the Unsullied fleet in broad daylight, rather than using the cover of a storm for a sneak raid.

The only possible excuse for this Euron ex Machina would be the Unsullied being one of the worst armies in the entirety of the world (which, given their incompetence in almost every single encounter they are a part of aside from the one in which they were initially freed, I can’t really deny), but even that discounts the idea of leaving even a single scout.

  Jaime Lannister

Jaime Lannister, infamous as “the Kingslayer,” is portrayed in an extremely bizarre way in this season. After the death glare he gave to his sister in the previous season finale for doing the exact same thing that he had become an oathbreaker to avoid, he spends the entire season, barring the finale, working with her. The only real attention given to the thing that should, by right, have him defecting, otherwise quitting, or outright killing Cersei to save the kingdom is for him to imply he might be afraid of her, after saying he does not hate her (despite his expression in the previous season showing that’s blatantly untrue).

Every single thing about Cersei’s treatment of Jaime makes him seem deliberately weak. She implicitly threatens his life with her “never betray me again.” She ignores his quite reasonable comments about the danger they are in and how the Lannister dynasty would only last a single generation. For all of his talk of being in love, he seems more like a kicked puppy than an actual threat, let alone someone with any real agency.

Yes, he managed to break free in the season finale, but it seems to little too late, and should have happened in the start of the season, even if it meant being rid of him for the majority of the season. In the very least, he should have died in Blackwater Rush to avoid this stupidity from continuing (as mentioned above under plot armor).

  Brandon Stark

When it comes to Bran Stark, it’s easy to say that the actor is playing a completely different character from the previous seasons, and not one that is really all that interesting. Rather than being afraid or uncertain about… anything, he seems to have had all of his actual personality removed.

Of course, that seems to have been the point in the story, but the presentation is extremely poorly handled. While Bran could reasonably have had this personality if he had shown it before, he seemed exactly the same as always when he absorbed all of the memories of the three-eyed raven. As such, Meera Reed’s “revelation” that he “died in that cave” rings hollow, and her surprise at his lack of emotion is understandable, but for all of the wrong reasons. All that needed to be shown was him having this personality after he escaped from the cave in Season 6, when he met up with Benjen Stark. However, this apparently had not been used, and from the sounds of things, was not even considered at the time.

His new identity as “the three-eyed raven” (a designation that makes absolutely no sense for him given his lack of any actual connection to that identity beyond having similar memories and powers) is one of the most stereotypical fictional children: the creepy child with supernatural powers. There isn’t anything really interesting about this archetype, only how it is used, and the showrunners seem to be unable to find any real use for him beyond “be creepy and stay in the corner” until the season finale. Even the chance to delve into the history of the previous three-eyed raven, to learn of his work with the Night’s Watch and his relation to the Targaryen family as Brynden “Bloodraven” Rivers, is not even given lip service, which would not be so grating if the show didn’t take its time to repeatedly show how nobody has any idea what the three-eyed raven even is.

  Daenerys Targaryen

If there is one character I am irritated by above all others, it is Daenerys Targaryen. She is the epitome of the creator’s pet to me, someone for whom the narrative bends over backwards to justify every action, and whom fans actually agree with. Actions such as roasting the Tarly heads of house alive are seen as justified because she “gave them a choice” and going back on her word would cause the threats to lose their menace, ignoring the fact that she is the one who came up with the choices in the first place, making her responsible one way or another. It’s hard to take someone seriously as a heroine when their entire character revolves around their own self-importance, such as her “courting” with Jon Snow.

Every single action since the end of Season 2 has resulted in victory, even if she is momentarily captured. When someone is rarely in even the slightest bit of danger, why bother to think they have a bad time anymore? It’s the world of Game of Thrones, after all, and if you don’t have a serious amount of bad luck, you’re probably either disconnected from the plot altogether or you’re one of the villains, and even the latter isn’t a guarantee. Her loss of Highgarden, Dorne, and the Unsullied are glossed over quickly in Season 7 by her aforementioned attack on the loot train going through Blackwater Rush, where her Dothraki horsemen easily slaughter the Lannister and Tarly pikes (which are specifically engineered to hold back a cavalry charge), making any additional army seem superfluous (after all, she doesn’t even seem to need to wear armor to a battle, unlike literally everybody else). The assault is also praised for being “awesome,” but it involves the destruction of food stores rather than bringing them back to the people from whom they were stolen, given Jaime had already discussed the fact that all of the gold had been sent to King’s Landing.

Case in point is the reaction to the end of the aforementioned Great Wight Hunt. Her loss of Viserion (who is barely a character, more a prop alongside Rhaegal next to actual important dragon Drogon), the first real important loss since Season 2, actually gained her the loyalty of Jon Snow, a man who explicitly would not bend the knee to her for sake of Northern autonomy and his place as their king. Contrast the doings of Robb Stark, where his biggest mistakes led to the defection of segments of his army and ultimately led to the vast majority of them dying in the Red Wedding. While he lost everything, including his standing in the North, Daenerys gains even more forces, loses a dragon that hadn’t even done anything important in the series, and as shown by the very next episode, didn’t even permanently lose the Unsullied, who are easily brought back without fuss.

The worst seems to be the fact that enormous amounts of dialogue are about her beauty, benevolence, and overall perfection, including how she is totally not like her father even when she does the exact same things he would have done. It’s not as if I am asking for the showrunners to say she is the worst person ever. But admitting she is flawed in the show and showcasing her as just as much “not always right” as everyone else would be a nice change of pace, especially when it comes to such things as getting Jon Snow, who couldn’t possibly care any less about allegiance to foreign queens over his work with the North and staving off the end times, to bend the knee to her.

At a certain point, it becomes entirely plausible that the characters in the story will, one and all, bow down and accept Daenerys Stormborn as their goddess forevermore, such is her perfection in the story’s eyes.

  Night King

On the surface, the idea of the Night King (apparently created by the showrunners, and distinct from the Night’s King of myth) is disturbing. On paper, he is a silent villain who has lived for eons, capable of raising an army easily and a harbinger of an apocalypse. However… what has he actually done? His accomplishments to date have been killing a defenseless old man, standing in place, walking a little bit, riding a horse slowly, raising White Walkers and many wights, possibly bringing a winter storm, and throwing a javelin. He hasn’t even gotten into a single fight, and on the whole, he’s become more of a plot device than an actual character.

His performance in the penultimate episode of Season 7 showcases some of the veritable James Bond villain qualities that this entity has. He has the heroes at his mercy for what seems to be hours, stuck on an island in the middle of a frozen lake. However, as he showed earlier in the season and was explicitly stated by Jon in the same season, he does not merely come with the storm, but rather he brings the storm. If he could summon up a winter blizzard to cool down the water to the point of it becoming ice again, he could have done so, thereby killing all of his enemies with his own forces before they could be rescued.

The use of his ice javelin just makes things worse. First, he could have used it earlier to, if he could not freeze the lake again, at least throw and kill Jon and perhaps some others, who could be seriously injured by such a strike, especially in the midst of battle with wights or exhausted from the cold. Second, his choice of dragon to kill was rather nonsensical, both from the perspective of the character and from the perspective of the plotting. Drogon is the only important dragon in the entire show, let’s be totally clear on that. Everything important that ever happens with a dragon is far more likely to be his doing than that of the other two dragons, to the point that many viewers forget their names and cannot tell them apart easily. He is the one who is most battle ready, and the one who is burning the wights alive in the center of the battlefield, not to mention the only one of the dragons who seems capable of easily carrying all of the remaining heroes and the captive wight. However, the Night King decides, for some reason, to throw the javelin of ice across the entire battlefield to kill Viserion, who, along with Rhaegal, has had almost no importance to the story. If anything, Viserion has more personality as a member of the undead than as one of the living, and losing him feels more like a boon than a detriment. If the showrunners wanted to make an actual impact on the plot in terms of a loss of forces, they could have had Drogon be the one who is killed instead, especially since he is the biggest, and thus the most threatening.

  Rhaegar Targaryen

Rhaegar Targaryen’s annulment of his marriage to Elia Martell is treated in a very bizarre manner. Rather than following the idea of love ruining the realm to its logical conclusion, the showrunners seem intent on the idea that Rhaegar is the one in the right, having his marriage to Lyanna Stark be portrayed as a beautiful ceremony instead of the fact that it ruined any possible standing with House Martell and rendered Elia Martell’s death even more tragic and pointless. The fact that Rhaegar and Lyanna named their son Aegon accentuates the dissonance between the loving atmosphere and the irritating effects, as he took the time to give the name of his son with Elia to his son with Lyanna as well. Did he have no other choices in mind? Did he just not care? Did he forget he had a son beforehand?

Further, this beneficial treatment of Rhaegar also gives Robert Baratheon the appearance of someone who is entirely in the wrong. While he was wrong in his reasons, believing Lyanna to have been kidnapped and raped, he still saved Westeros from a psychotic king, with Aerys II being essentially Westeros’ version of Roman Emperor Caligula.

  Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish

While the excuse could be made that Littlefinger is love drunk while in his plot at Winterfell, this falls apart instantly when one goes through the means he utilizes. He seems to view the North and the Vale, both places with high degrees of honor with some very rare exceptions, as identical to King’s Landing, trying to use his mind games when the people he is manipulating are not mere unknowing pawns, but people who outright despise him. The idea that he would seriously believe that Sansa would fall for Arya, who he can plainly see is more interested in combat than politics, being interested in usurping her position as the Lady of Winterfell is extremely stupid, and even moreso when one considers the fact that he outright stated his intention to claim the Iron Throne with Sansa at his side to her face.

  Mechanical Changes

One thing that grates heavily on those who like a consistent story is a change in the laws of the world to fit a story, rather than changing the story to fit the laws of the story. If there are no set laws, anything can happen, and nothing matters as a result. It all becomes nothing but meaningless spectacle. Season 7 is extremely bad at keeping anything set, to the point of only the most basic rules staying in place, those that could apply to any fiction ever that involves fire or zombies, and as a result are completely unoriginal. The changes in magic are split across several areas: greyscale, White Walker magic, and Red Temple magic.

  Greyscale: From Leprosy to Acne

In earlier seasons, the progression of greyscale was seen to be akin to a supernatural form of leprosy. It would turn the victim’s body to stone over time, or close enough to it, changing them from the inside out. Jorah Mormont’s condition was so horrific because it was likely impossible to resolve easily. Shireen Baratheon’s survival was considered a miracle, needing the help of healers from both sides of the Narrow Sea, and left a permanent scar on the left side of her face. On seeing the fact of how far Jorah’s condition had gone in Season 7, Archmaester Ebrose claimed that there was nothing that could be done for him.

However, Season 7 also shows that “advanced” grayscale is nothing more than magical acne. The treatment of the disease, which leaves not even a single scar, consists of peeling off the infected flesh (which seems to be just a more painful version of peeling off burned skin) and applying a special ointment to the place where the flesh had been. In fact, the flesh itself does not even seem to be infected, but covered by a kind of coating of grayscale that is held on with pus. How exactly was this supposed to be dangerous, again?

  White Walkers and Wights

Outside of the Night King’s ability or lack thereof to call up winter storms, the White Walkers’ magic and their wights’ capabilities changed significantly in this season with no justifiable explanation.

First, we have the wights’ sudden weakness to dragonglass. In past seasons, they have only been weak to two things: fire and being torn to shreds to the point of being unable to even move their disparate parts. What distinguished them from the White Walkers was the fact that the latter had both different abilities and different vulnerabilities, and the lack of an easy win factor made the wights that much harder to fight off. The reason for gathering dragonglass was not to kill the wights, but to kill the White Walkers, who could only be harmed by dragonglass and Valyrian steel. This distinction changed completely, and with no real reason. What does a skeleton care about being stabbed in the ribs with a glass dagger? It doesn’t have functioning organs, anyway. Fire both made sense (destroying the body) and was consistent, in that you needed to change tactics to fight different foes. With the “revelation” (rewrite) of this weakness, which the show treats as though it were always the case, fire actually seems to be less effective, such as during the altogether pointless and poorly shot fight against the wight polar bear. The flaming swords of Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr (to be discussed below) barely do anything at all to the beast, while a single stab from Jorah’s dragonglass dagger brings it down. In fact, using dragonglass weapons, the undead threat seem to be nothing more than another human army, as they don’t even have much real threat at all and can be killed in a single blow in combat.

Another problem is the use of synchronization between the White Walkers and their wights, which flies in the face of everything we have seen before. If killing a White Walker destroys all of the wights it had raised (a common theme in necromancy or other summon magics), why was there no effect on the force at Hardhome after Jon killed a White Walker? To say that there were no wights at that location raised by that White Walker stretches plausibility to the breaking point, especially when one brings into account the fact that the “Behind the Show” segment for the season’s penultimate episode had both showrunners talk about how they were scrambling to come up with a way for most of the people who went on the Great Wight Hunt to survive. Translation: this wasn’t actually an element of the story before. They made it up on the spot. This fact itself would be a problem, but it also fundamentally changes the nature of the story. If all you need to do is kill the Night King (who, again, doesn’t seem to even exist in the source material), then the story turns from one of war and survival to one of assassination. Just send Arya up there if that’s the case. She seems capable of assassinating anyone she feels like on a moment’s notice if you let her go off screen. There, plot solved, we can go home.

  Red Temple

The primary rituals of the Red Temple, shown through Thoros of Myr in this season, have had distinct, deliberate differences from earlier seasons, ones that make Thoros himself useless, and his eventual death have no real meaning. 

First comes the ability to see visions in the flames. Thoros does not appear to treat the fireplace in which he has Sandor look, but the latter is able to see their destination and the movements of the White Walkers easily, saying things that even Thoros doesn’t seem to have witnessed. If a red priest can’t see something in the flames that a pyrophobe can, what use is being a red priest at all?

Second, and most importantly, comes the use of the flaming sword magic by both Thoros and his companion, Beric Dondarrion. In its prior usage in Season 3, this magic appeared to need the expertise and faith of a red priest, in addition to Beric’s blood. However, its usage in the Great Wight Hunt has the wielders able to light their swords individually with their gloves on, without having direct contact between the blood and the blade. Furthermore, Beric is able to use the spell even after Thoros dies, showing that the latter is not important anyway.

While Thoros is needed to bring Beric back from the dead, the latter is going into the final season of the show having accomplished very little, if anything. Would Beric’s death even be much of a loss?

In summary, this entire season seems to have been a waste of time, and likely the worst one thus far. There were some bright spots, but Sunday nights are dark and full of terrors, the worst of which being poorly plotted, poorly described, poorly shot, poorly written stories told from the seat of one’s pants for the sake of being the next thing to be trending on the internet.

[elf-kid2]

Megamind Soulmate AU

When you write something on your arms, the marks appear on the arms of your soulmate as well. This is known: the soul-bond does not begin at birth; it is only possible with both souls have reached a certain level of maturity. No one knows what triggers the bond; it is not restrained by distance, by language, by contact... but everyone knows that a soulmate is true love, however improbable it may seem. 

Some people develop the mark as young as 14; others begin to find their Soulmate’s marks on their skin when they’re in their 20′s; some never get a mark at all.  In some countries, people bare their arms openly, to better show their art and facilitate the finding of the soulmate (who will of course match). In most of the northwest hemisphere, especially the United States, baring one’s arms in public is considered extremely taboo, even obscene: a cultural norm born of cold weather, left over from outdated arranged-marriage traditions, and puritanism.

Megamind never wrote or drew anything on his arms. There was no point: if he had ever had a soulmate (which wasn’t guaranteed) they had no doubt perished young, lost to the black hole with the rest of his homeworld.

He was never more surprised than the day he discovered a line of colors (black, white, pink, red, yellow, purple, orange, green and, when he looked closer, a shade of blue close to that of his own skin) on his left arm while getting dressed one morning. His first thought was that it must be a bruise- except that he hadn’t hit himself, it didn’t hurt, and the tidy, circular segments of colour didn’t actually look like a bruise at all. His second thought was that he must have spattered himself with paint, except that he had been in the Lair, wearing long sleeves and gloves, and he hadn’t been anywhere near the paint in three days. His third thought was that he needed a plan.

Roxanne Ritchi was not obsessed with finding her soulmate. She didn’t worry, as some did, about ‘missing her chance’ or  She did not decorate her arms with new doodles every day the way some of her friends from middle and high-school claimed to, nor did she spend an excess amount of time or thought looking for a new mark and trying to determine if this or that dot was a freckle or a drop of ink-- but that’s not to say she wasn’t interested.

Every year on her birthday, Roxanne would take out a box of special colored ink-pens (given to her by an aunt for her 15th birthday as a right-of-passage type thing) and draw a multicolored pattern on her arm. She is careful to make bright, clear lines and use a variety of colours-- both light and dark-- because she’s heard too many stories of people missing their chance because they used a shade of ink to close to the color of their Soulmate’s skin, causing the marks to go unnoticed.

The day after her 22nd birthday, Roxanne woke up to find that her right arm was covered in black ink. (Was her soulmate left-handed?). Near the wrist was a pattern of tiny, unfamiliar symbols arranged in a spiral. Below that, a set of Chinese characters. Then a message in arabic. Then a question in German, then French, then Spanish. Finally, close to her shoulder, she could read the message: How did you survive?

She found translations for all of the marks except the ones closest to her wrist: How did you survive?

It took three weeks of communicating at cross-purposes before Megamind figured out that his Soulmate (who was, as it turned out, english-speaking) was in fact native to planet Earth. He felt... The realization... It felt like losing his people all over again. It hurt. He’d known, of course, that even if she (they had confirmed each others pronouns within two days of establishing communication) was also interested in starting a family, one couple was not enough to rebuild a population, even with cloning technology. He also knew that it was probably-- safer-- for both of them this way; the world was not kind so a solitary blue alien, and he could very clearly imagine what people would do if they saw more. An alien was an oddity; Aliens were an invasion or an infestation to be destroyed with extreme prejudice for the good of all humankind. He and Minion had been stockpiling weapons and improving security at the Evil Lair since the soul-bond had appeared, for just that reason. Part of him, some small, cursed part of him, was actually, secretly, a little bit relieved.

Roxanne wondered, sometimes, about his first love. Reading between the lines, Roxanne could tell that he’d initially thought that she, his Soulmate, was a certain childhood sweetheart or previous girlfriend who hadn’t been heard from since died in some sort of accident or natural disaster years ago. It was fairly common in this day and age for people to date before they made contact with their soulmate, and really it would be silly to be jealous of a girl who had died, but. But. Roxanne wondered if she would measure up to her Soulmate’s first love, the girl he had lost. She wondered if they would still have been soulmates if the other girl hadn’t died, or if she would have ended up alone. But there was nothing to be jealous about.

Mostly, it hurt. He was alone on this planet, he and Minion were completely alone hear, and when they died all that was left of his planet, all that was left of his parents’ legacy, would die with them. He had known that for years, but having hope, having a chance and then feeling it ripped away once more in the cruel hands of fate made the facts all the harder to bear. Furthermore, Megamind had somehow become Bonded to a human. She would expecting someone of her own species, probably hoping for someone tall and square-jawed, with good hair and lots of money. What if they met, and she couldn’t stand to look at him? What if she was horrified, or angry, or disappointed, or scared when-- if they met in person?

Roxanne had asked, a few times, about meeting in person, but each time he wrote a note saying that, for now, it was impossible. She understood, really,  she did. Based on their first communication, where he had asked How did you survive? in so many languages, she suspected that he was from another country (most US citizens were not bilingual), and though he wrote in English fluently enough, perhaps he was less comfortable with the spoken language? In any case, if he lived in another country, it could take a lot of time and money before he was able to visit her, or before she was able to visit him. She understood.

Roxanne gave him her phone number instead.

When she gave him her phone number during one of their "evening chats” (sessions in which they would lock themselves in their rooms and exchange notes, sharing jokes, doodles, poetry, and little incidents from the day with the sort of ink that could be easily washed away to make room for more notes), he wasn’t sure what to do. She had a Metro City area code. Megamind hadn’t expected that. He knew he’d mislead her, allowing her to believe that he lived overseas in some far-away country, but he hadn’t actually expected to find out that they lived in the same city.

He wondered who she was

Two days after she’d written her own phone number on her arm (two days of worry and nervousness, because what if really he didn’t like the sound of her voice, what if she said something wrong when he called, what if he never called at all, what if he didn’t ever want to see her, what if...), Roxanne got a text message from an unlisted number: “My Queen, shall we continue our correspondence?” She blushed, smiling in delight: this was how her Soulmate liked to ‘greet’ her in their evening chats. Now they could send messages anytime... and now that she had his number, she could call him.

“Ollo?” She’d called when he was in the middle of building a weaponized tunneling vehicle (the name was also in the works). Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to call

“It’s me. I mean, this is Roxanne Ritchi, I mean... can you spare a minute to talk with your Queen?” she’d called during her lunch break, on an impulse, and she hadn’t planned on telling him her name, hadn’t planned on what to say at all, hadn’t thought that maybe there was a time difference and he was at work or asleep or something, but... she’d wanted to know what his voice sounded like.

“I always have time for you,” he said, making his voice low and smooth. “So, my only Soulmate, did you say you’re name was Roxanne?” He already knew her name of course; he’d tracked her down almost as soon as he had her number. But being able to talk to her, being able to say her beautiful, luscious name outloud, to her...

“Roxanne Ritchi,” she said. Gah, she loved his voice; she should have called him ages ago. “I’m an investigative reporter with the KMCP8 Newstation. What’s your name? What do you do for a living?” It was hard to believe they’d been bonded for months, yet she still didn’t know his name.

“I-” how was he supposed to answer? “Roxanne, I--” How was he supposed to tell Roxanne Ritchi, the smart, witty, beautiful reporter, the woman who had twice discovered his Evil Scheme early and had to be taken hostage, who he’d seen flirting with his most hated rival following both those occasions-- how was he supposed to tell her that her one and only Soulmate was a (skinny, blue, big-headed, short, freakish) notoriously unsuccessful Super Villain?

“I’m really not that interesting,” he whispered. “And Roxanne, my love, I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Come on, don’t tease,” she giggled. “I told you mine, so you tell me yours. What’s your name?” He’d drawn this out as long as possible. He could try to delay again, make it last a little bit longer, but sooner or later she would get sick of waiting; sooner or later she would figure it out.

“My name is Megamind,” he said, his voice holding more confidence than he felt. “Incredibly Handsome Criminal Genius and Master of All Villainy. Roxanne will you-- do you still--- wont you be my Queen?”

“Is this a joke?” Roxanne demanded. “It isn’t funny!” “It’s no joke,” her soul mate Megamind the voice on the other end of the phone replied. “...If you don’t believe me, you can look at your left wrist.”

“I will!” she grabbed her purse and stormed to the privacy of a stall in the Lady’s Room to role up her sleeves. (She was angry, but she wasn’t about to get undressed in public.) There on her arm, in the same handwriting her soulmate always had, was the message. My name is Megamind.

They met in person for the first time that very evening. It went infinitely better than Megamind thought it would.

It went about as well as could be expected.

He wondered if she wished that he were human. She wondered if he wished she were blue. He wanted to know what she thought of his career. She wanted to know why he chose it. He wanted to give her nice things. She wanted to give him a home. He hoped that she would get along with Minion. (Soulmate or not, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if she couldn’t.) She delighted in the thought of how her family would react if when she took him home for Thanksgiving. He offered to conquer the world so that she could truly be Queen. She offered to help him rework his PR until he didn’t have to fight the world.

They kissed for the first time that night.

It was... wonderful.

The debate continued on if Megamind should give up Villainy, or if Roxanne should become his ‘Partner in Crime’.

In the end, both were happy with the decision.

They were married three months later-- after what Megamind described as a torturously long engagement. Roxanne’s family felt that it was scandalously short-- but since they were hoping the groom would die in a lab accident before the wedding, they don’t get to vote.

Roxanne and Megamind Ritchi went on to do great things together. (One of their greatest achievements was successfully creating-- and doing an unusually successful job at maintaining-- a happy family.)

[tkwadeblog-blog]

"Fairy Tale Spotlight: What Qualifies as a Fairy Tale?" by T.K. Wade

Let's look at three books and see if we can decide whether or not they qualify as a fairy tale. Here is the list:

Bambi by Felix Salten - A realistic story about animals living in the forest from their personal perception/perspective. A translation of animal nature into terms we can understand... but still with talking animals.

Watership Down by Richard Adams - An adventure/horror story about rabbits trying to move from a dangerous area to a safe haven at the top of a hill. Story is similar to Bambi with one exception. The story occasionally depicts supernatural occurrences and entities.

The Holy Bible - A book considered by Christians to be an account of things that really occurred. Nevertheless, it is filled to the brim with supernatural happenings that are almost beyond belief. The book also contains instances of talking animals as well as ethereal beings.

Let us begin.

The first thing I am going to do is give you the full definition direct from a dictionary. See below:

fairy tale noun 1. a story, usually for children, about elves, hobgoblins, dragons, fairies, or other magical creatures. 2. an incredible or misleading statement, account, or belief: His story of being a millionaire is just a fairy tale.

British Variation

fairy tale noun 1. a story about fairies or other mythical or magical beings, esp one of traditional origin told to children 2. a highly improbable account

Before I continue, we need to all agree that, as of the recent century, fairy tales are for more than just children. If I need to bring up "Lord of the Rings" I will, but I don't think I will. Onward.

Now, the first definition of both variations seems to imply that the presence of some sort of magical creature must occur in the story for it to be considered a fairy tale. The American definition bothers to list out examples where the British one does not. Either way, there is not much difference between them. On definition #1, we can rule out "Bambi" as there are no magical creature in it at all. However, "Watership Down" and "The Holy Bible" appear to have more than enough to qualify.

The second definition seems more of an expressional use of the term, but let us look at it anyways. Definition #2 seems to imply that the statement made is a false one. Are fairy tales false? The American definition (#2) seems to push for a misleading account where the British definition (#2) uses the words "highly improbable" which means it still could be true. I almost feel like it is warning me against believing it. So this leaves me with the question: Does it have to be fiction in order for it to be a fairy tale? If so, then Christians would not be very comfortable calling "The Holy Bible" a fairy tale.

It seems to me that there is an overwhelming belief that if something is a fairy tale then it must be a work of fiction. But we tell stories all the time about amazing things. We have had heroes in our past that did amazing things and books were written about them. We look up to them and imagine what it would be like to be so great. What if fairies and magic were real? Would writing about them disqualify them simply on the grounds that they are fairy tales?

If "The Holy Bible" is true then it is clearly a true fairy tale. Nothing about either of the first definitions state that the story had to be a work of fiction. Therefore my own personal conclusion is that both "Watership Down" and "The Holy Bible" are both bonafide fairy tales whether or not either one of them is true or false because they meet the definition.

Now, I am going to do something a little wonky. I am also going to say that "Bambi" is a fairy tale too. I had a conversation with a few people about this recently. I had them all vote on it, and it all tallied to about 50/50. I think this happened because, despite the fact the animals are simply being translated, the fact that we see them speaking to one another seems like magic to us. They also seem more like people when we present them doing it. It is a stretch, and I am aware that many will disagree (as in my little voting session). I would, however, encourage people to not always be so "legal" when it comes to dictionary definitions.

Imagination is a funny, quirky thing. It is generally unrestrained by legalities and politics. It sort of just goes off on its own and does whatever it wants. When you read "Bambi" and hear those animals talk, you are letting go of everything real in the world and exchanging it for something impossible. And if the impossible can inspire your imagination, think about the possibilities that may come from those impossible things. Fairy tales, real or not, are powerful things in our universe. And as we read and create new ones, the true definition of a fairy tale may broaden ever so slightly in the direction of infinity. Never misjudge the power of human imagination.

[vodkawrites]

Yuuri Week 2017, Day 3: Gold Title: 28 Tuxes Chapter 3 Genre: Alternative Universe Pairing: Katsuki Yuuri / Victor Nikiforov, Jean-Jacques Leroy / Isabella Yang Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov, Jean-Jacques Leroy, Isabella Yang, Leroy Family Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Summary: While planning his 28th wedding, Yuuri begins to wonder if he can ever find love for himself.Or; the victuuri 27 dresses AU absolutely no one asked for.

Read the second chapter on AO3

"Yuuri! Phichit! I got the invitations all printed!" an eager voice shouts, waving the invitations for his coworkers to see.

Yuuri looks up from his computer screen, to see Minami is the company's resident graphic designer. He's young and eager and a bit too enthusiastic - he practically worships the ground Yuuri steps on, if he is being completely honest. But he is a reliable worker and a nice person, so Yuuri  has absolutely nothing against him.

"Excellent. Let me see."

Yuuri takes the invitations from Minami, admiring the details. The invitations are printed on a thick white card with golden text announcing the union of Jean-Jacques Leroy and Isabella Yang. It’s quite subtle and not obnoxiously flashy; Minami has really outdone himself.

"They're beautiful. Thank you," Yuuri praises. He runs his hands over the embossed white snowflakes that line the card, appreciating the added details.

Minami squeals - a noise Yuuri is convinced only dogs could hear.

“Let me see!” Phichit insists, grabbing the cards from Yuuri’s hands. He inspects them once, nodding in approval.

"If you have some free time, can you start designing the name cards?" Yuuri asks.

He nods eagerly, which Yuuri is thankful for.

"Anything for you, Yuuri!" Minami agrees with a wide smile.

He walks out of the office - although Yuuri would swear there is a spring in his step - leaving Phichit and Yuuri alone once more.

"You know, Minami's pretty cute," Phichit begins with a smug grin.

Yuuri looks up from his computer to glare at his friend. It's not that he does appreciate his comment - okay maybe that is part of it - but he really doesn't have time to think about the appearance of his co-worker. He is currently looking for the perfect large rink close enough to s church and fancy enough to hold a wedding but his results are slim - or rather impossible. He honestly not sure there even is a venue that fits JJ's description (or rather his parent's description).

"He is," Yuuri replies innocently.

Minami is rather adorable, in a little brother sort of way. Maybe it's his overly dyed yellow and red hair or his short stature or his rounded face that make him seem so child-like. Or maybe it’s his infatuation with every single thing Yuuri does that makes him so disinterested.

"And I think he likes you," Phichit points out rather casually.

"I would hope so," he answers, promptly ignoring his friend. He doesn't have time for this forced romance, not when JJ's wedding is supposed to be in seven months and he doesn't even have a venue yet!

He returns to the results page in the main database, searching and hoping one venue will fulfill his client's outlandish requirements. He scrolls through the first two results before clicking on the third. It's a bit out of the way towards the east side of the city but it is probably the best choice so far.

"We're good friends," he adds without looking up.

"No, Yuuri, he likes you," he says, emphasizing the word ‘like’ more than it needs to be.

"Phichit!" he exclaims, almost horrified that Phichit would even suggest something so ridiculous. Minami only respects him as a boss, maybe even as a friend; he most certainly doesn't see him as a potential love interest.

"He's like 15!" Yuuri argues.

"18 as of August," Phichit points out.

Yuuri scowls and returns to his computer's search results. He isn't going to give him the satisfaction he is so desperately searching for.

"Still, he's not my type," he responds stubbornly.

"Why not?" he asks, the disappointment obvious in his voice.

Yuuri groans. He knows he has been trying to set him up with Minami since they hired him six months ago. Well, today is certainly not going to be the day that ever comes to fruition.

"If I lie and say it's because he's a Leo and I'm a Sagittarius will you leave me alone?" Yuuri huffs.

Phichit groans. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated with Yuuri's behavior. "How long are you going to be single?"

Yuuri sticks out his tongue. "Forever."

He exhales dramatically. "At least try with Minami?" he pleads.

Yuuri lets out a long sigh. He knows his friend just wants him to be happy - he has told him countless times how much he wants a wedding of his own - but setting him up with the wrong person isn't the solution. Love is supposed to come naturally, sometimes in the most unexpected of ways. Like meeting a reporter at your own office who just wants a story about one of your clients-

Wait, what?

"No. He's too young," he states.

He clicks on one of the results, reading over the venue's specifications. 750 people, 5000 square meters, and a few rooms in the back that can be used for the reception. It seems reasonable and not too far out of the way so he bookmarks the suggestion for later use.

Phichit rolls his eyes. "You say that everything time! He's too this, she's too that!"

That's why you're going to end up alone forever, his mind supplies. Yuuri has heard that before. He is already 24 and has never been in a serious relationship. Sure he's been in a few high school and college hookups, but they were nothing but short term, uncommitted relationships. He thinks he is destined to live alone with his career and a dog, if he's lucky.

However, Yuuri choose to ignore that thought.

"He's just...not my type," Yuuri confesses honestly.

Phichit rests his elbows on the top of the monitor. His hands inconspicuously fall in front of the computer screen but he knows it's anything but inconspicuous.

"Then what is your type?"

"Someone sweet and romantic but also sexy,” Yuuri replies generically. Sure, it is a bit cliche, but it’s something to look for. “I want someone who can treat me right and understand me.You know, someone who knows how to surprise me."

He's always thought about his perfect partner in his head. While there usually isn't exactly a face - or a gender, for that matter - he finds himself easily picturing his perfect partner. Their face is square with a sharp, hooked nose and strong jawline that could probably rival any movie star. Their eyes are an inviting shade of aquamarine that one can’t help but get lost in. His hair is a chopped platinum that falls just below his ears and frames his face. It’s familiar, Yuuri is sure of it.

He easily recalls those features to belong to none of than Victor Nikiforov.

AKA the reporter.

AKA the douche who wants to use Yuuri to get information about JJ for an article.

He tries to shake the thought of imagining that reporter he’s barely said anything nice to, but for some reason he keeps invading his thoughts. Sure, he is vulgar and abrasive and maybe a bit cocky, but he is also the most attractive person he has ever met. Yuuri can't exactly decide why he is so intoxicated by someone so rude.

"Yuuri,” he deadpans. “That sounds like a dog, not a person. No one is that perfect."

Yuuri crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't want to admit that someone like that may just exist in his life - in the form of a reporter who just wants information from him.

"Well until they do, then I'm not interested," he replies in hopes his statement in enough to placate his nosy friend.

Yuuri easily finds out it's not.

"But you're supposed to meet at a bar. They'll ask if you want a drink and you'll smile and say vodka soda. If you already have a drink, you'll down it and order a vodka soda. Then there's some flirting, some sex, a giant wedding (where I'm the best man, of course), and a life of bliss. How many times do we have to go over this?"

Yuuri whistles, impressed with Phichit's prediction. It's a bit specific - he doesn't want to think how long he has been concocting this idea for - but it's not improbable. He somewhat likes that happily ever after ending. And for that, it's rather admirable.

"You really have this all planned out."

"Well someone has to since you can't find anyone."

Yuuri groans. He really doesn't want to have this conversation for the fifth time this year. He's happy being single - or at least he is convinced he is happy. Besides, the time just isn’t right at the moment.

"I'm just not interested right now," he lies.

He knows, as much as he hates to admit it out loud, that he wants to find someone. He wants someone by his side. He wants a person to call his love. He wants a wedding for himself.

"Anyways, I have lots of work to do," Yuuri states, easily deflecting anymore of Phichit's matchmaking.

He doesn’t exactly have time to put himself out there when he has a wedding so plan. Besides, if Yuuri wants to indulge himself in his work instead of finding a suitable partner, then so be it.

Who is Phichit to judge when he is single as well?

Phichit rolls his eyes but doesn't pressure him any further.  

"Lame," he retorts. Yuuri winks. "You know it. Now check over those invitations. They want the first batch sent out before next Monday!"

Yuuri isn't exactly sure why he is at the tuxedo fitting. Wedding planners usually aren't invited to tuxedo fittings, at least he wasn't invited to the 26 other tuxedo fittings (and one dress fitting) for the weddings he planned. He silently wonders where JJ’s (or rather if he has any) friends are. They were supposed to be the ones that attended the tuxedo fitting, not Yuuri.

Well, at least JJ's brother and father came along. As annoying as they are constantly fussing over JJ's suit and fidgeting in their seats, Yuuri is thankful that they put most of the pressure off of him to pick the perfect wedding suit.

So Yuuri tries to entertain himself by thumbing through a magazine provided by the store. It's (of course) a sports magazine Yuuri has absolutely no interest in reading; he would much rather be entertained by the phone book than another fantasy football statistic. And yet he can't help but to be entertained by an article about figure skating.

How fitting.

"What do you think?" JJ asks.

Yuuri looks up from the magazine to see JJ posing in front of them. He is standing on an elevated platform in front of three full length mirrors, hip jutting out and forcing a smile.

Yuuri purses his lips, trying to form an objective opinion about the outfit. The suit is well made, that's for certain; Yuuri is certain the buttons alone probably cost more than he will ever make in his life. The matching pants fit snugly around his muscular legs but are probably the most flattering part, which certainly doesn't say much. The blazer is a velvet piece that looks more something a Vegas casino owner would wear than a groom. Not to mention the colour does little to accentuate his natural beauty (plus, who wears gold to a wedding?).

He personally thinks it looks tacky but he bites his tongue for the sake of his client. He'll just see what the others say for now.

"Ugh that's hideous," JJ's brother admits honestly. He even sticks out his tongue for emphasis and makes a fake gagging noise.

"You think so?" JJ asks. He turns around in the mirror, admiring how his bottom looks in the tight fitting pants.

Yuuri tries to stifle a laugh.

"I want something that stands out," JJ declares. "Plus it matches my gold medal vibe and the gold rings."

"I don't think gold matches the look you're going for," JJ's father says politely.

"Are you sure?" he asks with a pout.

"I think the other one suits you, better" Yuuri admits.

JJ raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

"Trust me, I've been to enough weddings - and worn my fair share of tuxes - to know what looks good. And I know for certain that Isabella won't be able to look away from you in that grey tux."

"But I know I won't be able to look away from her," JJ says with a love stricken smile.

"You must love her," Yuuri says without thinking. He internally cringes, realizing how absolutely ridiculous he must sound. It is painfully obvious how much he loves Isabella and how much she loves him back. He wishes he could find someone that he is that compatible with.

"Of course I do. I'm marrying her, aren't I?"

Yuuri doesn't say anything to that. He knows full and well that marriage doesn't not always equate to love, as much as he likes to think that it does. So he bites his tongue and lets JJ change the conversation.

"You're right though, this one sucks."

"If you want, we can try on the other ones again. They were nice," JJ's father offers.

"Even the blue one?"

"I liked it. It reminds me of my tux," Yuuri mentions.

Albeit, JJ's blue tuxedo is a lot different than Yuuri's is - his is a shade of navy blue while Yuuri's is a soft baby blue - he still has a fondness for blue tuxedos. Maybe because it is the first real tuxedo he wore at a wedding or maybe because he just likes the colour blue.

Or maybe he just wants to get this appointment over with and go on with his life.

"You wore blue at your wedding?"

"I...um...no. I didn't have a wedding."

Yuuri adverts the floor, memorizing the pattern of the wood. He should have never mentioned that he has a blue tuxedo.

"I'm still single," he adds.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he apologizes out of courtesy.

Yuuri silently wonders if he means it at all. He has heard it thousands of times before: don't worry you'll find the right person; you'll know the time is right; everyone has their own pace. He wishes he could get married already just to never hear a comment like that again.

"I just thought cause you're older than me that you're married," he clarifies.

Yuuri blinks twice. He's only five years older, he reminds himself. Plenty of people are single at his age and plenty of people are older than him and single.

"I'm sorry, again."

Yuuri cracks a small smile. He tries not to let the comment bother him.

"It's okay. I'd much rather help others get married for the time being."

He offers Yuuri a genuine smile. "Well I hope one day you'll meet someone as special as my Isabella."

"That's very sweet of you," he says.

"I can hook you up. I know Isabella has a sister."

Yuuri shakes his head. He really doesn’t want to delve into a relationship at the moment, and he doesn’t particularly want to date one of his client’s sisters.

"That's alright,” he quickly deflects. “Besides, we should focus on your tux."

"You're right! My tux is the most important thing" he claims before hastily adding "aside from Isabella's dress, of course! It has to be perfect."

"Why don't you try the gray one again? It was very classy," JJ's father suggests.

"You're right, I did look rather good in it," he brags with a smirk.

Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes - he truly does - but sometimes, JJ's cockiness makes it almost impossible not to be a tad annoyed. He silently wonders what Isabella sees in him, aside from being a famous celebrity with tons of money.

"I think Isabella will like it too," Yuuri points out.

"Really? You're not just saying that?"

"O-of course not," he lies nervously. "I'm sure Isabella will love you no mater what you wear."

"Oh, Yuuri. What would I do without you?"

Yuuri laughs nervously. "Choose the wrong tux, I guess."

"You're right." He takes one more look in the mirrors before stepping down from the platform. "I'm going to try on that gray one again before I make any decisions. Maybe I can add in a gold tie."

"Sounds good," Yuuri agrees politely. Honestly, he doesn't care what he does so long as JJ is happy (and he gets out of this tuxedo fitting so he can relax at home).

"Son, let me go help you," JJ's father insists, peeling himself off from the couch. "Justin, you come too."

"Do I have to?" JJ's brother groans. He sinks deeper in the couch as if to cement his spot.

"Justin Antoine Leroy, you will come and help. This is important for your brother's wedding," he demands.

Yuuri finds the exchange rather endearing. For some reason, it reminds him of families on television shows.

"Besides, we still need to be find a tuxedo for you."

Justin lets out a sigh but pulls himself off the couch regardless. "Fine. But I'm not wearing gold."

Yuuri watches as all three of the Leroys shuffle to the back of the store before unfolding his magazine. He hates to admit it, but he is a bit relieved to have some peace and quiet. Being around the Leroy family is frankly exhausting.

He is relieved to return to his magazine. He can’t believe that he is actually interested in an ice skating article, of all things. And one written about JJ, nonetheless.

"Yuuri," a familiar voice says. He peeks over the top of the magazine, fully expecting to see JJ in his grey suit again.

Instead, he comes face to face with the reporter who came to his office a few weeks ago. He’s just as beautiful as he remembers him: perfectly combed platinum hair and alluring blue eyes. But his stunning good looks don’t explain how he somehow found Yuuri once more at a tuxedo fitting.

Yuuri sets down his magazine and pulls the reporter aside.

"What are you doing here?" Yuuri asks in a hushed voice.  He doesn't exactly fancy a reporter busting in to his appointments unannounced. He thought his lecture a few weeks ago was enough to discourage him for coming again. He supposes nothing could dissuade a ruthless reporter.

"Doing my own investigation since someone won't give me any information," he says sarcastically.

Yuuri clenches his jaw. "I will not have you spoiling their wedding! I have a reputation," he whispers.

He looks over his shoulder, making sure that JJ or his family has not yet returned to the main room.

"I'm not spoiling," he claims with a careless wave of his hand.

Yuuri frowns at that lie.

"I just need a sneak peak for my boss. Believe me, if I didn't have to be here, I'd be happy,” he scoffs. “Just a few minor details like what he's wearing and we're good to go."

Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn't sound like it will be that bad. He supposes if he gives the information now, he would never have to see that annoying and gorgeous reporter ever again. Besides, maybe spending time with him will finally get him out of his hair (and his dreams, for that matter).

"If I agree, will you leave?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Yes," Victor agrees with a smile.

"Alright," Yuuri agrees reluctantly. He's not exactly sure why he says yes - he has absolutely no reason to agree to talk to some reporter at all. He supposes it's just his reporter tactics. It surely has nothing to do with his charming smile and alluring eyes and he way he accentuates his words with a thick accent.

"I can pencil you in at 10am at the ice rink," Yuuri says professionally.

The reporter raises his eyebrows.

"Ice rink?"

"They'll be practicing their dance or skate or whatever. Now just go before they see you," he says, practically pushing Victor out of the store.

"Alright,” he says with a wink. “I'll be sure to bring my skates."

[archivezosia]

As the World Shifts /// Flashback ( About 10 years ago )

Juxtaposed to the erratic behavior of her heartbeat, Annika’s gaze that settled upon Zosia remained inexorable. You might say that her eyes’s were almost addicted to the image of the reader —- it certainly wouldn’t be an exaggeration. No matter the subject of which they spoke, she was sure that the urge to stare would be impossible to overcome. Should they lapse into a comfortable silence, still, upon the other her eyes would stay. So she watched and wondered what might be happening inside that seemingly beautiful and riveting mind. “If we find ourselves unsatisfied, as I predict we will, we can always jump on a plane to my homeland. It’s only an 11 hour flight.” Spreading her tone with a thick layer of sarcasm, Annika bit her lip and cocked an eyebrow as if to say ‘how about it?’. It was a ridiculous idea, but one that played regularly in the reel of idealistic scenarios in Annika’s imagination. To take Zosia, who had kindled her affections so brightly, to the place she theoretically kept her heart —- as cliche as it was, really would be a dream come true. The suggestion of becoming a painter too set Anni’s heart fluttering. It might have been a fleeting comment from Zosia but of course, the poet naturally read into it and saw it as the kind of suggestion she would follow with ‘you’d do that for me…?’. She bit back the hopeless hopefulness and instead possessed a sheepish and daft grin. “My Godfather was a proper advocate for Plaid Cymru so being around his political rants naturally inspired me. Don’t let it frighten you though —- I’m pretty passive about it. I don’t really know how that works, but it’s how I chose to play it. Opinionated but chilled about it.” The redolent hope that lingered in her coaster themed sentence was left hanging in the air. Annika felt her stomach flip. Something had changed, but layers down, buried deep beneath their perceptible connection. A pea had been lodged underneath the hundreds of mattresses that was their desire for conversation and contact. Except it wasn’t a pea, and it certainly wasn’t something insignificant to their budding relationship. To Annika’s horror, Zosia held in her hands a scrap of paper she had trusted to the wind to carry somewhere safe. And it had found her. Was this fate? That she had discarded it somewhere so rural, so distant to where they were now —- but it had made it’s way to the very subject herself? Millions upon millions of questions percolated her conscience, her ability to see clear. “This…where did you get this from?” Quietened to a whisper, sheer anxiety lurked in Anni’s shaky voice. The embarrassment of it all. These were not just words. This piece of paper had the poets very soul bared upon it. She could lie —- the idea flashed in her head and she winced at it’s interference with her ability to think straight. The poem did not name anyone. Rapid plans of fibs scrabbled her sense and she was blinking so fast her eyes were beginning to water. It was useless. She could not lie at the best of times, let alone to the face of her deepest desire. Yet, it took everything she had to compose herself and admit that those words were, in fact, about the woman before her. “I didn’t want you to find it. I threw it to the wind, Zosia. On the camping trip… It was supposed to fly away and be lost. It was supposed to be cathartic, for me and only me…but it found you. I don’t know if that is a good thing or not.” Completely clueless as to where to take her words, which of the many emotions beating behind her forehead to expose, Annika’s fingernails nipped lightly at the skin upon her opposite hand, gaze refusing to plant anywhere in the room. “I don’t know what to say. What do I say? I confirm that I wrote it about you. I’m not sure whether it was right or wrong or what. You could call it self preservation —- it’s like a coping mechanism. It’s how I come to terms with things. I needed to figure it all out, get it into words, what I was —- am feeling.” Flickering emerald eyes hazily drifted to meet Zosia’s, alight with so many embers of sentiments. “That’s what it translated as. That’s how it is. …Is that okay?”

”Hypothetically,” making sure to heavily precursor the adjoining sentiment with a solid foundation of that plain and uncommitted nonchalance she had mastered so well to accommodate the upheaval of emotion Annika dredged up within her, Zosia allowed herself to sneak in a bona fide nod of affirmation, “I think I’d like that.” The agreement resonated with a sincere sense of hope she could only hope was overshadowed by how it was presented; in a place built on a city of fables, populated with streets named ‘what if’ and ‘maybe someday’. Impossible and improbable universes that neither of them had the blessed fortune to occupy together. The idea of such a spontaneous adventure preyed upon the reader’s suppressed passion for the pastime of travel. To visit the land Annika hailed from, where cement and plastic clutter were not part of the daily sight-seeing routine, was a suggestion she struggled to find a sane reason to refuse —- theoretically or not. Speaking with crystal clarity was easy around someone such as the woman she sat by. It made Zosia daring enough to let secrets less noticeably slip into speech, with a simple turn of phrase, that could be a double edged sword of truths or open up a pandora’s box of misunderstandings. Around anyone else in her peer group, she would have done it with confidence, knowing certain inflections and references would fly over most of their heads. Under the discerning reception of Annika’s intelligent ear, the line was a much finer one to walk. Giving too much credit to the poet seemed an oxymoron. Frankly, Zosia was more at risk of giving too little. “Ah, of course. I should’ve guessed your bloodline was enriched with spirit.” An entire thesaurus’ worth of terms could have been substituted in the place of ‘spirit’. Holding this belief more like a fact, she momentarily needed to carefully study the Annika’s features to ensure she hadn’t accidentally voiced a more intimately-sourced adjective. With her voluminous thoughts trafficking so noisily inside her skull, it grew increasingly difficult to tell what she verbally let out into the ethers anymore. To posses an intense deep affection for another was to love. For a word so strong, linked to how humans often haphazardly threw it around like bullets, it felt as though shrapnel ought to have littered the earth’s surface. Surely, it would have littered the floor in a perfect circle around where Zosia sat. Was she so foolish to try and convince herself that a particular sensation of ‘deep affection’ was not the exact summary that described her inner disposition? Would it really have been so preposterous to suggest that the very mention of Annika’s name had the reader’s brain instantaneously linking along a poem [ it was love that had me and held so fast, I was trapped like a moth to the flame, wise men have said true love never lasts, when in love you’ll burn again and again. ] which had kept those three syllables company for over above a fortnight? Gripped by infatuation, that was for certain, but were the depths of these feelings fleeting —- like a pool in the heat of Summer doomed to be emptied by the end of the season —- or as unprecedented and unpredictable as the bottomless ocean? Placing the letter in her lap, Zosia nearly held her breath as she sat silently to listen to what reasoning she would hear from the other woman. Palms pressed together, lifted with the sides of her index fingers pressed to her lips, she was caught somewhere between willing herself not to say anything, and trying to summon some cursed higher power to alleviate her shackled mind. Staring at Annika with a mixture of trepidation, admiration, and loss, she quietly mumbled, “I was given it.” Despite purposefully omitting details of identification, she could practically hear Maya’s voice ringing in her eardrums; imagine an expression of disdain; and the brutal disapproval of even the reader’s quietest consideration of entertaining the dreams she had pertaining to Annika. The terms between Zosia and her supposed ex were unclear, murky as the waters of a lagoon —- however, in comparison ( which did nothing to ease the stress on her conscience ), Annika presented no more clarity. Though, one factor was for certain: the pier of safety the music maker represented was far more anchored than it’s hurricane counterpart. A hopeless ache chipped away at Zosia’s heart like a hammer and chisel took to stone, leaving behind a cave of wonder and insecurity that waves of Annika’s touching sentiments gently lapped up against. “You didn’t want me to see it.” Emptily echoing the impression she had absorbed from the tone of the writer’s elaboration, the literary aficionado failed to ward off the indignant sense that arose when confronted with such a notion. Fingers protectively tightened their hold on the flimsy letter as she imagined a scenario where the discarding of it had being successful, disheartened by the possibility of the note never seeing the light of day, consumed by the forest forever. How could she dare do such a thing? To deliberately keep Zosia blinded from a truth so mockingly blatant she had actually needed to read it on paper before she’d understood the muted refrain of her interest was not a one sided arrangement. They were singing a duet, of coasters and teacups, no less. Of course, it made absurd sense. Nothing quite permeated the reader’s daydreamy grasp on the world other than the physical presence of the written world —- a place her mind could escape to forever, even if the outcome of their meeting mounted insignificantly. Annika could have downright laid a kiss onto Zosia and she likely still would’ve internalized it, analyzed the hell out of it, and then brushed it off as accidental. A rare and situationally dependent gesture, at best. Too good to be true. “Why would it not be a good thing?” Because who was Zosia to receive the gift of this enchantment’s attention? “Why hide it? It was —- it is… beautiful, Annika. I didn’t… I wouldn’t have imagined you saw me in such a light. I…” A defeated sigh escaped her lungs, briefly preceding a rapidly spoken line of French she was grateful wouldn’t be understood, “Vous êtes comme un rayon de lumière sur mon horizon. Mon cœur souffre pour vous , ma chérie. Comment pouvez-vous pas savoir…” Shaking her head, poignant hazel eyes escaped the vibrant green shade of their captor’s to avert to the nearest wall; being able to truly concentrate depended on it. “First of all, you must understand that is okay. More than…” Trailing off, she felt suddenly concerned and self conscious with how much that she said or did when it would be permanently on the record. “It’s just… inconvenient.” A strained thread of pent up frustration lined her tone, eloquence uncharacteristically escaping her as she struggled in more ways than one, “It’s welcomed and it’s inconvenient. I feel it matters little what I want to really say, as in no reality could I say that this is impeccable timing, Annika.“

To be continued…