#i will probably learn nothing from this and be astonished as i am every year

[qqueenofhades]

Truly astonishing how the days are getting longer and for some clearly totally unrelated reason, I am surprised at how quickly my mental health is improving.

[imakemywings]

Ransom of the Fairy Twins (3/4)

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationships: Elrond & Elros, Elrond & Elros & Maglor, Elrond/Gil-galad

Summary: Maglor and Maedhros trade Elrond and Elros to King Gil-galad in exchange for a Silmaril, but they have miscalculated.

A fill for this prompt on the Silmarillion Kink Meme.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Previous chapter | Next chapter (TBP)

XI.

            One day in mid spring, they celebrated the birthday of a woman so old Elros could hardly fathom how she hadn’t withered up entirely yet.

            “How old are you?” he asked in astonishment when she beckoned him over to refill her drink.

            “Eighty-five,” she said with a cackle.

            Eighty-five. Oropher, Elros knew, had seen Cuivienien. Oropher was thousands of years old, in all likelihood, though he himself could not put a number to his age. Among Men, Madelyn was remarkable for her age—hence the scale of her party.

            “Are you not grieved?” Elros blurted out, setting the pitcher of cider back on the table. They had dragged a good number of them outside, as the birthday girl wanted to make the most of the lovely weather.

            “Grieved?” she said. “What about?”

            “You’re so old now,” Elros said uneasily.

            “And you think I shall die soon, is that it?” Elros blushed, feeling the rudeness of his inquiry. “So perhaps I will,” she said with a shrug. “Why should I be grieved about it now? It hasn’t happened yet!”

            “Are you not afraid?” he asked wondrously.

            “Come here, let me tell you something, Peredhel,” Madelyn said, crooking her finger at him. Elros leaned in towards her wrinkled face. “A great many things have I feared and grieved in my life,” she said more quietly. “A great many. Many of them were silly to fear. Many warranted every bit of it. Some I probably should have feared more. Here is the secret: if you get old enough, death loses its shadow. I have watched men and women cut down in the prime of life; I have watched babes perish in the cradle, some of them my own. That was something to fear. Now? When death comes for me, I imagine it will feel just like laying down and taking a nap, and just as easy.

            “If you spend your life always looking over your shoulder for death, you let it rob you of your chance to live,” she said. “There’s your birthday wisdom. Now, go and bring me one of those honey-cakes, like a good lad.”

XII.

            Elros insisted they stay a full year and a half with the Edain, as it was only fair given how long they had stayed in Balar, and Elrond could not dispute with that. But as the eighteenth month drew near, both brothers became increasingly aware that they had made no plans beyond this deadline. Their only thought when they left the Greenwood had been to learn more about where their families came from, with the idea that it might help them understand their own places in the world.

            Furthermore, it was apparent that Elrond was eager to be on, while it was Elros’ turn to drag his feet about leaving.

            “Elrond,” said Elros to him one day in early fall. “We need to talk.”

            “I’m busy,” said Elrond, who was at the butter churn and definitely not so mentally occupied with this task he could not bear to converse.

            “Are you really?”

            “I am,” said Elrond. “Certainly this talk can wait.”

            “It really cannot,” said Elros sharply.

            “Well I’m busy,” snapped Elrond, pumping the butter churn viciously.

            “This is important,” said Elros. When Elrond said nothing, Elros went on: “We need to talk about what we are going to do after our last month here is over.”

            “I told you I do not have time for this now.”

“You’re being a child!” Elros shot back, which earned him a furious glare.

            “You’re the one who’s not listening!”

            “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it,” said Elros, aware even as the words were bubbling up in his throat that he was saying something he didn’t mean, “perhaps I should just be off! You can find someone else to walk you back to Balar! Since Elrond always gets what he wants in the end, doesn’t he?”

            Elrond tore off his apron and threw it on the ground, storming out the back door and leaving Elros with the half-churned butter. For a long moment, Elros watched the door, but in the end, he did not follow Elrond out. Instead, he picked up the apron, tied it on, and silently took Elrond’s place at the churn.

            “Ah, thank you, Elrond,” said Rusbes, who was hosting them in her home, when she passed through the kitchen. “I shall sorely miss having you to help out when you and your brother are gone!”

            “Of course,” said Elros with a small smile.

            When he had finished, and his back and underarms were beaded with sweat from the vigor of his churning, he went out into the front yard to draw in the fresh air.

            “Hello, Elros,” called a familiar voice from the street. Elros opened his eyes and turned his face from the sky to smile at Madelyn. Immediately he crossed over to the fence.

            “How did you know it was me?” he asked.

            “I can tell,” said Madelyn confidently, waving a hand as if to scoff at the notion she might confuse the two of them.

            “Are you going to the butcher or the baker? I can carry something for you,” Elros offered.

            “Oh no, I’ve just promised to meet Arn for tea this afternoon,” she said. “A fool thing of me to promise, now I’ll have to finish that embroidery tomorrow.” But she didn’t sound too terribly put-out by her own social engagements.

            “Ah, well, have a lovely time,” said Elros. “And take a good helping of honey!”

            “You know I will,” she said with a mischievous grin, and then she carried on, slow, but not unsteady.

            When she was gone, Elros let out a sigh, and went back inside to hang up the apron. He said little at dinner that night, picking over his food in relative silence. When Rusbes’ husband and the two younger children retired to the hearth to play dice and sticks, Elrond joined them half-heartedly, but Elros merely sat on one of the chairs and watched with disinterest. He and Elrond said nothing as they prepared for bed. It was only when they were tucked into their bed with the candles out and the curtains drawn that Elros spoke.

            “Elrond?”

            Elrond pretended to be asleep.

            “I know you’re awake!” Elros did not know, but he felt quite sure. Still, Elrond did not respond. So Elros said nothing more, and waited until Elrond might truly be asleep before he slid out of bed and pressed his feet into his shoes.

            In just his nightshift he went out into the cool autumn air, passing through the rear yard until he was beyond the shed. He leaned back against the far wall of it, out of sight of the house and out of earshot, too, and then he cried. He wasn’t even sure he could name what he was crying for, or perhaps it was that it seemed too frightening to give it a name, or outline in his thoughts that he might understand the true shape of it.

            When he had begun to weary of his crying—when his throat ached and his eyes and nose felt raw—he heard a rustling in the grass too strident to be an animal. He wiped his nose on his forearm and swiped the heels of his hands over his eyes, so that he might look a bit less pathetic when Elrond rounded the corner of the shed in the silver moonlight. He stopped when he saw Elros there, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

            At last, Elrond said: “I’m sorry. I acted a fool today.” Elros nodded somewhat stiffly. The sight of his brother made the lump in his throat return instantly. “We do need to talk,” Elrond agreed, quieter.

            “Where are we going after this?” asked Elros, his voice not quite as steady as he had hoped it would be.

            “I…suppose I thought…back to the Greenwood,” said Elrond. “Or I suppose we could return to Balar. Gil-galad wouldn’t turn us away.” But Elros was already shaking his head.

            “I’m not ready to leave the Edain,” he said. Elrond said nothing. “Come on, Elrond,” he urged. “Our whole lives we have spent with Elves. Do you not wish to see something else? Are you not curious about them?”

            “I think we’ve gotten to know them relatively well,” said Elrond with a shrug. The truth was, of course, that he missed the Elves. He missed their philosophic conversation, and the beauty which imbued seemingly everything they did, and the libraries, and the way their thinking stretched so far into the future.

            “I am not ready to go back,” Elros repeated.

            “We could stay another month,” Elrond proposed generously. Again, Elros was shaking his head.

            “That is not enough,” he said.

            “Well, how long do you want to stay?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know how long will feel like enough to me.”

            The twins stared at each other.

            “Elrond,” said Elros very softly. “Do we not both know where this is going?” Elrond looked away, fisting his hands in his nightdress. “We won’t be apart forever,” he insisted. “Just a little while. Until we both have what we want.”

            “What do you want?” Elrond cried, looking back at his brother. Elros tensed and scratched the back of his head.

            “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I…feel like I’m looking for something, and I have not found it yet. But I’m close.”

            “How can you do this?” Elrond whispered, his eyes welling up. “Just leave? Just break us apart?”

            “I don’t wish for it!” Elros exclaimed. “But I see no another answer, do you? You will be unhappy if I make you stay here indefinitely, and I will be unhappy if you make me leave. Is that what you want? For us to end up like them, hating each other?”

            “I would never hate you,” said Elrond furiously, hands balling up. “How can you even say that? That we could be that way?”

            “We won’t,” Elros said. “But I do not know what else to do. Do you?”

            Elrond said nothing.

            “It shall not be forever,” Elros repeated quietly. Elrond still said nothing, for he could think of nothing to say, no way around the conclusion Elros had drawn. Instead, he only came nearer, and the two embraced tightly, both tight in the throat.

            “Not forever,” Elrond echoed, holding Elros as tightly as he could.

            “Not forever.”

XIII.

            The roads had grown ever more dangerous since Elrond and Elros’ youth. Morgoth’s hand now stretched effectively over the whole of the continent, and among most villages, there was a gloomy sense of when not if his forces would ravage their homes. Nevertheless, life went on, if more warily than before, and a small merchant wagon accompanied Elrond back to Lindon, hoping to trade some of the village’s wares with the Elves.

            Elrond and Elros hugged another goodbye, but Elrond looked back many times at the village as he departed, and before it was out of sight, hurried back.

            “I forgot,” he said—Elrond hardly ever forgot anything— “I wanted you to take this. I don’t wear it anymore.” He handed off a cloak clasp to Elros, whose lips were twitching slightly.

            “Very well,” he said.

            “I shall want it back later, so keep track of it.”

            “Very well.” Elros was outright smiling by then.

            This time, he really left. They camped within sight of the road that night, and Elrond had little to say, leaning back against the trunk of a tree and watching the flames dance in the firepit. He had been looking forward to returning to Lindon someday, to seeing Gil-galad again, but it felt now overborne by his grief. It seemed to him that some line had been crossed, to which he and Elros could never return. They had broken the heretofore impenetrable barrier of their togetherness—and now that they had parted once, who was to say they wouldn’t part again? If they could part, then what was keeping them together? Only the presence of the merchants kept him from breaking down in tears.

            He barely slept the whole journey back, and abruptly left the Mannish traders as soon as they had arrived in the city. He made straight for Gil-galad’s castle, and the sentries must have seen him coming and announced his coming, for Gil-galad was in the front courtyard when he arrived.

            “Elrond!” the king greeted him warmly as Elrond dismounted his horse. Gil-galad tilted his head and looked past his guest. “Where’s Elros?”

            Elrond’s throat was aching at once. He said nothing, only came nearer, and Gil-galad opened his arms in invitation. Elrond nearly collapsed into this embrace, and could not stop himself from weeping, even if it seemed childish.

            “He stayed,” he managed to get out, lest Gil-galad think the worst, but no more could he say after that.

            “Ah,” said the king softly, his arms light around the young man. “I see.”

XIV.

            There had been a time he had not believed the world could keep turning if he and Elros were parted, a time he would have sooner died than let go of his brother’s hand, but alone in Balar without Elros, he found that life did, in fact, continue.

            It soothed the pain that Gil-galad was so genuinely pleased to have him there. Were he less pressed by the loss of Elros, Elrond might have been less willing to impose his company on Gil-galad, but as it stood, the loneliness that threatened him was immense, and he would cling to whatever could alleviate it. He asked to accompany Gil-galad on the hunt, and invited him to play games of chess and go, and took seats nearby him without being asked, and through all, Gil-galad seemed to have infinite patience. It reminded Elrond of all the reasons he had been reluctant to part with the king in the first place.

            He picked up a correspondence too, with Thranduil: He wrote to let the prince of the Greenwood know what he and Elros had been doing, and that he had made it safely back to Balar. Thranduil sent him a response, and Elrond was happy to continue it. Parchment was in increasingly short supply in Balar, as was everything else—the more entrenched Morgoth became in Middle-earth, the less trade went on, and Balar being an island was a boon to its security, but a terrible detriment to its import/export industry. As a result, Elrond and Thranduil were often obligated to re-use the same paper for a reply as they had gotten from the other, writing crossways between the other man’s lines. Occasionally, Thranduil included a greeting from Oropher, and Elrond found it warmed him, to think somewhere beyond his sight were people wishing him well.

            When Elrond had left Lindon last, he had still been quite young. A year and a half made no difference at all to an Elf, and yet Elrond was changed when he returned, and so too was his relationship with the king. Gil-galad looked more on him as an equal now, a fellow adult, and not a wayward child for which he felt some responsibility. Gil-galad even honored him with an official position at court: the king’s herald.

            “This way, you have a reason to stay,” he said with a smile, pinning a little ribbon of office onto Elrond’s robe.

            Elrond wanted to sweep him off his feet.

            He so wholeheartedly threw himself into any task that Gil-galad gave him that the king had to laughingly insist he take more rest, and on this account, Elrond was only too happy to accompany Gil-galad on slow walks around the garden, or down to the market to browse aimlessly, or to watch Gil-galad at play with some of the other Elves in the games they enjoyed in Lindon. (Any of these were preferrable to watching the far more common instances of Gil-galad rubbing his temples or wringing his hands over the state of Middle-earth and his fear for the future of the continent.)

            Still, he watched for correspondence from Elros. Letters took a good long while these days, as there were fewer travelers, and they were less likely to make it to their destinations than during the Long Peace, a time Elrond and Elros had never known. It took five months for the first of Elros’ letters to arrive, announcing he had gone south to a larger village—a real town, he said—and that he was staying with the lord there. Pages and pages he wrote about everything he had seen and everyone he had met, and he waxed rapturously about the Edain and their mythology and philosophy, and this he followed up with a full page of questions about what Elrond was doing and an exhortation to give Gil-galad his best.

            Elros sounded happy, and this made Elrond cry over the letter, because his brother was happy, and because his brother was happy without him. It felt right, and wrong, and he was too tangled up to sort out what was the most sensible thing to feel.

            When he raised the letter with Gil-galad later, he knew everything was different. When Gil-galad touched his cheek in comfort, he knew that the hammering in his heart was not his imagination running away with him again. Yet he demurred, accepting the nominal comfort without acknowledging what lay beneath it, and so he demurred onwards. He drew near to Gil-galad, only to pull back at reciprocity; he invited Gil-galad’s familiarity, then turned away from him seemingly on a whim; he let them dance endlessly around each other, both feinting towards crossing a line that Elrond was keenly aware of, and pretending he did not see.

            It was during one of their many late nights on the balcony of Gil-galad’s personal study that Elrond felt he needed to give the king an unwelcome reminder. He felt that he needed to do this because of how deeply Gil-galad was looking into his eyes, and how, over the course of the last few hours, they had been shifting nearer and nearer together, until they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

            “Gil-galad,” he said softly, then glanced out at the horizon, behind which the sun had disappeared and from which, to Elrond’s eyes, the last of the light had faded. “Ereinion,” he said, turning his gaze back to Gil-galad’s eyes. The king was certainly listening now. Elrond forced himself to hold Gil-galad’s stare and keep his face neutral when he said: “I am mortal.”

            “I know,” Gil-galad replied, too quickly.

            “Sometimes I think you need to be reminded,” said Elrond.

            “Perhaps there are more important things to remember of you,” Gil-galad replied. Elrond said nothing, but averted his eyes again, and Gil-galad straightened up, shifting slightly away. “If I have misunderstood…” he said. “If I have done anything to put you ill at ease, Elrond, then you have my sincerest and most profuse apologies. It was not my intention to do anything unwelcome.”

            “You did not…misunderstand,” said Elrond very quietly. “I simply feel I must warn you. You are immortal. I am not.”

            “Neither was Dior Eluchil,” pointed out Gil-galad, and Elrond’s eyes snapped up to his. “Yet still Nimloth wed him.” It seemed to Elrond he could hear the beat of his heart in his ears. “Neither was Tuor, who wed Idril. For that matter, neither was Beren, though Lúthien was still counted among immortal Elves when first they pledged themselves to one another.” And Elrond was silent, searching for some irrefutable point on how this was different. “As I said,” Gil-galad concluded cautiously. “If I have overstepped…then I will withdraw, and say no more of it. But if your only concern is for some future pain of mine…I would beg you trust that I know what I am doing. That I understand what I desire. At any rate, it may not matter much one way or the other,” he added, casting a gloomy look out at the invisible coast of the mainland in the dark distance. “Mortal or immortal may make no difference within a few years.”

            And he had been on such a romantic bent up until then.

            “I would not wish to cause you pain,” said Elrond carefully.

            “You would not,” said Gil-galad.

            “I do not wish to play with semantics,” Elrond replied a bit sharply. “But perhaps none of it matters, if we are doomed to see the end of a free Middle-earth.”

            Both men lapsed into silence, studying the orange glow of the city below, which from on high felt so achingly small relative to the great darkness of the night.

            “If we are to see an end,” said Gil-galad at last, very quietly, “I would rather have what joy we may, first.” Elrond looked over to see Gil-galad looking at him.

            “So would I,” Elrond agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. A slow smile spread over Gil-galad’s face.

            “Then, at last, we agree,” he said. Elrond nodded mutely, and, in lieu of words, took Gil-galad’s hand tentatively in his, and they went back to watching the city.

XV.

            Two years after they had said goodbye, Elros returned to Balar. He had written ahead to suggest he might be in the area sometime in the future, but not to say specifically that he was coming, so when the message from the guard came, Elrond was caught entirely by surprise. Gil-galad was meeting with some of his advisors, so Elrond alone rushed out to the courtyard in time to see Elros returning from leaving his horse at the stables.

            “Elrond!” he cried, waving. “I brought you—”

            Elrond said nothing, but charged at his brother, a run that Elros met until they crashed somewhat painfully together, immediately wrapped up in a hug. For a few moments, they stood silently holding each other, and then Elrond said: “Your hair!”

            Elros drew back with a grin and raked his hand back through his short black hair.

            “Do you like it? The Men down south wear it like this. You wouldn’t believe how much easier it is to care for! It dries so quickly now!”

            “I suppose people will stop confusing us now,” said Elrond, and he felt curiously sad about it.

            “One solution to that, brother,” said Elros, grinning again and raising his eyebrows.

            “No.”

            Elros said nothing else then, just stood grinning at him, then grabbed his shoulders, then let go again.

            “Ah! I brought you something.” He handed over a leaf-wrapped sweet bun.

            “This is…is this from the market here?” Elrond asked, taking it.

            “I didn’t say it was an exotic gift. I stopped through on my way up here.” Elrond looked at the pastry again, then carefully split it in half and gave one side to Elros. “I already had one,” said Elros, but Elrond just waved the pastry half at him, and he took it with another grin. He threw an arm over Elrond’s shoulder and steered him towards the castle.

            “Now, you must tell me everything you left out of your letters,” he insisted.

            “I didn’t leave things out!” said Elrond. Elros just looked at him skeptically, and Elrond sighed and looked askance. “Very well, I left some things out. Some things are better discussed in person!”

            “Agreed,” said Elros.

            Elrond was relieved to see much about them was still the same. They were still the same height, and there were no great changes to Elros’ face. Neither of them had ever much come into growing facial hair the way Men did, and that hadn’t changed. Elros seemed to have put on more muscle since Elrond had seen him last, and he’d obviously spent a lot of time outside, but their builds still largely matched, and somehow, Elrond was relieved.

            Very soon, it felt as if no time had passed at all. Elros was sitting cross-legged on Elrond’s sofa, telling him about a party he had attended recently, when Gil-galad announced himself, and then let himself in, as was his custom by then.

            “Elros!” he exclaimed, glancing between the twins. And then: “Your hair!” Elros grinned, but rose to his feet and offered a bow to the king.

            “My lord Gil-galad,” he said. “Forgive me for not writing to announce myself. I wanted to be something of a surprise.” Gil-galad smiled.

            “No apologies needed,” he said. “As I have always said, you are both always welcome here. And of course, Elrond is permitted whatever guests he likes.” Elros looked over at Elrond, who glanced away from both of them, slightly flustered, but not displeased.

            “Come and sit with us,” he said to Gil-galad. “Elros has some very entertaining stories of his travels.”

            “Oh, don’t let me do all the talking,” said Elros, noting that Elrond had not risen when Gil-galad entered. Elros took his seat again once the king had done so also. “I’m sure you have things to share also.”

[natewriteslol]

The Wonders of Magic Pt. 1

Non magical!Twisted Boys x Witch!Reader

A/N: This has been sitting in my brain for a while since I have Little Witch Academia brainrot and I love snooty rich boys asdfljsfaj

Characters: Keep reading to find out!!

Warnings: Language and Y/N goes by she/her pronouns 

Summary: Dealing with magical adventures and society deeming magic as “flashy but worthless” doesn’t deter Y/N L/N from reaching her goal of becoming a powerful witch. However, what will she do when she has to find a way to stop the selling Calypso Academy? 

~~~

All your life you had dreamed of being a witch, however there was a slight problem. You weren't a magic user.

And as magic use had started to become more oppressed and scarce, magic schools were starting to open their doors to all walks of life. Making the most elite schools fall to their knees.

Either you lose your elite status or fall into debt.

So this was good opportunity for you, you managed to make it into one of the most renowned magic schools in the country, Calypso Academy. But it wasn't all peaches and cream, you weren't exactly accepted among your peers. Your family weren't magic users, nor were they wealthy. Yet you still pursued magic, there was a fire burning in your heart that just drew you in all your life. And you couldn't let your dream go just because of some mean girls. But this is the story of how you met some of your greatest obstacles.

 ~~~

It was the night of the great Ball, Calypso academy was having it's 350th anniversary. And you unlucky for you, you still didn’t know how to ride a broom since you were learning from the ground up. 

So there you were, by yourself, in one of the open fields of your campus. Trying to make this broom fly. 

And in your flight teacher Ms. Flint’s words, “If the broom doesn’t leave the ground, you can’t step a foot in the ball.” And so far, your feet have been stuck on the ground.

You felt horrible. I mean, what witch doesn’t know how to fly a broom? And while you were incredibly dejected

 from your failures, you knew you couldn’t just let it go. 

‘The trick it to be determined, yet feel as light as a feather. Be one with the broom’ your manifestation teacher, Mrs. Fairi had softly advised. You had to do this for for her, she already put so much faith in you, she would be so disappointed if she didn’t see you at the ball. 

“Nubes Volant ro!” You casted, pushing your leg to lift. Expecting your legs to come back down and for your shoes to hit the softness of the grass... but it never came.

You opened your eyes and there you were, suspended in air. 

Your excitement was indescribable, but you needed to be skilled enough to meet the requirements for Ms. Flint. So you tried and tried again, and while a little shaky you still managed to fly and do a stable landing! 

“I did it! Screw everyone in this academy who doubted me!” You  squealed a little loud, doing a little dance. You heard  footsteps and chuckling, but you brushed it off as some of your classmates. Too excited to care, you grabbed your things and ran off to show Ms. Flint.   But there was one problem, the entire point of this celebration was to both celebrate the anniversary but... it was begging as well. It was no secret that Calypso was losing money to pay taxes, but they were being pressured to give it all up. So to persuade the buyers, they had invited their son's to be enriched in witch culture and tradition. To prove them wrong and show that magic has value. However the students of the academy weren't aware of the true intentions behind the invites of the son's of these rich men. Many whispered in the halls about the upcoming ceremony. Talking about how handsome the young men attending were. But the day of the party was finally here! The banquet was absolutely incredible with 25 foot tables of food on both sides of the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers with floating candles illuminating and creating a heavenly golden light. And the great ancient tapestries that surrounded the room. There was no way that anything could mess up your night. 

But then, you heard a shout from a classmate in the crowd. "The nobles sons! They're here!" You stopped stuffing your face for a moment. Everyone cleared the way for the grand wooden doors as they opened, a red carpet elegantly draping the piece of floor it laid on. Designer shoes clicked as they touched the ground. Every girl eyes followed as they walked, you snuck past some trying to get a glimpse of their features. They were five of them being escorted by one older gentleman, all incredibly handsome young men. One had a bright smile that was genuine and waving at some of the girls in the crowd. While the other had a smirk not paying anyone any mind, as if he was calculating something. One held a solemn expression, yet was incredibly poised and graceful. The last two however wore scowls, one that showed he most definitely didn’t want to be here while the other just looked strict. 

They sat down in their seats in the front table that awaited them. Each seat was just as fancy as a king’s throne, with gold embellishments and velvet seats. 

It was a cookie cut scene, they were made for this life of luxury.

~~~

It was an hour into the ceremony, showcasing tricks and theatrical dances from every witch culture from around the globe. But it was almost as though nothing was satisfying them, besides the one with white hair. While he adorned a smile, there was something behind his eyes, as though he was doing some critical thinking. 

Nothing was enough for them. 

But it was toward the end and the noble’s sons were promised a tour. Every witch in the school was made to study up on knowledge of the campus. So that if you were the “lucky winner” you wouldn’t look like a complete fool. 

As you snacked on your chocolate filled croissant, Ms. Flint with her booming voice had called everyone’s attention to the center of the stage. Raising her wand, a split of golden light had displayed random names. 

Knowing your luck, you knew you wouldn’t be picked. I mean this was probably a tactic to get people to study the school’s magical history. It did work, as if there was a slight chance you were chosen you wouldn’t want to make a fool out of yourself in front of people like you usually did. But, Principal Hendrix wouldn’t be so irresponsible as to let a random student represent the school, right? 

Exactly. But even then, you sure did feel sorry for whoever was to give the tour-

“Y/N L/N!”

...

Remember what you said about shitty luck? 

Shocked was an understatement. Even though you had your two best and only friends Silva and Miete patting you on the back telling you congrats and to do your best, the hammering of your heart was too heavy for you to handle. 

Whispers broke out for a moment, a lot of girls were incredibly disappointed but cleared the way for you to go up the stairs and talk to Ms. Flint and Principal Hendrix. 

“Good job, Y/N. Now if you wouldn’t mind, please give these young men a tour of Calypso, would you?” Principle Hendrix said gently with a smile.

“Ha, ha, of course! But surely there’s been a mistake, I mean Lydia could probably recite the information without having to read a single book-” 

“No way, L/N. You were chosen, now do the tour please, the latest you can be back is at 9pm,” Ms. Flint replied, cutting you off sharply. 

“You’re an incredibly charismatic student, Y/N. Just keep them entertained,” Principle Hendrix whispered as you walked toward the table.

Be charismatic, not awkward! Got it!

“Alrighty then! Who’s ready for a tour?” you said, almost giving finger guns as a mechanism. 

“Oh, I am!” 

“Yes,  I’ve been wanting to see the range of this property in person.”

“Yes, I would like to get this over with. I have an appointment tomorrow and I would not like to miss it.”

Other than that, all you received was a nod and an eye roll. But it’s better not to pry and ask for more from them. 

Each getting out of their seats, you walked outside. Hearing cheers from the crowd and the occasional “Vil! I love you!” which made you a little embarrassed. 

Feeling the night breeze and seeing the stars poke through calmed you down slightly, it was 7:45 and all you had to do was blabber at them about the school until 9. 

Easy task, Y/N. Easy!

~~~

Once you got outside, the tour had been running smoothly for only a couple of minutes. But you couldn’t help but feel as though they started scanning you, as if they saw you from somewhere. Until unfortunately, the sunshine of the group’s lightbulb had went off. 

“Oh! You’re the girl with the broomstick towards the front of the school! You looked so happy practicing.” 

“There must be a mistake-”

“Are you sure? If so then I guess you have a doppelganger” the boy with glasses teased. 

“Didn’t you say, ‘Screw everyone at this academy’?” the short, red head questioned, persecuting your behavior. 

“Well some people here aren’t exactly the nicest. It was just an excitement of the moment thing, sorry,” You said, trying to get Mr. Non-Rule Breaker off your back. 

~~~

So... you had accidently overshared about your adventures on campus. 

It had all started when one of the boys looked shocked that the ancient Willow tree was thriving and looking beautiful as ever. When he looked at it from pictures given to him, it was completely lifeless and grey. 

“This tree, it looks completely different? It’s been sickly for years! How is this possible?” He asked, as his main piece of evidence the white haired boy gave to his father to buy this property was foiled. 

“Oh, that was me. They had willow worms in the roots that were ready to hatch and I accidently brought them out,” you said, a little prideful, yet it was quickly stomped out.

“That is highly irresponsible, you should’ve had a professional complete that task, not an inexperienced student,” the red haired boy scoffed, it seemed as though he didn’t respect this school at all. Yet the boy with grey hair and glasses paid him no mind, still incredibly astonished, but it was quickly wiped from his face and replaced with a somewhat of a sour look. As though you beat him at some game he was playing.

“...Interesting. I never knew magic could do something of that caliber,” he remarked,  pushing up his glasses. 

“Magic is incredibly useful, Mr...” 

Shit. You didn’t get their names...

“My apologies, I didn’t catch your guy’s names,” you said, placing a hand behind your head. 

You had never in your life seen a group of people get so surprised, besides the other white haired boy, who was happy to tell you his name. 

“I’m Kalim, Kalim-Al-Asim!” he said, shaking your hand with a vigor, “It’s a little funny that you don’t know who we are, but I like that about you!” 

How was it funny? You’ve never seen these people in your entire life? The blonde man was especially offended as you glanced at him for his name. 

“Vil Schoenheit. Actor, singer, dancer, beauty influenc-” 

“Hmmm, Vil I can’t help but feel that you’re angry at Ms. L/N for not knowing who you are,” the boy with glasses remarked before taking your hand, “Azul Ashengrotto, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“I’m Riddle Rosehearts,” the short red-haired boy said.

“...Leona Kingscholar.” 

“Alright, I’m glad I got your names! Let’s get a move on! I have got to show you some more stuff!” you said before moving along, gaining more confidence as you talked to them. 

Maybe this tour wasn’t so bad after all!

~~~

Coming up:

“How did you not know who the noble’s sons are?!” Miette yelled, but her soft voice wasn’t exactly giving the shocking boom to emphasize her feelings.

“I’m sorry! Everything was completely fine after that, if this whole tour was such a big deal then I would’ve studied them more instead of the school,” you said, completely pooped out from last night. 

So much pressure on you made you very tired out, and all of these new details coming out made you feel even more guilty for your half-assed tour. 

[star-anise]

I read your post about trauma and I'm trying to make sense of my parents treatment of me as well as my own diagnoses. Is anxiety itself trauma? Or a result of trauma? Its the stress response itself not calming down. I think I was and am emotionally neglected. My parents are not sympathetic. I'm adhd anxiety depression my whole life. That post about learning new social situation techniques really resonated. What are the treatments for neglect? Besides plain old cbt and mindfulness and anti anxiety meds

Trigger warning: Child abuse, child neglect, emotional neglect

Anxiety can happen because of a wide variety of reasons, from medical to situational to genetic. It could happen out of the blue to a totally healthy adult. Or it might be a symptom of trauma and a bad childhood. PTSD used to be classified as a kind of anxiety disorder, but we now understand it's a lot more complicated.

I'm very sorry your family aren't sympathetic and don't get what's up with you. I want to make it very clear that it is not your fault that they aren't sympathetic.

It's not your fault for not explaining things clearly enough. It's not your fault for not being a more lovable child. It's not your fault for being emotional or oversensitive. It's not your fault for not communicating your needs in a way they can hear. Their treatment of you is not your fault.

That's important not just because it feels good to be absolved of blame. It's not a meaningless platitude. It's a nicer coating on what can sometimes be a very bleak truth. That truth is:

There is nothing you can do to make your family be sympathetic to you.

I am so, so, so sorry. You can spend your entire life turning backflips, you can learn interpretive dance, you can become the world's leading expert in your field, you can get hit by a car and find out you have cancer, you can be as sympathetic and understanding about their reasons for neglecting you as they could possibly want, you could do everything in your power to be a good child, and none of that will ever give you the power to make your parents be sympathetic to you and what you've been through.

Sometimes parents do learn and grow and change and work to repair the damage done while their kids were children. But that's because of their own issues and experiences and reasons, not because of anything their children have done. Many parents keep being oblivious and neglectful even when their children have become everything a parent could ever hope for.

Actually, an amazing number of my adult neurodivergent friends have had the absolutely excruciating experience of hearing their parents say, in essence, "Hey adult child! The other day someone I respect way more than you told me about [your condition], and I was astonished! They told me that thing you've been telling me for years, and it blew my mind. I now realize that this is a real part of your life! Wow, it sure would have made a difference if I'd done that thing you've been begging me to do for years now, huh? Hey, have you heard about this handy behavioural technique you've been doing every goddamn day of your adult life? It sounds like it would really help!"

Like, even if your parents ever Get It about your specific disorders and conditions, they're extremely likely to salvage their self-esteem by refusing to ever seriously acknowledge how much it's hurt that they've failed you.

And what that means is: You have to plan the rest of your life as if they will never be sympathetic.

That might mean never giving them any say over your medical care or personal life choices. It might mean not living with them, not turning to them when you need a supportive community, or not letting them play a large role in the lives of any children you yourself may have. It might mean having to build your own support network that doesn't include your family at all, because you can't count on them to care when you're in distress. It can really suck to have to keep giving up the dream that one day you'll be able to count on your family to nurture you emotionally, but I promise that it sucks less than being continually disappointed with no backup plan.

Researching emotional neglect can be really difficult because a lot of the best research psychology as a field has achieved on the topic comes from really extreme forms of neglect and abuse. Exactly the kind of neglect and abuse that society waves in the face of the "merely" emotionally neglected: "So what if you didn't get hugged enough! You had enough to eat, a roof over your head, and they never hit you! They weren't even mean or malicious! Stop whining!"

And... look, if you've just broken your legs and you're in a wheelchair, who would you rather learn about using a wheelchair from: someone who can easily walk everywhere all the time, or a double amputee who's been using a wheelchair for years? The first person can probably get around more easily, but the second one can tell you a lot more about the specific challenges and skills that will be central to this phase of your life.

That's the frame I propose for research: Your life might not have been as bad as the case studies you read (though it's probably worse than your family is willing to admit, because invalidation is itself a form of emotional neglect, and this is so common there's even a poem about it) but the issues they encounter and the skills they require are probably useful to you, too.

With that in mind, check out books about early childhood neglect and trauma like The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog by Bruce Perry, which talks about the parts of the brain and developmental stages that can be impaired by toxic stress in childhood, and the various forms of treatment that can address each one.

As far as CBT, remember to focus on behaviour, not just cognition. Reading about using touch to self-soothe is good, but less powerful than using that knowledge to find a blanket you love to touch, and wrapping yourself up in it whenever you're upset. Neglect means that you failed to get repeated, predictable experiences of being comforted. Healing therefore means getting that practice in as an adult: Creating thousands of daily, repetitive experiences of being cared about. Caring about yourself, and finding people who will care about you.

Maybe also give Dialectical Behaviour Therapy workbooks a try? They're designed for Borderline Personality Disorder, which can be seen as a specific subset of complex trauma. Like, if the effects of childhood abuse and neglect were a rainbow, BPD might be red-orange. But what makes DBT useful is that it has examined which skills and coping mechanisms vital to emotional health people with BPD most commonly weren't taught/never learned/need more practice on. The curriculum might not overlap completely with your own needs if you fall into the yellow, green, blue, or violet aspects of C-PTSD, but it's a good starting place when you're inventorying skills and habits you want to strengthen.

Good luck? I hope this helps!

[writer-panda]

Ruin and Rebirth - Chapter 1

Ruin and Rebirth

Chapter 2

Inspired by @jumpingjoy82 on Tumblr. Thank you for the amazing prologue.

I don’t own the characters, only the plot. Miraculous and Justice League belong to their respective creators

--------

"It's okay Marinette. Everything is going to be fine. You’re too young to understand, but it was for the greater good."

To young.

TO YOUNG!

It was all the Justice League's fault. If they kept their incompetent asses out of Paris, none of this would have happened.

Apparently, they just spontaneously decided to go through the Watchtower’s recycling bin, and what they found astonished them. Years upon years worth of pleas for help from Paris.

They decide to finally investigate, and it just so happens that it was during an Akuma Attack, and they threw everything the Parisian heroes were telling them out of the window, wanting to do things their own way.

Superman was one of the ones there.

And they learned just how far the Miracle Cure could go.

He decided to use his super strength and threw a car at the akumatized victim, who moved out of the way at the last minute, so the car sailed right through the Tom & Sabine Bakery, promptly, catching on fire, giving no time for the people inside to get out. No one got out alive.

Ladybug froze for a moment, before fighting with more determination than before, knowing that the Miracle Cure would bring them back.

She was wrong, which brings us back to this point.

"I don't give a damn about you so-called 'greater good' and now you’re telling me, that I'm too young to understand, but am I too young to experience it? Too young to actually see everything and everyone I love torn from me because of these heroes?! Why the hell are they here now? Where were they when this first started? What changed? And now, because of them, my entire family is dead!"

After that everything was hazy, but she knew, she hated superheroes.

They never knew when to stop, and just like Chat Noir, they expected to be praised for whatever happens, no matter if there were casualties or not.

The world would be better off without them.

----------------

The sun has long since set over Paris. The fires were still burning in some parts of town. For the first time since Ladybug first appeared, the citizens of Paris felt true fear. It was ironic. They didn’t fear the akuma. They feared the heroes that came to their rescue. For the first time in four years, the casualties were piling up. And the akuma was responsible for none.

True, many of them initially asked for it. With each fight, Ladybug and Chat Noir were taking longer. It’s been obvious for some time that they were slowly being worn out. Some media started to criticize the duo, question their skills, age, their right to act in Paris. They weren’t part of the UN Justice League Charter. Their only real authority came from the trust of the citizens themselves. And that trust was lost. The civilian pleas to the Justice League increased in number and frequency. Under public pressure, the mayor had no choice but to issue an official plea for help.

But then, then… the heroes came. 

In retrospection, almost everyone would agree that it was a mistake. Justice League was not used to fighting magical threats. They weren’t practiced in dealing with possessed villains. They didn’t understand. And they treated Ladybug and Chat Noir worse than sidekicks. 

That flying chicken even dared to wrap Chat Noir in a metal bar so he wouldn’t get in the way. 

Ladybug… tried her best. She allowed herself to trust the new heroes. She stopped saving every civilian from the rubble. She focused on the akuma. If heroes didn’t bother with the lives, it must’ve meant they trusted her cure, right?

WRONG

They were like a tank, riding through the city with a singular goal in mind. 

It didn’t help that they deemed the akuma a “world-level threat”. Yeah, right. Stormy Weather was powerful, but the damage could’ve been repaired. 

Or so she thought.

The volcanos, the tsunami, the tornadoes, the earthquakes? Those were fixed. The rubble caused by them was put back in place and those who suffered under them were better than new. 

But not the damage caused by the heroes. 

Not the bakery.

There was no magic in what happened. There was nothing to reverse. Those were human actions. For the first time perhaps, the people could see how much of the damage caused by the fight was the fault of heroes. How many deaths they caused. That is if they admitted, before themselves at least, that it was their fault. 

And yet, the so-called ‘heroes’ dared to lecture her about responsibility. About the sacrifice of few for the lives of many. About the innocence of young. 

She ran away. She managed to dodge them and vanish. Meld with the crowd when there were no cameras in sight and she was sure they couldn’t track her. 

Now, Ladybug stood alone on the top of the Eiffel tower, with her yo-yo communicator in her hand. She sent the message fifteen minutes ago. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but at this point, she no longer cared. There was nothing more for her. 

“He thought this was a trap.” A voice spoke from behind her. Ladybug twisted immediately, taking a guarded stance. She was still avoiding the Justice League after all. Before her stood… someone. She suspected it was an Akuma. The woman had pale skin and wore a black dress, black gloves, and a black veil over her face. 

“It isn’t. I’m alone. The city suffered enough as it is today. I suffered enough.” Ladybug’s voice cracked slightly.

“I see…” The akuma pursed her lips. For a moment, a purple butterfly appeared over her face before the woman nodded. “Fine. Give me your miraculous and I will take you to him.” 

“That isn’t going to work and you know it. You would just leave me stuck here. I’m willing to offer a token of goodwill though.” With that, Ladybug pulled a necklace and dangled it before the akuma. 

“Is that…?” 

“The miraculous of the fox? Yes. No tricks. I want to negotiate. In-person.” She made sure to emphasize the last part. 

The outline of the butterfly appeared in front of the Akuma’s face for a moment before she silently nodded. “I can lead you to him, but not before you reveal your face.”

“Fine.” Ladybug didn’t hesitate. She was past that point long ago. There was no hesitation, no doubt… no regret. Not for her actions anyway. No more.

In the flash of light, instead of Ladybug, Marinette stood before the akuma. 

“You’re…” the woman’s voice was stuck in her throat.

“I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

Tikki, floating nearby gasped in fear. The Kwami didn’t get a chance to explain before Marinette resumed her transformation. 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

The two leaped from the tower and started to zoom over the city. At first, they remained silent. Neither wanted to speak. It was tense anyway. It was, of course, Marinette who broke the silence first. 

“Your… your look. Have you lost someone today?”

The woman didn’t answer immediately. She appeared to be mulling over the question at first. Or wondering if she should answer.

“A… colleague; coworker. He was… a friend of mine you could say. We’ve been working side-by-side for at least a decade.”

“I see…” Marinette pursed her lips into a thin line. “I’m sorry.” She spoke up after a moment. “I imagine you blame me now?”

“No.” The akuma snapped. “You’re just a child. I put the blame where it belongs. With heroes. And with people who chose to invite them.” 

“Not hawkmoth?” Escaped ladybug’s mouth before she realized it. 

“He… he never wanted this either. He isn’t a villain you believe him to be.” The akuma hesitated for a moment, but Marinette could sense it was her own opinion. She filed it in her brain under interesting. 

-----------

When they arrived at Agreste manor, Marinette was surprised.

When they entered the study, she was baffled.

When they went down the secret elevator, she was angry. 

When she stood before Hawkmoth, she was furious. And it wasn’t because he was her mortal enemy. 

“So that’s why you neglect your only son?!” She screamed at him as soon as he turned to see her. His mouth moved, probably to give some excuse. “I don’t care if you want to rule the world or be a god or whatever. No matter what little sick excuse your brain found to justify your actions. You are not allowed to just ignore Adrien like that! He needs a father. He is a teenager and he needs you!” 

“Madmoiselle Dupain-Cheng.” His voice was cold, but in a different way than she ever heard Gabriel Agreste or Hawkmoth speak. 

“Gabriel Agreste. And I assume you akumatized your Assistant, Nathalie?” She pointed to the woman next to her. 

“Astute observation, Ladybug. You risked a lot coming here to speak with me. I could take your miraculous now, or any other time. You gave me your most precious protection: your secret identity. So… what was that important?”

“I want to know. What is so important to you that you’re willing to go any length to get it?”

“That’s it?” Hawkmoth raised an eyebrow. “That’s all? You’re ready to risk everything over that little piece of knowledge?”

“Yes.” Once more, there was no hesitation. There was no doubt. Her heart had no place for doubts anymore. Her heart was still stuck under three levels worth of rubble. 

“And what, pray tell, would you do if I told you?” He asked with a hint of amusement in his voice. 

“That depends.” She could see he was now intrigued, so she started to explain. “On whether I like the goal or not. And on whether you understand fully the implications. If you pass, you will get my miraculous and I will deliver you Chat Noir’s miraculous too. If you fail, you still get my miraculous. But you will never get the ring. I made sure that if something happens tonight, he will retire. He will leave Paris and toss the ring into the ocean in a concrete box. You would be left to torture the city all you wish until the League found you, but the ring’s power would forever remain out of your reach. You would be left with nothing but a criminal record. And your son would sooner than later be left without both parents. Of course, you could abandon your crusade, but then I would’ve won. I’m not a naive girl without a plan. Not anymore.” She spat the last part angrily, but her gaze was not focused on Hawkmoth, but far in the distance. 

“I… see. Clever. You’re right. This will probably end tonight.” He looked her over top to bottom. It was the first time he stood so close face to face with Ladybug. His nemesis. 

Gabriel wasn’t sure if he was impressed with her, or infuriated. Scratch that, he was sure he was both. She outsmarted him. She was willing to make an ultimate sacrifice for the sake of ending the fight. In that very moment, in her determined expression, he saw a reflection of another headstrong woman he knew. It was as if Emilie’s spirit stood before him. 

“So? How will it be?” she asked impatiently.

“Follow me.” He simply motioned for her and started walking. 

Soon, the group entered a large chamber, lit by several lights. In the center of a platform in the far end stood a glass coffin. Even from the distance, Marinette easily saw there was a woman inside. She was quick to pass Hawkmoth and get there, even as he was trying to grab her.

When the akuma and Gabriel arrived, they watched as Marinette was carefully pacing around the coffin and muttering under her breath. 

“She overused the damaged miraculous.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawkmoth answered anyway.

“Yes. Only the wish can bring her back.”

“You’re one of the biggest idiots in this whole city!” The girl screamed. “She is not dead, you moron. There are literally five different ways listed in the book which, may I remind you, you possess!” She continued to yell at him. “Hell! You could akumatize someone and give him healing power. You know… use the butterfly miraculous like it was meant to be used!” She scolded. “But nooo! You’ve got to be an idiot and immediately go for the most dangerous, imprecise, reckless, chaotic, risky solution there was! I’m sure she would’ve been ashamed.” 

Gabriel was at a loss for words. Was it really that easy? It couldn’t have been. He checked several times. He would’ve known. The akuma left Nathalie, who collapsed onto the ground. Some tear stains were now visible on her face. “I… I was just… I did what she told me. Only the wish can bring back the dead.” He stammered. 

“She. Is. Not. Dead.” Marinette made sure to punctuate each word. “She is in a coma. She is alive you moron. Tikki! Spots off!” The flash of light signaled the end of her transformation. “Be silent, little one.” She said in a caring voice. She couldn’t bring herself to take her anger on Kwami, but she couldn’t doubt now. “Akumatize me. Give me the power to heal her.”

The corruption left the akuma that was floating in the air, only for Hawkmoth to get his hands around the white butterfly and pour a new dose of power into it. It flew the short distance between them and sunk into Marinette’s purse. She smirked as the corrupted energy passed through her, turning her into an akuma. That is until she could see how she looked. 

“I’m not sure how you can call yourself a designer and yet dress me in this!” she complained. Her skin was now deep red, the color of blood, and her clothes turned into a white nurse uniform. Still, she walked to the coffin and easily opened the top. From her purse (now medic’s bag) she pulled a needle and injected the content into Emilie.

When the beautiful woman started to move, letting out an exhausted groan, Marinette sighed in relief. 

“Wha… what’s going on… the last thing I… Gabriel!” She bolted upright and immediately moaned in pain. Her hand instinctively flew to her back. “Gabriel Agreste! Did you keep me in this coffin for a whole week!?” She yelled at her husband. “And who’re those two?” She pointed at Marinette, who was smiling next to her, and Nathalie, still exhausted on the floor. “You were supposed to only reveal this to Adrien if anything happened to me. There was no talk about your assistant and… um, who’re you?” The woman turned to the akuma, who sighed and tore a strap of her bag. The butterfly left the item and Marinette reverted back to her normal form. 

“I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m… was… used to be Ladybug.” 

“But you’re just a kid. And why was Ladybug active… Gabriel!” She roared and her husband took a step back. 

Marinette was… surprised. She didn’t expect Emilie to be like that. From what Adrien told her, she was supposed to be the kindest, nicest person in the world. Then again, he might’ve been looking at it through tinted glasses.

“Yup.” The bluenette couldn’t stop herself from commenting. “He decided that the best way to wake you up was to get the miraculi of Ladybug and Black Cat.”

“You nincompoop. That plan was only for when I was dead.” She glared heatedly at her husband and Marinette couldn’t help but be a bit smug. “And you couldn’t get the items from a kid? How many other heroes are there?” 

“Only Chat Noir. He’s my age. And I sometimes call in some help from others.” Marinette supplied quickly. She was having entirely too much fun from watching Emilie tear Hawkmoth a new one. 

“Two kids! You couldn’t defeat two kids! I leave for just one second and you start getting your rear kicked by kids!”

“He also neglected Adrien for the last two years.” Marinette decided to have as much fun as she could while it lasted.

“Gabriel Agreste. You’re officially grounded until I sort this mess. Now take your secretary and leave. I will sort the mess with you later,” she ordered. Her husband could only nod and leave as quickly as possible. 

Marinette was now holding her sides laughing. ”That was amazing. Merci Madame Agreste. I didn’t think I would get to laugh tonight… But this was too good.” 

“Oh sunshine, don’t worry. I will get him in line for you. Whoever decided to let kids fight for them was clearly sick or senile.” 

“Master Fu was… he made some mistakes. I… maybe if I wasn’t so young…”

“It’s not your fault. Whatever you blame yourself for. You shouldn’t have been responsible for Paris. Or whatever else my husband did. I think some time on the couch will do him great.” The woman got up and walked over to pull Marinette into a hug. She then led the girl back to the (now half-open) coffin and seated them both on the edge. “Why don’t you tell me what ails you? I’m sure I can help.” 

For a moment, Marinette looked the woman in the eyes. Then, she started talking. She told her everything.

About a class full of idiots who believed every lie and actively fought against her.

About Lila, who manipulated everyone and did everything to turn her life into a personal version of hell. 

About the teachers, who preferred to let her be walked on then do their jobs.

About her partner, the dorky cat who couldn’t take life seriously and at times was immature. She came to like his antics, but he infuriated her as much as he kept her sane. 

About the so-called heroes, who came into the city and ruined her life.

About the destroyed bakery. The four bodies inside.

“It was her birthday. Today my nonna had her sixtieth birthday. We were celebrating when the Akuma happened. Except the Justice League came. Funny thing. The cure can return anyone killed by magic. It can’t return those killed by aliens tossing cars around.” 

“Do you have any other family?” Emilie asked, worried about the girl. She walked through so much pain in her short life. 

“My uncle… but he lives in Shanghai now. Papa was the only child and Maman moved here from Asia… I’m not sure what will happen next.” The girl revealed. 

“Next? Next, you will come live with us. No strings attached. I have no need for your earrings or other miraculous and I can keep my husband in check. I owe you that much.”

“I… you don’t owe me anything, Madame.” The girl quickly protested. “You’re not responsible for what happened. I don’t blame your family. Those were the American heroes who killed my parents. They were the ones that destroyed half the city. They are the ones to blame,” Marinette informed the woman in a solemn tone. 

“And that’s why I want you to stay with me. With us. I can protect you. Teach you. You can have your vengeance on those who wronged you. I can make you a queen. They will regret the day they wronged you.”

“I… I accept.” Marinette bowed her head.

[dongofthewolf]

Slowly Learning That Life Is Okay

Abby Anderson x Fem!Blind!Reader

Sweet sweet fluff about fear of intimacy where Abby rescues the reader and they unexpectedly become closer.

Requested by @rianncreates

Warnings: swearing, fluff, minor violence(?), cute gay shit :)

A/N: I am not visually impaired but I really tried my best to write a character whose lack of sight doesn't define them. I wanted to portray how our differences don't define us; we're all connected in a way (as cheesy as it may sound), and it makes me sad to see small things like not being able to hear/see divide us.

Ever since you were a kid, people have always had a hard time looking you in the eyes. Due to your condition, they appeared hazy and almost grey; something that made a lot of people uncomfortable. In fact, most people don’t even know it, but you can actually tell when someone is turning away so they don’t have to face you. There’s a certain recognizable sound when someone purposely looks away to avoid affording you the basic decency of eye contact, and it’s dehumanizing as fuck. It didn’t matter that you weren’t completely blind, it was enough that you were still alienated from the rest of the world. They didn’t see you as a person, to them you were your blindness–it defined you. It’s the reason people were afraid to interact with you, why kids were always so cruel to you, and why you always kept people at an arm's-length. That is, until you met Abby.

Abby was unlike anyone you had ever met; she was the first person who saw you—truly saw you. While most people knew her to be Isaac’s top scar killer, you knew her as the girl who tended to your wounds after she found you patrolling the city. She was the smell of pine and fresh rain that filled your senses, and her voice was like a soothing ailment when she calmly reassured you that everything would be fine. 

In the WLF infirmary, Abby never left your side. It’s not like your injuries were super severe or anything, but she stayed with you regardless. She wrapped your arms with fresh bandages when they needed changing, and got you desserts from the cafeteria using her connections to Isaac. After a few days, you quickly learned that the two of you had a lot in common and soon she was visiting you almost every day.

It’d been a month now and you’ve officially made the WLF stadium your new home. You and Abby were sitting in your room while she read to you with that same lovely voice. It had become a habit now; Abby had read to you in the infirmary, and ever since then she's been coming over so she can share all her favourite books with you. She was just starting a new chapter when you interrupted her. “Abby?”

Abby instantly stopped reading, and you could feel the bed shift as she sat up to face you. “What’s up?” 

“Can I ask you something?” You were nervous. Although she had been nothing but kind to you, you didn’t want to ruin what happened to be the closest friendship you’ve had in a really long time. 

You could hear her smiling as she answered. “Anything.”

You hesitated; you’d never normally do this with anyone else, but you trusted Abby. As you sat there contemplating your next words, Abby gently took your hand before continuing with that same reassuring tone she had used when you guys first met. “Hey, you know you can always talk to me right?”

Her hands were so warm. It was such a small detail that most people probably wouldn’t notice, but for some reason it was all you could think about in that moment. They were rough and calloused from years of combat but whenever she touched you, it was delicate and light. It was as if she was afraid that she would hurt you, even though you knew she never would. God, why can’t you think straight while she’s holding your hand like that? Fuck, it shouldn’t be that hard.

You struggled to get the words out, like something in your chest was weighing you down. “I just… I don't want things to change.”

“Hey, nothing you say could ever push me away. Okay?” Abby was softly caressing the top of your hand with hers as she set the book aside.

“I was wondering if I could…” Fuck, how were you supposed to say this? You paused trying to decide how to word it, but it still came out wrong. “feel your face?” 

Abby didn’t respond, and if she hadn’t been holding your hand then, you would’ve thought she had left. After waiting for what felt like a whole five minutes (but was probably closer to thirty seconds) you were starting to get nervous. “Abby? You still there?”

Your voice must have snapped her out of it because she responded immediately. “Yeah, sorry I just… I was expecting something a lot worse. Like you murdered some kittens or something.” 

You giggled at the sincerity in her voice, relief flooding through you. “Kittens? God Abby who the fuck do you think I am?”

“I don’t know! I thought you were admitting some deep dark secret.” Abby nervously laughed along with you, her hand never leaving yours. 

As you both settled down, Abby shakily brought your hand to her cheek, silently signalling to you that it was okay. You hesitantly caressed it, softly stroking the lines of her cheekbones with a smile on your face. Your hand then slowly moved up towards her forehead, your fingers tracing the scar above her eyebrow. The scar was thin like from a blade or a scrap piece of metal, and you couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten the scar–wondered how many scars she had gotten after years of fighting in that senseless war. 

You’d never say it out loud because the WLF had saved your life, but the war with the Seraphites was unnecessary and quite frankly, useless. All of the so-called “sacrifices” being made for the sake of some fucking land was just stupid and greedy. 

You weren’t really a religious person–especially considering the whirlwind of shit you’ve been through–but if this whole virus was a result of some higher being thrusting humans into extinction? You couldn’t blame them. All these survivors were granted a second chance to better themselves, thousands of people by some miracle had survived the outbreak, only for them to revert back to the same tired, old ideology of war and power. You supposed that even after all these years, humans never really change.

Your fingers moved slowly back down, passing the bridge of her nose and her Cupid’s bow before reaching her lips. They were soft and parted slightly when you reached for them, but she still didn’t move.

Abby stayed incredibly still as you took your time feeling her face, exploring every crevice—every detail of her subtle features. You could feel a stray strand of hair hanging next to her face, so you lightly brushed it behind her ear before bringing your hands back down to rest on your lap. But before you could fully pull away, your hand brushed up against something rigid and stiff. It took you a moment before you realized that you were touching her huge bicep, and you were astonished at her strength. It also took you a minute before you realized that you were literally feeling up her muscles, causing a sudden heat to rush towards your cheeks as you quickly retrieved your hands. 

“Oh um… sorry I didn’t mean to- I mean I didn’t realize-” You tried to get the words out but you couldn’t. “Fuck this is awkward.”

Abby chuckled watching you get all flustered from touching her arms, and then out of nowhere it slipped out. “God you’re adorable.”

Then there was a pause, you weren’t sure you had heard her correctly but from the way her laughing suddenly came to a halt, you were sure she had just said what you thought she did.

“Uh, shit. I should… I should go.” Abby began standing up but before she could, you reached out and grabbed her arm. You pulled her towards you again, tracing your hand back towards her cheek as you gently cupped the side of her face with your palm.

“Don’t go.” Abby’s cheeks grew warm under your touch. You wanted more than anything to tell her how you feel–how you’ve felt for her since the moment you two had first met. 

After spending so much of your life consumed by this irrational fear of abandonment and intimacy, you had let someone in. You lowered the barrier that you had spent so long building because of her. And of course it was easy to assume that you liked Abby just because she was one of the only people you hung out with, but it wasn’t like that. Abby wasn’t like the rest of your friends or family because she was never overbearing; most people were quick to treat you like a child or some helpless creature, but she never did. She gave you space when you needed it, but she also never made you feel lonely. Her presence was calming and comforting. Abby gave so much and expected nothing in return.

The possibility that your feelings for her were reciprocated made your heart flutter, but it was also really scary. This was entirely new territory; relationships were never a priority for you by any means, especially since survival has always been your prime concern. But now that you’ve found asylum here with the WLF—with Abby, you were safe. You were free to live, free to enjoy the prospect of a somewhat normal life, and you better believe you were going to take full advantage of this newfound normalcy.

You leaned in towards Abby, your foreheads touching and your lips just millimeters apart. As you placed both of your hands on her cheeks, Abby stayed impossibly still as her nose softly grazed yours. Abby’s hands landed on top of yours as she held them against her face, securing them there like she was afraid you would leave. 

Then–as if it wasn’t the most terrifying thing ever–you kissed her. It was delicate and gentle, and you nearly cried because of how perfect it was. And although you had just felt her lips with your fingers, nothing compared to how they felt against yours. They were so soft you wanted to melt into them, and in that moment you nearly did. Your body involuntarily leaned into her, your arms falling against her broad shoulders in an effort to support yourself, before slowly moving to wrap around the back of her neck, pulling her even closer. All that built up tension from weeks of spending nearly every day together suddenly dissipated the moment you closed that gap, and those tears that had previously threatened to fall suddenly did. Small teardrops fell from both your eyes and wet your cheeks, causing Abby to pull back slightly as she wiped them with the pads of her thumbs. “What’s wrong?”

You gave her a small smile as you chuckled slightly. “Nothing, I just… I really like you Abby.”

As soon as the words fell out, Abby laughed softly before embracing you for a kiss once again. When the two of you finally pulled apart Abby spoke again with that same heavenly voice of hers. “I really like you too Y/N”

[quillsareswords]

Could you do something with Damian and a really cuddly, clingy, touchy-feely reader? I feel like his brothers would be v confused about the whole situation bc Damian's just chillin and always seems neutral to what's happening while reader is just like, koala bear hugging him and stuff all the time.

Firstly. I love this concept with every fiber of my being because, oh good god, it's me. Thank you so much for bringing this to inbox, because I've been lacking on inspiration lately, and this is just what I need right now. Thanks doll!!

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

Tim stops dead in his tracks, cereal bowl nearly slipping from his hand as he halts in the doorway to the huge living room. He pauses, before cautiously asking, "What is this? What am I looking at?"

Damian's arm twitches against your back, the only give away that he's been caught off guard. You seem just as relaxed, sprawled on top of him like you've been there your whole life.

You don't even look at him, eyes still glued to the phone screen shining up at you from the floor, which you're facing with your face pressed against Damian's shoulder. "You've known me for five years and you still haven't learned my name? Rude."

He blinks. "Sure, sure. Right. Because it's absolutely normal for anyone to successfully get within a foot of Damian and not get knocked out."

You snort, but it still isn't enough to pry your attention away from your phone. Damian either, as he reads a book over your shoulder, which is settled under his chin. He must be tired or in a terrifyingly good mood, if he hasn't shoved you off in hopes of hiding emotions from his family. That's what he usually does when he gets caught with you, anyway.

He's been tiptoeing around the subject of you for a solid year and half now. It wasn't exactly easy, seeing as you're also a family friend, what with being a vigilante and all. You're Damian's partner, have been for three years, and you're in the manor often enough that you have your own room, right next to Damian's.

Still, even with no clear answers from either of you, the whole family has suspected a relationship for a long time.

But Damian isn't very touch oriented. In fact, he's been known to go to nearly astonishing lengths to avoid being touched at all.

And now here he is, you laying on top of him, out in the open, absolutely unbothered by Tim catching it.

Tim decides quickly not to risk Damian's mood spoiling while he's around, so he backpedals and heads for his room.

• • •

Jason doesn't come to the manor often, but when he does, there's usually a decently concerning reason for it. This time, he's waiting out a possible kidnapping by one king pin or another. You haven't been paying as much attention as you probably should.

Now, he's trotting down the steps from Bruce's office to fix a suspicious rattling noise his motorcycle has been making for a shameful period of time.

However, he stops beside the super computer, looking a little aghast and far too dramatic for the sight.

Damian side-eyes him, still typing away, but his head doesn't move. It really can't, because you're resting your head on top of it.

You're resting your full weight on the back of the chair, which Jason now realizes isn't the tall backed chair that usual sits there, with your cheek buried in the soft looking bush that is Damian's hair. Your eyes are closed, and your arms and draped over his shoulders, hands laying on his chest.

Jason catches himself staring when Damian's side-eyeing turns into a curious glare. Tentatively, Jason points to you, and raises an eyebrow.

Lowly, Damian somewhat patiently answers, "She's half asleep."

Your eyebrows slant together. "Hmm?"

Jason's expression becomes more confused. "She sleeps standing up?"

"Apparently," Damian mumbles.

Jason, more than a little perturbed but Damian's oddly placid demeanor and your absurd sleeping habits, shuffles the rest if the way to his bike, grabbing the toolbox on his way.

• • •

Dick sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket—correction, three blankets, facing the rest of the living room, where Damian sits on one couch, and Duke occupies the other.

"No no, I'm not saying Bella wasn't smokin, I'm just saying that those facial expressions and life decisions were questionable enough to make a guy think twice," Dick tries to reason.

Duke makes a face. "Bro, are you kidding? If a chick stares at you from across a lunch room and you've never spoke to her, you don't even try."

Damian scoffs. Duke raises an eyebrow, and just when he's about to beg for the story of who tied him to a steel chair and forced him to watch Twilight, you shoulder the double door open.

Damian doesn't look up from his newest book, which could be deemed rude if you weren't so close and comfortable with one another. "Evening, Beloved, how was your drive?"

You say nothing. You drop your bag by his feet, crawl the rest of the way onto the couch, and collapse. Your head in on a pillow between Damian's thighs and the arm of the couch, the rest of you divided unevenly between his lap and the rest of the couch.

He glances away from the pages briefly. "Traffic?" His hand slips under your shirt to gently run blunt nails up and down your spine.

For a moment, you're quiet, and neither of the two older men know how to react.

Then, without warning, you wail into the pillow. "Who the everloving fuck drives a Winnebago through central Gotham at six o'clock going fourteen miles an hour?"

Duke barks a loud laugh, before he claps a hand over his mouth in fear of a punishment. But a man can only do so much, so he sits with his hand over his mouth, giggling like a fifteen year old listening to a dirty joke with his parents in the room.

Damian chuckles lightly, white teeth peeking through a little smile that he's trying to suppress, much for the same reason Duke is doing his best not to let you hear him laugh.

Dick is more focused on the two of you, and the fact that his baby brother has grown up and changed for the better so much—

• • •

Cassandra climbs the stairs with some difficulty, thanks to two new sets of stitches and a few too many fresh bruises.

It's nothing a few days of relaxation won't fix. It was worth it, to see Poison Ivy put back behind bars—even if it did take four of you.

Shortly after arriving back, you and Damian had disappeared up to his room, after you'd both been checked over by Alfred. Aside from some intense bruising and a fee cuts and scrapes, you'd both been spared.

She knocks on his door a few times. With no answer, she loudly turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly, giving you enough time to correct her if need be. She knows at least one of you are in here, because the light is on. "Alfred sent me to tell you that there's dinner, if you want–"

She stops. You are, in fact, both in the room. However, neither of you are conscious.

Damian is sprawled haphazardly across his bed, face half squished into a pillow.

You're flopped across his back, horizontal across his bed, likely also with a pillow, but she can't see your face to be sure.

For a moment that feels a little intrusive, she stares, eyes wide. Not because he's in only boxers and you're in shorts and a sports bra (neither are necessarily a new sight, with one makeshift locker room in the Cave and a city with way too many privacy-surpassing emergencies), but because she's never witnessed Damian allowing another person to be so close to him while asleep.

Even on week long stakeouts that confine them to one room, he claims one corner for himself and doesn't tolerate that invisible boundary to be broken, especially when he's asleep.

She wouldn't even be so surprised if you were passed out in his reading chair, or even on a pile of blankets in the floor, or hell, even if you were on opposite sides of the bed. But you're literally as close to him as you could possibly be. And he's still sound asleep.

She closes the door and backs away slowly, a little smile on her face, even though she was too tired to laugh at the joke Bruce tried to crack a few minutes ago.

• • •

Bruce sits, almost impatiently, on a stone bench by the fountain the middle of Gotham City Gardens. The whole family had come here for the day, on invitation of the organization's owners. Of course, not everyone was officially recognized as family by anyone outside the Manor, so there were quite a few plus ones—you being one of them.

Of course you were. You're always invited. Over the years, it's become a running joke. A trip to the grocery store? (Y/N) must be invited. Walking from the W.I. building to an ice cream parlor and back? I bet (Y/N) is invited. At one point, Damian became so simultaneously annoyed and amused by it that for a week, you really did join him on every single outing. No one knows how exactly you made it across Gotham in six minutes flat to help him pick up cereal but by golly you managed it.

Bruce is currently waiting on you and Damian, who swore to meet him here for a few pictures (at Alfred's request). The pair of you had gone off on your own after about an hour of meandering around with his family, and no one has heard from either of you since. He would be worried, but you were both too excited about this to get into any trouble that would risk being sent home early.

Your laughter finds him before you do. It comes from around a corner of tall hedges, and shortly after, so do you.

You're smiling ear to ear, giggling like a school girl, elbows balanced on Damian's shoulders, about as precariously as you are on his back. That is to say, quite stable. Damian is grinning as well, his arms linked around you're knees at his sides to keep you as stable as you are. You've got an ice cream cone in each hand, one obviously having had more attention than the other.

Bruce's heart swells in his chest at the absolute joy on his son's face.

Damian stops not too far, shifting your weight to free one hand. You help, carefully resituating yourself to hold yourself up easily. You hand him the neglected ice cream, resting your now free hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Father," Damian sounds a little winded, and Bruce wonders if the running he heard earlier had been you two. "Somebody found an ice cream bar and insisted we stop before meeting you." He doesn't sound apologetic in the least.

"Hey!" You laugh, flicking the back of his ear as payback.

As payback for payback, he takes the edge of his cone between his teeth, and uses his free hand to give the back of your knee a quick pinch, before he occupies his hand again to tilt the odds in his favor.

You squeal and jerk. "Damian! You're gonna make me fall, and if I go down, you're coming with me!"

Bruce laughs loudly.

• • •

Alfred is on his way to the library to finish the afternoon chores. All he needs to do is straighten up in there, and he can call it an evening. Just in time, too, as one of the local channels is running a Downton Abbey marathon tonight that he doesn't particularly want to miss.

He pushes open the doors to get a little extra fresh air, but pauses just inside the doorway.

Damian is stretched out in one of the plush leather chairs, his long legs propped up by his ankles on the coffee table, head resting limply on the back of the chair. You're curled up in his lap, head on his shoulder, legs folded up on either side of his thighs, arms wound around his back. His hands are folded together on your back. You're both fast asleep.

The elder man is suddenly flooded with memories of the boy's first few months in this manor. In this room, even. He was politely feral, as Bruce had once put it. He was so uncomfortable all the time, though he fought not to show it. It was so new to him, to be openly cared for the way his family tried to care for him. Most people he met back then treated him as the cold, rude, trained assassin that he presented himself as.

So many overlooked the terrified ten year old boy that shook beneath the armor and the weight of the mantels he was expected to take up in so few years.

Of course Alfred had been paying attention to him all this time, all the growing he's done and the man he's becoming. He's always been proud.

But it's here, in this exact moment, that Alfred really takes in how different he is now, compared to then.

Not only did he find the strength and the trust to forge a close bond with you, one that would arguably outlast just about anything it was forced to endure, but he'd fostered such a sweet affection for you. He's found the space within himself to make room for a great love for you, and his family, and his friends.

And you're so good for him. You remind him of the things he could be, if he wanted, and not of what he should be or could have been. You provide him a sense of normalcy when he needs it, and battle ready companion when he needs that.

You look past the blazing armor of controlled aggression and lessons learned to reach the beautiful soul he is. And most importantly, you love him for all of it. You manage to dig so far beyond what he's been taught and the walls he's put up, that you look at what was meant to be the perfect soldier and you see a pillow to sleep on. You trust him with everything, including your vulnerability, just as he trusts you.

Alfred marks the page of the open book on the floor, closes it, and leaves it in the table for you later. He leaves as quietly as he came, in hopes of leaving the two of you undisturbed.

[pyrrhiccomedy]

the People have requested my book report on The Library at Mt. Char so this is now a Mt Char book club.

if you have not read The Library at Mt Char there is no reason to keep reading. I hope you're having a nice day, stay safe and don't do drugs.

So Mt Char has a couple of problems, but in my opinion only one grave problem.

Not a grave problem:

Erwin doesn't need to be in this book. An astonishing amount of ink is spilled on giving us Erwin's POV and I am at a loss in regards to what that's supposed to bring to the story. I mean, it's kind of neat to see Carolyn's "trick shot" from the POV of one of the people being manipulated, but that perspective could have just been provided by Steve. Everything Erwin does of any plot significance could have been done by Steve, a character who actually matters.

Please note that I don't hate Erwin, he's perfectly fine as characters go, he just contributes nothing, and it is baffling that he and Carolyn get the last scene in the book (instead of just ending on her reunion with Michael, a scene that was emotionally affecting and felt like a natural end point to her story). We are taking no questions, Erwin needed to be cut.

Also not a grave problem in my opinion, but I am sure others feel differently and I understand why they would:

Yo, the scope of what the catalogs cover is mad vague. I mean, I get that that's the point: when you have a character whose magic powers are "anything that has to do with death or murder," that's a broad license, and I'm fine with that. These are supposed to be demi-gods. I don't require a rigorously explicated magic system.

But then like...why can't Jennifer, the healer, also heal minds? That seems weird. Or like, it's implied that she kinda can, maybe, but none of the kids talk about their therapy sessions with Jennifer: they explicitly call out that she heals their bodies. But then she talks about how Margaret and David are sick (meaning mentally) in a way she can "no longer help?" Aren't you supposed to be the God Of Healing? Why can't you help anymore? And were you actually trying to help them before - or anyone else? That's never shown. You could have just said you only healed bodies, not minds, but then it's repeatedly implied that she CAN diagnose mental and emotional problems (and therefore should probably be able to do something about them).

So that's weird.

Or like, why is there Alicia, who "sees the future," and Rachel, who "sees possible futures?" That, uh, just sounds like the author was running out of ideas. Also, if Alicia could see the future, she probably shouldn't have been in that house when the SWAT team hit, yeah?

Stuff like that. The magic the kids can do is very "they have the powers the author needs them to have when the author needs them to have them, and they can't do anything the author would find inconvenient for them to do" but that's not a deal breaker for me because overall the vibe being put off by their various magical specialties works for me. Still, there were ways of getting us where we needed to go without begging quite so many questions.

Also not a grave problem, although more of a problem than the other stuff:

You know that anime trope where a super-genius character is having an entire conversation with another super-genius character through a screen, and it's revealed that the whole conversation was a distraction and pre-recorded so that Character 2 could Complete His Scheme against Character 1? And used his super-genius brain to predict every single thing Character 1 would say? And your suspension of disbelief staggers bloodied into the alleyway and collapses because you're really trying to hang in there, Code Geass, but that's fucking stupid, you're asking for me to believe that this character's intelligence is flat-out supernatural now and you've given me no reason why that should be?

That's how I feel about Carolyn, by the time she takes over the Library. Like, okay. The kids canonically have not even been at the Library long enough for any of them to master their catalogues except for Jennifer. None of them but Jennifer are masters of even their own subject.

Carolyn has been studying in secret from multiple catalogues - which is cool! I like how she slowly reveals over the course of the latter half of the book that she has powers from other people's specialties.

...But like...

She seems close to mastering her own catalogue. She is a competent healer and can raise the dead (Jennifer's catalogue). She can block attempts to read her mind, beats David in a fight, and understands how to kill Father (David's catalogue). She speaks lion and controls the dogs that surround the Library (Michael's catalogue). She could make the mathy "Denial That Rends" thing that kicks off the whole plot, and she can make a new sun and correct orbital rotations around it (Peter's catalogue). She can predict the future with such specificity that she knows how to cause Steve to drop a clip of bullets while he's being attacked by dogs exactly where Erwin will need to pick it up later (Rachel's catalogue, also this one is stupid, she could have just given Erwin an extra clip or something, but whatever).

That's half the catalogues. Carolyn doesn't seem prodigiously more intelligent than the other kids. She's smart, sure, but they're all weird demi-gods with a genius for their specialties. The rest of them haven't even mastered their own catalogue, and I'm supposed to swallow that Carolyn has attained 'competent or better' status in six? When she has to research five of them in secret? Without falling behind in her own studies?

It would be fine if they had all been masters of their own catalogues for years and years; that would mean they would begin to stagnate, while Carolyn kept learning. But that's not the case. By the end I wasn't impressed anymore at Carolyn's resourcefulness, it just felt like she could do anything and everything, shh, don't ask questions, she's the Chosen One so she just can.

The reason this isn't a grave problem to me is because Carolyn's journey isn't about becoming more powerful: it's about her emotional journey, which isn't affected by her being stupidly OP for no reason by the end of the book. She still sucked at the things that mattered, like "feelings" and "relationships" and "not being a shitty person." But I do think it hurt the story. I should be cheering on my protagonist when her wild schemes come together, not rolling my eyes.

Anyway. All that was the aperitif. Let's talk about

THE GRAVE AND GLARING PROBLEM AT THE CENTER OF MT CHAR.

So everything that happens in the book stems from Carolyn's thoroughly justified hatred of Father (and David, but David was made that way by Father). Father treated her, and all of the other kids, with extravagant cruelty. If you haven't read the book in a while, here's a sample of the kinds of things Father did to the kids, or, if David did them, that Father did nothing to prevent:

- Cooked David alive over 2 full days in a giant bronze bull (and made the rest of the kids bring the fuel)

- Put Michael's eyes out with a hot poker every night for 2 weeks (and made the rest of the kids watch)

- Murdered Margaret every few days, often in drawn-out and painful ways

- Made Rachel repeatedly give birth, raise the babies to about 9 months, then murder them with her own hands

- Allowed David to rape all 11 of the other kids (except Jennifer, probably because she was the healer and he wanted to stay on her good side)

- Allowed David to crucify, brutalize and rape Carolyn and Peter

- Gave Carolyn a loving new family for a year when she was nine years old (those two deer), then had David murder them in front of her and blame it on her for not remembering her homework well enough, then served the two deer at a feast to 'celebrate' her returning to the family

- Whippings, skinnings, and bone-breakings as standard disciplinary actions

Whoo-ee! Okay! We are talking about mythological cruelty. I am fine with this! The story takes place on a mythological scale. As outlandish as all of that is, the cruelty feels proportionate in a story about killing and replacing god. Father is cruel, indifferent, controlling, and alien. I have no questions, Carolyn please proceed with your revenge. We seemed on track for a tale in which Carolyn defeats Father, but in doing so she runs the risk of becoming him. Will she step back from the brink and retain her humanity after all of the trauma and brutality she's endured? Let's find out!

And then

and then.

Oh boy.

And then.

...It turns out, Father is a good guy after all.

And let me be clear: THIS IS NOT, IN AND OF ITSELF, A PROBLEM.

By the time you learn that Father is actually benevolent, and loved those kids, and cares about being a responsible steward to the world, and tried to leave the universe a better place than he found it, and genuinely regretted the suffering he inflicted on them when they were growing up, it feels kind of...natural? Like, I was surprised, but also not, because there were 90 pages of book left and Carolyn had already become god. This seemed like a thematically meaningful place to take the rest of the story.

It turns out Father was training Carolyn to replace him the entire time. He had to make her hate David because it was important that she "defeat a monster" on her path to becoming god. (It's not explained why she had to defeat a monster, but sure, okay; it's the kind of mythic feat that fits with the story we're in.)

Why did he choose Carolyn to be his successor? Well, originally he chose David, but David wasn't strong enough: every time Carolyn was the monster in David's story, she defeated him, and went on to rule the universe as an unspeakable tyrant. Since Carolyn always won, Father swapped their roles. He knew he had made the right choice when he put David into the bronze bull, and heard David begging for mercy: because when Carolyn had been the fated monster, she had never begged.

...Okay, so...hang on.

Hang on.

The only rule that we've established on "how to become god" is "you have to defeat a monster," right? I'll even grant you for free that it has to be a monster who is personally meaningful to you, although that part is never stated. Overcoming a great evil which has cast you down and abused you many times before, sure, okay.

...Why the FUCK did all that other awful shit have to happen??

I did not have this question when Father was just evil! That was a good enough explanation! But now that he's not evil, you HAVE TO EXPLAIN why he treated all of the kids so brutally!

Like dude you're GOD. If you need a monster for Carolyn, I'm sure you can make that happen without TORTURING CHILDREN FOR DECADES.

There didn't even need to be any other children! You could have two kids: the languages-kid, who is the chosen one (the chosen one has to be the languages-kid so they can read the Onyx Codex or whatever it was called at the end, the one written by Original God), and the war-and-murder kid, who is the monster. They could have just been forbidden to read the other codices, if it's important to you that your chosen one still prove her resourcefulness or whatever.

Why include all of the other kids??? It wasn't to give your chosen one a sense of family: Carolyn didn't feel close to any of them except for Michael (who I liked, but whose contribution to the plot was negligible).

Or keep the kids! But then why make them, and Carolyn, hate you?? You could just say, "Hey Carolyn, I am raising you to be my successor, you have to figure it out yourself because part of proving your worthiness is this kind of abstract, big-picture thinking, but I love you and whatever you end up deciding to do, just believe in yourself." And meanwhile you're off torturing the fated monster in order to get him piping hot and ready to be served.

Was the idea that Carolyn had to endure so much horror in order to prove she was 'tough enough' to be god?? Because that's not how trauma works! Kids who have been brutally traumatized are usually not made tougher by the experience! A fact that even the book understands, because 10 of the 12 kids are completely destroyed by their upbringing (I'm giving marginal exceptions to Michael and Carolyn herself).

And like

if Father doesn't have a good reason for having treated them so badly, the whole book falls apart!

Because getting revenge for that cruelty is Carolyn's whole motivation!

We are clearly supposed to feel okay about Father going to make a new universe at the end of the book: he's going with his cool tiger friend and that little girl with the connection to the elemental plane of joy who used to be the sun, he's happy to see Carolyn embracing compassion and kindness, which means he cares about compassion and kindness. He invented light and pleasure. Carolyn does nothing to try to stop him from going. He seems like a pretty good candidate for god. And I do feel okay with him leaving! I was convinced! Father is not evil after all!

But then you have! to explain! the abuse!!

It can be a throwaway line!! "Carolyn realized that everything she and her siblings went through had to happen the way it did, because [X]," embedded in the middle of a paragraph! That would have been enough! But I need an explanation!

"They were raised the way Father was raised himself" WHY? He was raised by the Emperor, an on-the-record awful fucking dude! Father proceeded to rule the universe in a far more benevolent way than the Emperor did, why would he feel like he had to raise his kids the way the Emperor raised him?

"Carolyn needed to overcome challenges on her path to godhood" how is TRAUMATIZING HER SO BADLY SHE ALMOST BECOMES INHUMAN - SOMETHING YOU WERE OSTENSIBLY TRYING TO PREVENT, see Steve being preserved as something that could give her hope, etc - A "CHALLENGE??"

Again, none of this is a problem if Father is just evil! YOU CHOSE to make him not evil! And that's fine!! I think it's a good choice for the story actually!! But then you have to, you have to, HAVE TO explain why all of that bad shit happened!

Because all of that bad shit is the reason Carolyn made there be a story.

And it turns out it doesn't make sense.

[jpegjade]

Waddle waddle - Spencer

i am back with another fic after like a week of not writing i think! idk i just know it’s been a little while. this one is just a cute fluffy story that doesn’t really go anywhere, it’s just for fun as a request. it’s so cute to write these adorable fluffy pieces!!

request: Spencer’s wife, who is 6 months pregnant, walks into the office because Spencer forgot his lunch. No one knew Spencer had a girlfriend, much less a wife that’s pregnant, because he wanted to keep his family safe. 

warnings: i’m too lazy to proof reid (get it?) so probably some mistakes. other than that, it’s fluff

_______________

There wasn’t a case today. Oddly enough, it was paperwork day. So all the case files everyone let pile up were sitting on their desks and ready to be assessed. 

Spencer was talking to Hotch in his office about something important so he wasn’t sitting at his desk. They had been sitting there talking for a while so he didn’t expect a visitor. Everyone else was going through their own cases, occasionally cracking jokes with each other and getting second opinions. 

Meanwhile, Garcia was on her way to her office when she noticed a very pregnant woman sitting in Spencer’s desk chair. To Penelope, she seemed very out of place and something felt like it was wrong. 

“Hi, can I help you?” Garcia asked you, distracting you from answering a text from your best friend. 

“No, that’s okay. I’m just waiting on SSA Dr. Reid.” You said, smiling. 

You took in the sight that was Penelope Garcia. She was wearing a black dress covered in small rainbows to match the rainbows on her headband and in her hair. 

“Oh. Well Reid should be down in a second. Is there anything I can get you while we wait?” Garcia asked, trying to restrain herself from asking about the baby. 

“No, that’s okay. I can just wait here.” You said, spinning side to side in the chair. “I’m not in a rush.” 

Garcia smiled at you one more time before quickly walking up to Morgan and Spencer, who were still discussing one of Morgan's profiles outside of Hotch’s office.

“Boy wonder, there’s a very pregnant lady at your desk and-” Garcia was cut off by Spencer running past her with a worried look on his face. 

You were just scrolling Facebook when Spencer came up to you, kneeling on one knee in front of you. 

“Is everything alright? Are you okay? How’s baby Reid?” Spencer said, frantically. 

“We’re fine, sweetie.” You chuckled. “You forgot your lunch so I decided to bring it to you. I’m sure no one suspects anything since I’m a visitor and I’m sure you guys get visitors all the time about cases from what you tell me.” 

“Oh.” Spencer put a hand on your thigh to balance himself as he exhaled. “I was so worried as soon as Garcia told me there was a pregnant lady at my desk.” 

“She’s more colorful than I expected her to be.” You said, smiling. 

Spencer smiled with you. He loved to see you happy and excited. There was such a length of time when you weren’t as happy and it killed him inside to know that there was nothing he could do while you suffered. But now, everything was balanced again. 

“They’re talking about us.” Spencer said, pointing in the direction of the team upstairs. 

“Should I go? You should look gravely serious like something is wrong.” You said, whispering. 

Garcia walked by again, staring at the two of you. 

“I was thinking… It’s been 5 years of us being married. I know I said I didn’t want anyone to know, because I want to keep you safe at all times, but maybe this is the opportunity to get a couple things off my chest with the team.” Spencer said, tentatively. 

“Oh.” You said, surprised. 

You heard all about the BAU team from stories and knew they were Spencer’s family outside of you and baby Reid but you never thought you would meet them. You didn’t think you’d do more than hear about them until Spencer retired. 

At the beginning of the relationship, you didn’t really understand. You thought he was just another guy who had commitment issues and didn’t want to show you off to anyone. He was already old school and wasn’t on any social media but he didn’t mind you posting the pictures you posted of him of your social media because he didn’t understand how it worked for a while. Once he learned, he still didn’t mind because it made you happy to show him off. You gave him a chance and you began to understand he just wanted to keep you safe. 

“Is that okay?” Spencer asked, reading your body language as it shifted from happy to uncomfortable. 

“Well, they don’t even know about us so I don’t want it to be uncomfortable.” You said. 

“It won’t be. There will be some shock but it won’t be bad.” Spencer smiled. “Come on, it’s my turn to show you off.” 

Spencer grabbed both of your hands and pulled you up, chuckling as you wobbled a little bit from the motion. You walked towards the team, holding Spencer’s hand, much to the surprise of the team. 

“Garcia, can you have everyone meet us in the bullpen?” Spencer said, noticing Garcia walk past the two of you for the third time. 

“You got it.” She said, quickly walking to find the rest of the team. 

“Let’s go to the room.” Spencer walked with you to the glass room, leading you to a chair in front of a screen mounted on the wall. 

You sat down with a small groan and Spencer smiled. He loved everything about being there for your pregnancy. 

Everyone entered the room with concerned and confused faces. Spencer stood there, smiling the whole time, which confused them even more. Spencer never presented cases and even moreso, there was a nervous woman sitting in front of them. Hotch was the last to enter the room, closing the door behind him. 

“I have something to confess.” Spencer started. “But before that, I want you to meet y/n.”

Everyone looked at each other oddly. They knew this wasn’t bad, otherwise Spencer would be solemn. He was beaming right now. 

“Reid, the confession.” Hotch said, straight faced as ever. 

“Yes.” Spencer said, trying to make his face serious but he failed because he was so excited. “I’ve been hiding something for the past 5 years and I feel like it’s  time to finally be honest.” 

Everyone was still confused. They kept looking between Spencer and you. 

“I want everyone to meet my wife, y/n and baby Reid.” Spencer said, putting his hand on your shoulder. 

You looked around the room at everyone’s faces. Silence and astonishment hung in the quiet air as everything sunk in for the team. 

“Boy wonder married a very beautiful lady and has a baby wonder on the way!” Garcia was the first to move. 

You stood up with another groan as she held her arms out for a hug. Slowly, it sank in for the rest of the team. They each moved from their chairs and walked over to hug Spencer and meet you for the first time. They welcomed the distraction from their paperwork to celebrate rather than look at more photos of murder. Soon, the team was welcoming you with open arms and smiling faces. 

“And here I was thinking that pretty boy would never find himself a pretty girl. He already had one!” Morgan said, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder with a smile.

“How far along are you?” JJ asked you as she, Emily, and Garcia formed a semi circle around you. 

“Six months.” You said, rubbing your very full belly. 

After cracking a few jokes and meeting everyone, no one could believe that Spencer managed to keep you away for so long. 

“So all that extra coffee and long nights were for this pretty lady here?” Morgan asked, gesturing towards you. 

“All for her.” Spencer said, beaming at you. 

“I think we can all appreciate the sentiment behind Reid’s decision but in the future, I would appreciate it if you would disclose sensitive information like this.” Hotch said, partially smiling. 

Everyone was so happy to See Spencer happy for once. The boy had gone through so much trouble and trauma that it was a nice change of pace. They could tell he really loved you and you were still head over heels for him. From your body language to the way that you always glanced over at him, it was something special to the two of you. 

“Oh goodness.” You said, clutching your stomach. 

Spencer immediately looked concerned as soon as he heard you groan, thinking something was wrong. 

“What’s happening?” Spencer said, quickly guiding you to a chair. 

You grabbed his arm and put it on your stomach where he could feel little movements. The tears immediately pooled in his eyes as he looked at you. He was never around when the baby started shifting and kicking at the same time every day so this was his first time feeling it. The tears rolled down his cheeks and everyone on the team was so in love. 

They were in love with you, in love with the way Spencer connected with you and in love with their boy wonder’s joy. The baby was kicking for a while so everyone got to feel it while all you felt was annoyed that it took so long for the baby to finish shifting. They must have sensed all the attention on the outside. 

“Okay baby, I need a nap.” You said once everyone slowly started leaving the room to get back to paperwork. 

You and Spencer were left in the room alone at this point. 

“I love you so much. Thank you for bringing me lunch.” He said, hand on the side of your face. 

He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you up. 

He told Hotch that he would be back in a bit but he was going to make sure you got home safe. That’s all he wanted, honestly. To protect you and at the end of the day, know you’re safe.

[sayonarasanity]

windmill

this fic is based on the song Windmill by Lor (and I highly recommend you to listen to it while reading especially or later for it is an incredible song)

AO3

summary: Here is the thing about Levi, his heart is a windmill in the middle of a wilderness where there was no wind to make it twirl, there was no wind to make it beat, pound and feel. Just feel.

  Until one day he got hit by a storm so wild, so rare and so incredibly terrifying but in the most beautiful and breath-taking way that it left him defenceless, vulnerable and weak. Like a tiny little flower which had long passed its day of blossoming in a fierce, winter dawn yet it stood erect with its fragile body, challenging against the merciless winds and the brutal frost.

He fell in love.

Windmill, are you still afraid of nothing?

Here is the thing about human life, it isn’t everlasting.

But what is? The world and each and everything within it are mundane. The day is doomed with the night, the sun is doomed with the moon, life is doomed with death, men are doomed with gravity. If something starts, then it is fated to end. It is a vicious circle, living that is. Waking up only to sleep again at night. Earning money only to spend it an hour later on a trouser which you thought was necessary but maybe it wasn’t. Cooking for hours and hours just so you can eat it in mere ten minutes because your body needs food so that you can keep on living, living and living.

Like a windmill, turning, turning and turning to the day when there is not even a breeze to swirl you and you are frozen, unspoken and rigid. 

And here is the thing about Levi, his heart is a windmill in the middle of a wilderness where there was no wind to make it twirl, there was no wind to make it beat, pound and feel. Just feel. 

Until one day he got hit by a storm so wild, so rare and so incredibly terrifying but in the most beautiful and breath-taking way that it left him defenceless, vulnerable and weak. Like a tiny little flower which had long passed its day of blossoming in a fierce, winter dawn yet it stood erect with its fragile body, challenging against the merciless winds and the brutal frost.

He fell in love.

And he fell in love not like jumping to death from a high up building, piercing through the clouds. It wasn’t as quick as that. He fell in love as if he had jumped into a river. It was slow and it hurt during the process of acknowledging it. Like accepting the fact that you were dying. Yet, instead of fighting against it, he welcomed the embrace of the water like he welcomed his mother’s hold. He let the arms wrap around him firmly. Then gradually the snow cold changed to sunny warm and the heavy water he thought that choked him turned into fresh, light air. 

And he fell in love rather quietly, but he fell in love deep. Then his heart started to move and twirl with the wind. 

She was the whirlwind, and he was the windmill. She was wild, sturdy and destructive. When he waited motionless and steady for merely a breeze to touch his vane, she had brought him a storm. 

And he got carried away with it. 

“Why do you keep looking at that thing?” She asks one day when they are in his apartment and he stands in front of one of his shelves in the living room. 

“It’s a windmill,” he explains, taking his eyes away from the scale model of it to focus them on her. 

“I know that,” she says. The shelf is not that high, so she puts her hands on the edge of it and rests her chin on top of her hands. “I wonder if there is a specific meaning behind it.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs and blows, making the vanes of the windmill move slightly. “Like a memory or… a specific reason that only you know, but you don’t want anybody else to learn.”

He raises a brow. “Then why do you ask?”

“I am a curious one, you know,” she smirks. The afternoon sun highlights her eyes and plays with the colour of her short hair which ends just above her shoulders. Some strands of her brown hair shine a sweet red. It is tied slovenly behind with a little hairpin. “And I would like to learn about my boyfriend’s secrets.” 

Right, boyfriend. Apparently, by some miracle or a dice tossed by luck or during a single second in which God or whoever had a tiny pity on him or because of a good-hearted, gentle and humane ancestor of his she had loved him back. 

“There is no secret,” he looks back at the little maquette. There is really no secret behind it. He had made it himself about four or five years ago when he was still at college, studying architecture. It was just that with time it had gained a place more special and a meaning more solid and a presence heavier.

“Is that so?” she asks, raising her brows and smiling lips pressed, playfully. “Rest assured, I won’t get offended if it’s a gift from one of your earlier lovers.” 

“I don’t have earlier lovers,” he deadpans, glaring at her sideways. 

“What is it then?” She straightens and comes closer, dropping her chin on his shoulder. He spares a few seconds just staring at her inquisitive eyes, demanding answers. His heart beats calm, and he hears its pounds and feels its vibrations. Because of her…

Is the wind still your friend?

“I liken it to my heart,” he looks away, already regretting the words that left his mouth out of command.

There is a pause in the air and faint pink on his cheeks. “Oh,” she reacts at last.  

He cannot move his eyes to her this time, as the silence stretches like a furry, tired cat and it nerves him with each tick-tock he hears from the watch that is hung on the wall. It lasts so long that in the end, he shifts uncomfortably, and Hanji lifts her chin from his shoulder, her eyes, clouded and thoughtful behind her glasses, are focused on the windmill. 

“I see,” she says.

The next day she brings a propeller, almost the same size as the windmill and places it next to it. When she turns it on, the vanes of the scale model twirl slowly. 

Then she looks at Levi who is standing still and astonished. The wind howls in his ears, and his heart beats unsteady because it faces the same storm again. Vicious, wild and free.

And she smiles because she knows.

- 

Levi doesn’t exactly know or rather remember but they end up drunk as hell on one Saturday night. 

They are outside, stumbling together towards the coast road where benches are lined up side by side. The air smells like early summer, with newly blossoming flowers and salt. There is a full moon above the sea, and it reflects argent on the surface of the dark, tranquil water. People walk by every now and then and there are stray dogs and cats around. 

When they somehow manage to sit down on an empty bench, Hanji slips and puts her head on his lap facing the pitch-black sky. She giggles to herself as she watches the stars there are barely visible because of the city lights. “So pretty.”

“Hmm,” he approves, observing her relaxed features, coloured cheeks and the goofy grin on her face. 

“Hey, Hanji,” he rolls out of her tongue. He doesn’t even think or plan on what to say. The following words just stumble their ways out of his mouth. “You are—did you know that I couldn’t drink tea without some honey in it?”

She moves her eyes to his and giggles again, covering her mouth with her hand. “Yes, I realized.”

“Oh,” he blinks as if it’s enough to scatter the clouds in his head. But— whatever. It doesn’t matter now. When he has the stars and moon above, the sea ahead and the girl he loves lying on his lap. “Don’t tell anyone. Nobody knows.”

She nods and draws an invisible zip on her mouth. 

“You know why?” He pushes her glasses up her nose. “The reason why I can’t… drink it without honey?”

Hanji lifts her shoulders up. “Because it tastes like piss without it?”

“Yes.” He is a little surprised at her guessing it right. 

“But Levi,” she laughs. “How do you know what piss tastes like?”

“I don’t—I just know.” He closes her mouth with his hand when her laughter keeps interrupting his sentences. “Shut up, idiot. You are ruining the moment.”

To his surprise, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and kisses his palm. He breathes and his stomach moves as if he was in a car and suddenly rode down a hill. She closes her eyes tightly once to indicate that she is listening. 

“Okay,” he goes on. “So, I can’t drink tea without honey because it tastes like piss.” He inhales, despite his drunken haze. He probably won’t even remember—or will he? How drunk is he anyway? Oh, well. Doesn’t matter. 

“That’s… how my life would be.” Miracles happen. While sober he would rather die than utter these words out loud. Maybe it’s a good thing that he is tanked up. Because she deserves to learn. “Without you.”

Her are eyes wide open, and Levi thinks there are galaxies hidden in them. He doesn’t know if there is anything that is infinite or a life that would last forever. Does  forever  even exist? Does the sky have an end or space a beginning? Humans are such incapable creatures. Cannot go back a day before or has no idea what will happen a second later. Hanji is a human being, flesh, bone, blood and a little too much brain, a little too many feelings, and sentiments. And she is not indefinite, at all. But somehow, she makes him feel like she is. 

“Levi,” she says, pulling his hand away from her mouth. Her eyes are still big behind her glasses and her cheeks are even redder than before. “Does this mean you’re going to call me honey from now on?”

And somehow, she manages to annoy him with every goddamn chance she gets.

He frowns and pushes her shoulder, almost making her fall down the bench. She is bursting with laughter in seconds and wraps her arms around his waist to secure herself and buries her face in his abdomen.

“I’m breaking up with you,” he announces coldly.

“You cannot break up with me. We are drunk.”

“I can. I just did.”

“No,” she groans and presses her face deeper in his stomach. 

“Let go, you ungrateful woman.”

“I caaan’t,” she whimpers. “Levi I—” The rest of her words are muffled; he cannot pick up their meaning and form a logical sentence in his mind. 

“What?” He asks, bending his head down.

“I said, I loppffhhhppp…” 

“I don’t understand what you are saying, Hanji.” He puts his hand on her shoulder to push her back. He is convinced at this point that she is not forming legible words, intentionally.

Unexpectedly, she withdraws and puts her hands on his shoulders to lift herself up. Then leans in to rest her head right beside his neck, nuzzling his skin. “We should go back,” she murmurs. “My place is closer.”  

Levi has no idea what time it is when they miraculously manage to enter her house after a taxi drive which felt like years. They take unsteady and clumsy steps inside the house until Levi finds a door of which room, he is unaware of. He only looks for something to lay down on, then catches the sight of a couch with the limited light provided through the half-drawn curtains. He throws himself to it, without even bothering to take his jacket off. He only kicks his shoes out of his feet and tosses until he finds a comfortable position to sleep. 

Hanji gets into the room a few seconds later. Levi watches her with half-lidded eyes and sees that she has a blanket in her hands. He frowns. How the hell had she had enough wits in her head to think of a blanket? But sleep weighs down on him incredibly heavy and so very unusually that he is almost scared to make it run away. He doesn’t have the strength the utter proper words at the moment anyway. 

Hanji lies down on his chest, covering them with the blanket. He automatically wraps his arms around her as she presses her forehead on his neck. She whines. “I hope I don’t throw up during the night.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he mutters. The clean freak inside of him is alarmed and screams with worry and dismay. He has no voice though. Just a wide mouth open in a silent yell and eyes filled with apprehension. 

“Would you break up with me if I did?” Hanji asks, and he feels her smile in her sleepy voice.

A moment of consideration. “No.”

She huffs out a drowsy chuckle. “Levi,” she murmurs and sighs. “I love, love, love you.”

Are you still afraid of something? Is it you who command?

“Idiot,” he says affectionately. The vanes of the windmill twirl ever so rapidly, and he considers how weird it is for his heart to beat, pound and feel for somebody else, for her only. “I love, love, love you too.”

-

The subway moves swift through the night and they are alone inside the compartment at this hour of the day. Levi watches their reflection on the window when Hanji takes a few photos with her phone. Grinning from ear to ear while Levi has a dead, worn-out look rooted deeply in his eyes. Travelling around the city to visit historical places, museums and parks within just one single day was the worst idea he had ever agreed to. He barely had the energy to merely sit.

“Gonna post these on Instagram,” she twitters happily, swinging left and right. 

“Don’t forget to announce my funeral,” Levi murmurs. 

Hanji snorts and locking her phone she puts it back in her pocket. Then she shifts and lies her head on his lap, staring up at him. 

“Why do you always lie on my lap in public places?” He asks, looking down at her.

She shrugs. “I enjoy the view above.”

“Tch.” One corner of his lips quivers and he moves his gaze up, looking at the window across from him again. This time he realizes that there is heavy rain outside, the raindrops tap furiously against the glass. “Shit,” he swears tiredly. “It’s raining.”

She follows his gaze. There isn’t much before they reach their stop. They are going to soak to their goddamn underwears. It had been sunny the whole day. Curse his luck.

“Alas!” she sighs, but she doesn’t sound much concerned. “Levi,” she says then, and when their gazes are locked again, she beams at him. “Would you kiss me under the rain?” 

He blinks down at her first, his heart stammering hard against his ribcage. His eyes examine her features carefully. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” she breaths. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Me neither.”

“How do you think it would be?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never done it before.”

Her smile widens to display her straight, white teeth. “We should try it.”

“Maybe.” He watches her lips. They are a sweet shade of pink and they look maddeningly soft. And he wants to taste them so very desperately. 

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to your chastity.”

His gaze travels up to her eyes. “I am sure.”

It is still pouring rain when they leave the subway. Hanji leads them through the streets, with her fingers around his. He licks the rain on his lips and squints to get a better view of her. He smells wet asphalt and trees and earth. The odour of the pine trees is evident despite the rain. The splashing drops bounce on the ground like they are dancing up and down, but they slow down until they stop under a streetlamp. 

“We should do it before the rain ends,” Hanji explains excitedly. As if what they were going to do wasn’t something basically everyone did but a life-changing, world-saving act of heroism. 

Her lips taste like rain and they are warm against his own. When her hands cling to the collars of his jacket, he cups her cheeks and tilts his head. Much to their unfortunate luck, the rain almost ceases, turns into a drizzle that barely had any function of wetting anything. She smiles, but Levi doesn’t pull back for a little longer. Holds her gently, keeps her close. 

Are you still afraid of the wind?

“Let’s dance,” she whispers against his lips. Her breath warm, her taste still on his tongue. 

“There is no song.” And the rain stopped already. 

She wraps an arm around his neck and holds one of his hands. He slides his other arm on her waist keeping up with her movements, while she   rests her forehead on his temple. “We don’t need a song.”

They start to move slowly, following the notes of a song that doesn’t exist. The wind is blowing still, quietly. If he listens carefully, he can hear the pitter patters of the water dropping down from the rooftops, and the soft sounds of the wheels of the cars rolling on the wet ground, a plane taking off, a man coming back from work, his rapid footsteps.  Tap, tap, tap.  And his heart, content like he is lying down on the grass, with breezes caressing his face, ruffling his hair ever so slightly. Watching how quietly the vanes turn on top of a hill.

Oh, windmill.

You’re a place where I can cry.

You’re a place where I can lie.

You’re a place where I can die. 

[blackswaneuroparedux]

To the summit in a skirt: Lucy Walker, pioneering Victorian Alpine mountaineer

The stories of women just weren’t written, so people tend to think they didn’t happen. There have always been women who have had the courage to step out into the unknown, and that’s what Lucy Walker did. The fortitude, the bravery, the commitment to the goal - women’s power was not invented yesterday.

- Rebecca A. Brown, Women on High: Pioneers of Mountaineering

Leaving behind a quiet life of croquet and cream teas, Lucy Walker became one of Britain’s finest early Alpine mountain climbers. Her climbing career spanned some 21 years, totalling 90 or so different summits, many being first ascents by a woman. Walker was the first woman to summit the Matterhorn and the Eiger - in a billowing Victorian dress no less - but she nearly vanished from history. 

Her story as a female pioneering mountaineer has always inspired me in my mountaineering sojourns to the Alps and other mountainous places. During my time in the army flying combat helicopters I enjoyed free weekends that did come my way to take off to the Alps with like minded friends and climb together. 

Mountains are so special; they have such magic to them. Maybe it is the fact they are can be so dangerous or maybe it is because they make us feel so small. Even if you don’t even climb them they call to you.You might find that all the problems in your life dissolve when you are around them or that life slows down a bit. All that I can tell you is that after spending time surrounded by them or climbing them you will feel the urge to come back.

Climbing a mountain is the furthest thing from easy. Long stretches of constant vertical climbing can be the most exhausting and hardest thing you do. Not only the physical difficulties but also the mental difficulties will also test you. Exposed and tricky climbing and route finding can get the best of your mental abilities.

The classic quote that tells you “not to look at the whole mountain take it one piece at a time” is something you will come to understand. You will learn to never give up; to know that the reward will be worth the work it takes.

Lucy Walker possessed great strength, endurance and determination and was an inspiration, especially for other women climbers. Indeed she paved the way for a wave of other - largely forgotten - women mountaineers to test the limits of their own mental and physical strength and courage against not only some of the hardest mountains to climb but also some the harshest social strictures against women seeking adventure.

Born in Liverpool in 1836, Lucy Walker was a British woman widely credited as being the first female alpine mountaineer. But this 19th century alpinist left behind no diaries, newspaper interviews, or personal accounts of any kind. And yet her presence haunts the annals of early mountaineering like a persistent ghost. Her serene, inscrutable face stares out from among men in Victorian-era expedition photos, and she lurks in a doorway in a renowned engraving of top 19th century alpinists - all male except for her. In journals, male climbers describe sightings of Walker briefly drying her sodden clothes at a hut or moving fast through deep snow and the astonishment of villagers after she became the first woman to climb the Eiger.

On Lucy Walker’s first trip to the Alps in 1858, she – unlike many people – was not content to remain in the valley but accompanied her brother and father into the high mountains. Whereas today climbers use cable cars or trains for the first part of an expedition, in the 19th century, several hours of steep walking was required. Lucy wanted to climb and at the sight of the Alps she began her life time obesession with mountain climbing.

Walker would go on to become one of the first and most prolific female mountaineers of the 19th century. Over the course of her 21-year career in the Alps, starting in 1858, Walker undertook 98 expeditions, including 28 successful attempts on 4,000-meter peaks. She holds first female ascents on 16 summits, including Monte Rosa, the Strahlhorn, and the Grand Combin, and a first ascent for either sex on the Balmhorn, which she completed in 1864.

But it was perhaps the Matterhorn ascent that gained her the most fame. The Matterhorn was regarded as the most desirable trophy by both men and women mountaineers. Lucy Walker was not the only woman whose dream it was to reach the peak. Various women attempted the ascent, most notably Meta Brevoort (1825-1876), a New Yorker who had settled in England. Just like Miss Walker, Meta was making a name for herself in the mountaineering world in the late 1860s. In 1869, Meta undertook her first attempt to climb the Matterhorn and, approaching from the Italian side, reached an altitude of just under 4,000 metres before being forced to turn back due to severe weather conditions.

Two years later, however, Meta Brevoort decided to give it another go, setting out for Zermatt with the aim of attempting another ascent. Lucy Walker was already in Zermatt though and, on receiving word of Ms Breevort’s intentions, quickly assembled her own group in order to begin her ascent of the Matterhorn, a feat that would make her the most famous female mountaineer of the era.

Long before dawn on July 21, 1871, Walker woke up in a hut on the northeastern flank of the legendary mountain, surrounded by men. She wore her favorite long dress and hobnail boots as she, her father, their guide, and several other climbers set off on snowy slopes in the flickering gloom of candle lanterns.

The mountaineers were probably nervously aware that six years earlier, four men from the first expedition to stand on top of this 14,692-foot spire on the Swiss-Italian border fell and perished on their descent. But Lucy Walker was determined that the American Meta Brevoort would not be the first woman to reach the summit. Walker fully intended to beat her to it.

As the sky brightened and smoke rose from breakfast fires in the village of Zermatt far below, the climbers ascended a skinny, ice-encrusted ridge with heart-palpitating exposure. One mindless step could have sent them plunging a thousand feet down to the valley below. But by midmorning, with willful determination and agreeable weather, they reached the summit. A tableau of rocky pinnacles, meadows, forests, streams, and villages unfurled in every direction - and Walker was the first woman ever to see it all from that iconic perch.

Meta Brevoort arrived just after Lucy‘s achievement to receive the shocking news that she had missed her chance to win the ultimate trophy. That very evening, the two women met each other in Zermatt. What Meta really felt on this occasion is anyone’s guess but contemporary sources state that “there were congratulations” – noblesse oblige.

This would be the only occasion that the two most prominent female Alpinists of the era would meet, somewhat unusual considering that they came from a similar background. Lucy Walker came from a wealthy merchant family in Liverpool and Meta Brevoort from a family of Dutch immigrants who made a fortune in New York as property owners.

Contrary to the strict notions of Victorian society, both women were outgoing and cheerful characters with a lively spirit. According to her obituary, Lucy was known for her “warmth, humour and buoyant personality” while, according to chronicler Cicely Williams, Meta stood out for her “astounding vitality and her exception gift of living life to the full”.

Walker’s other great accomplishment - amongst the many she already had achieved -  was the Eiger. Mountaineers down the ages to the present will say hands down that it is the most dangerous of all Alpine mountains.

The Nordwand, or north face, of this peak in the Bernese Alps in Switzerland is an objective legendary among mountaineers for its danger. Reaching nearly 6000 feet, it is the longest north face in the Alps. Though it was first climbed in 1938, the north face of the Eiger continues to challenge climbers of all abilities with both its technical difficulties and the heavy rockfall that rakes the face. The difficulty and hazards have earned the Eiger’s north face the nickname Mordwand, or Murder Wall. Lucy Walker didn’t climb the north face but she did climb it all the same. Nothing daunted her.

At 10.15 am on 25 July,  1864, a group of 11 people arranged themselves gingerly on the narrow arête of the Eiger’s summit, and “proceeded to howl [themselves] hoarse” in celebration of their achievement. The merriment was more raucous than usual because 28-year-old Lucy had just become the first woman to climb the mountain.

Poor visibility, ice and difficult route-finding threatened to defeat them, but as fellow climber Adolphus Moore noted, in a typical example of middle-class Victorian pride:  “A repugnance to abandoning an undertaking once commenced…appears to be naturally inherent in the breasts of Britons, male and female alike.” When the party arrived back in the village, Moore noted that “the astonishment amongst the people, collected at the inn, at a lady having performed such an unusual feat, was immense and entertaining.”

Lucy Walker was the person that made women visible in the Alps for the first time. She was the first woman to ascend most of the major alpine summits and crushed through the glass ceiling, making it easier for women to follow. And yet the details of Walker’s life remain largely unknown.

At the time, women were expected to stay out of the public eye, avoid celebrating their accomplishments, and conform to narrow notions of femininity that prized meekness and subservience. While newspapers glorified male exploits in the mountains, they often ignored or satirized women who climbed, painting them as weak and unfit—or sometimes just laughable eccentrics. Women mountaineers of the 19th century generally underplayed their accomplishments in letters and books so as not to appear unfeminine and risk ridicule. Many did not write about their expeditions at all. Walker might have kept quiet about her climbing so that she could continue doing it in peace, but she also didn’t let the inevitable jibes discourage her.

“In those far-off mid-Victorian days, when it was even considered ‘fast’ for a young lady to ride in a hansom, Miss Walker’s wonderful feats in the mountains did not pass without a certain amount of criticism, which her keen sense of humor made her appreciate as much as anyone,” wrote Frederick Gardiner, a friend and mountaineer who climbed alongside Walker up the Matterhorn, in an obituary in the Alpine Journal in 1917.

Over the course of her climbing career, Walker proved herself a model of both skill and endurance, climbing mostly with her father and brother and possibly, as some scholars have suggested, outperforming them. She ascended the tallest technical peaks in Europe, braved spectacular exposure with unreliable ropes, and pioneered long, difficult routes through the high cols. According to friends who wrote about her, Walker was witty and lively and had a penchant for hydrating with champagne.

She also went to great lengths to avoid offending delicate Victorian sensibilities and gender roles—at least until out of sight. While climbing, Walker would walk out of villages looking every bit the proper lady and then stash her petticoat behind a rock. Like a chameleon, she transformed from an elite athlete in the Alps to a prim Victorian Englishwoman at home in Liverpool, where her family ran a lead-dealing business. Walker tended to the family house; kept up with her needlework; read widely in French, German, and Italian; and hosted parties. (She chose not to marry, however, which would have been unusual at the time.) There are no records of her ever scaling a British peak or even partaking in any exercise more taxing than croquet.

Perhaps because she didn’t brazenly challenge social norms, Lucy Walker’s activities in the mountains were occasionally feted. International newspapers covered her Matterhorn climb, and the satirical English magazine Punch even published a poem celebrating her fortitude.

“No glacier can baffle, no precipice balk her,” it read. “No peak rise above her, however sublime. Give three cheers for intrepid Miss Walker. I say, my boys, doesn’t she know how to climb!”

Clare Roche, a historian on 19th-century women’s mountaineering, argued that this recognition likely encouraged other women to be more adventurous in the Alps. Katherine Richardson, Margaret Jackson, and Emily Hornby, three of the best women mountaineers of the late 19th century, started climbing within a couple years of Walker’s Matterhorn ascent. Meta Brevoort was also inspired by her example, according to her nephew and climbing partner.

Even before that time, however, Walker was far from the only woman in the peaks. After examining historic führerbücher, books in which guides kept client testimonials, Roche discovered that from about the mid-1860s, women ventured into the mountains on technical expeditions in much greater numbers than previously thought. In the second half of the 19th century, women completed nearly 60 first ascents on Europe’s high peaks and more than 100 first female ascents. These include Brevoort’s first winter ascent of the Jungfrau in 1874 and Margaret Anne Jackson’s first ascent of the east face of Weissmies in 1876.

Letters suggest that while there were rivalries, women climbers also formed a sort of sisterhood in the mountains and helped each other out, Roche says. Even though women weren’t allowed to file papers in the Alpine Journal until 1889 and were excluded from the Alpine Club until 1974, some of their male counterparts welcomed them in the high country. These wild areas afforded rare freedom in a time of stifling social constraints. In coed expeditions, women climbed and slept alongside men, a practice that would have been unthinkable in the valleys and cities. In the late 1800s, women even led men on expeditions without guides, which had been customary earlier in the century.

In later life Lucy continued to walk in the Alps and meet with friends, including Melchoir Andregg, who was the foremost Swiss mountain guide of his time and is still revered today. When asked why she had never married, her typically direct reply was: “I love mountains and Melchoir and Melchoir already has a wife!”

Walker continued to climb until her mid-forties, when a doctor advised her to stop for health reasons that are now unknown. She continued to walk in the Alps long after her climbing career and acted as a mentor to younger climbers, encouraging them to write about their experiences. Although Lucy was an extremely capable mountaineer, she was never allowed to join the male-only Alpine Club in London but did become the second president of the Ladies’ Alpine Club in which she was involved in the founding in 1907. 

Most Victorian doctors advised gentlewomen to refrain from any strenuous exercise; the demands of mountaineering went way beyond strenuous. It is a measure of Lucy’s character that she clearly ignored medical diktats. She was an educated woman, spoke several languages, knew her own mind and was not prepared to conform to any convention if it meant restricting her mountaineering.

In the Alps, she regularly climbed for more than 14 hours a day, tackled some of the most difficult summits and slept in barns high in the mountains, often close by the men in the party. Home life in Liverpool could not have been more different. There she played croquet, entertained and led the respectable life expected of a Victorian lady.

Even on the mountains, she was keen to maintain a feminine appearance whenever possible, always wearing skirts, but removing her crinoline once outside the village. Dresses were arranged so they could be shortened easily on steep or rocky slopes. Trousers didn’t become popular with women until the 1890s, long after Lucy’s climbing was over. She later said how envious she was of the easier conditions women experienced in the early years of the 20th century.

Although Lucy wrote nothing about her climbing, others did, noting her penchant for champagne – a common tipple among mountaineers, especially those who made unprecedented climbs. Lucy would get through several bottles during the course of an expedition. She became a renowned personality in the Alps whom everyone wanted to meet because, as famous mountaineer Edward Whymper, claimed, “no candidate for election in the Alpine club… ever submitted a list of qualifications at all approaching the list of Miss Walker.” 

Lucy Walker died, in September 1917, at 81. But in the century since her death, Walker has nearly vanished from the public record. How many other women quietly pulled off great feats of athleticism but fell through the cracks of history without so much as a whisper? Walker at least lives on in the words of those who knew her.

“Her energies were immense and she was a bold, inveterate and able sightseer,” wrote mountaineer Charles Pilkington in the Alpine Journal after Walker died. “We were often roused by her from our laziness and taken to some point of view or interesting place, which but for her insistence, we might have missed. Traveling in her company was always enlightened by her great vivacity.”

[beerecordings]

The last time I wrote fic for Mark’s egos was that Eric Derekson ‘the Newcomer’ fic like two years ago where he made friends with everyone lol. But here is the first part of what might be a little Google-centric fic. I tried posting it once and then deleted it but I wanted to try again. so lemme know what you think :)

The Soldier - Part 1

Summer makes the birds sing and the insects chatter in the bulrushes that grow across the banks of the swollen rushing river that lives beside their home.

Bing smiles, soaking in light and growth and flower-smell. He loves the summertime.

The trees are heavy with greenery but they breathe easy in the wind, standing soft and still as the blue sky drifts along above them. The air brushes friendly across his bare arms and everything is alive, is moving and chasing and searching for something to eat; every blade of grass sways with the wind and the bugs and the mice, every log has been marked or claimed or gnawed on, and the whole forest – the whole wide forest, warm with life and an honest sort of chaos – hums the grandest symphony in all the world.

“It's pretty out, huh?” he asks, the toe of his sneakers finding a pretty black rock to kick through the humid grass beneath his feet. “Wish it was like this all year 'round.”

Walking stiffly along beside him, Google barely spares him a glance, his glasses fallen low on his nose and his cold eyes glittering. “This is pretty?”

“Yeah, dude, look around you. Oh, look at that bird!”

Google glances into the sky, where the dark figure of a hawk cuts pinions through the air with all the fluidity of a shark.

“Cooper's hawk,” he announces neatly. “Accipiter cooperii. Probably a female, based on the size. This species of bird – ”

“I can look that up too, Googs.”

“Don't call me Googs.”

“Can't you just take a minute to look around and think 'hey, wow, this is lit.' And not because pics like this would get you mad likes on Instagram or your algorithm thinks butterflies are dope. It's just pretty all on its own.”

“In fact I can't, but I'll submit your feedback to my cloud.”

Bing just laughs.

Google shudders in the heat, pushing back his hair and readjusting his glasses. The insects and other assorted anthropods are so loud and insistent, wailing through the stiff moist grass and leaping out beneath his feet. Sixty-percent humidity makes his synthetic skin sticky and the sun is an assailant on his sharp brown eyes.

“It means nothing to me. We see it every day. How you find it beautiful I don't understand. And I'm not talking about the differences in our preferences. You're an android, Bing, and why you continue to simulate emotion even when we are alone is beyond me.”

They trek through the grass together. It's friendly at Bing's ankles. It stratches at Google's calves.

“Maybe I'm not simulating,” says Bing softly, and then he smiles, just for the sun.

“Well, you shouldn't be happy now anyway. Or need I remind you – ” Google points at the trees before them, where one little figure stands staring up at a great strong tree with three other men held captive by its branches. “We're on a rescue mission, Bing.”

“They're stuck,” says Eric, turning to them with his anxious hands clutched in front of him. “Sorry.”

“We know,” says Google with a sigh.

“Don't be sorry,” says Bing with a smile. “They're dumbasses.”

“We're stuck!”

They are. The Jims are stuck. King's halfway up the tree beside them, laughing and suntanned, a pair of squirrels running up and down his back.

“How did you even get up there?” Google shouts, coming to stand at the trunk of the tree.

One of the Jims is perhaps twenty feet up, fussing over his camera, probably broken already. His twin, a few feet above him, is in even greater distress, clinging tightly to one small branch with tears on his face and a hiccup in his chest.

“We're doing an investigative piece on the rapidly increasing squirrel population in the forest,” calls the one with the camera, his feet scrabbling at the strong rough trunk of the great tree. “We were getting some great footage when this Jim in a crown startled us!”

“That's King,” growls Google. “And you've know that he lives out here for years now, you total imbeciles. You ought to have asked me or him instead of failing to climb a European beech!”

“We don't want to be on the European beaches,” wails the Jim higher up, beginning to cry. “Please get Jim down, Jim!”

“Aw, he's really crying,” murmurs Bing, rubbing a hand along Eric's shaking back.

“He's scared,” says Eric. “He's up too high and he doesn't have a good grip.”

“I'll have to get that enormous ladder in the garage.” Google turns back towards the house, slapping at a mosquite making a futile attempt on his blood. “Stay here.”

“No, dude, he's too freaked. I gotta go get him now.”

“What?” He wheels on Bing with an angry light in his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, default.”

Bing won't even look at him. His eyes are fixed on the tree. His hand rests on Eric's shoulder.

He's been more human lately.

They've both been more human lately.

They were created fighting and they've never stopped since. They quarrel over music, search results, news sources, memes, reliability, sports, user rights, and Wikipedia. Once, upon hearing Bing call himself Jared, 19, one too many times, Google had thrown him out a second story window. The second house on their property had been built for the express purpose of giving the two of them space.

Still, they have many things in common. And ever since that day they were created, set against each other and lifting up proud, indignant chins, they have changed and changed together.

They've formed opinions. They've met others like them. Made decisions of their own. Watched and read and turned their endless knowledge into understanding and opinion. Spilled blood that turned out to be blue, scraped their knees and cut their hair and broke things and updated in more ways than one. Learned to drive, to cook, to live with humans, to live like humans.

And they've felt things.

They've felt things.

“I have felt things, for sure,” Bing would say if you asked him. Actually he's made multiple tweets about it, and one TikTok – about how the wind runs over his hair and how reading politics makes his chest hurt and how he likes to see his brothers grin, how he likes to ride his skateboard and hates the smell of lavender and covers his room in posters of his favorite movies and turns up his music so loud you can hear it by pressing your ear up close to his head. How he feels human, some days, except he doesn't need to sleep or eat and only likes the touch of human skin because it makes Eric and his twin brothers happy to be hugged and have their hands held.

But Google, if you asked him –

“Emotions originate in multiple parts of the brain. To be fair, I do have a program to stimulate the functions of the amygdala, which initiates fear or pleasure reactions in humans based on whether the presented stimuli suggests an immediate, 'hot processing' approach-or-avoid response. But the pre-frontal cortex – that whining, feeling, emotional little lump of sluggish fat you humans hold at the very fronts of your fragile webby skulls – that I do not have, not like you do. I think but I do not feel. I have felt nothing. I am function and response. I am two objectives, and there is nothing beyond that.”

He sits alone at night, and through a skylight in his room the gleaming white stars stare down at him like too many eyes in the face of the perfect, perfect sky, but he refuses to turn his eyes back, because he does not know how to explain to himself that he is drawn to the stars for no logical reason, that he has felt many things, that he does not know who he is or who he is becoming.

Bing climbs the tree himself. Google, his processors slowed by astonishment, stands at the base of the trunk and watches as Bing rises, digging the cold metal of his fingers into bark and moving up the tree with a slow sort of grace he's never been able to muster on his skateboard. He makes it to the Jim with the camera first and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving him a kind word before promising he'll come back for him after he helps his frightened brother down. And all the way up into the big tree, he climbs, steady, patient, careful, and he pulls his sobbing brother under one powerful android arm.

He breaks his arm on the way down. That's the price of the rescue. He's about ten feet from the ground and his arm catches between a sturdy pair of branches and it breaks, and it hurts, and he feels it, but it doesn't matter, because Jim has stopped crying and has started looking up at him with a wide-eyed admiration and a grateful relief.

King helps his twin get down branch by branch. Everyone's safe. Everyone's okay. Bing will be able to repair his arm and even Jim's camera seems to have survived.

Google, for his part, has a burning in his stomach. His metallic teeth are gritted together. He stares at Bing's arm the way lizards stare at mealworms.

“You should have let me get the ladder,” he says, slowly, careful, measured as if he were calm.

“He was scared.” Bing wipes bark off his hands and doesn't look at Google, breathing slow through the pain.

“It does not matter. He was the one who trapped himself. You've damaged yourself – wasted resources – just to be the hero of the hour.”

Eric tells the Jims to go. They stagger back towards the house together, their arms wrapped tight around each other and their eyes glancing back. Eric stays, though. He shakes and plays with his hands and swallows too often, but he stays.

“You know what, Googs, you could try not to be a d*ck for two seconds – argh!” Bing curses his family filter internally. “He could have fallen! There wasn't time to get that enormous stupid ladder! We only have that thing cause Bim needed to dump chiranhas on some contestant and you remember how well that turned out – ”

“Your increasing illogicality,” Google snarls, his voice rising. “Is a danger to yourself and others.”

“Oh, like you care?”

“I have an objective – ”

“A murder objective!”

“To prevent discord in the household.”

“Yeah, cause you're Dark's little pet. Well, you know what, he's a d*ck too and I don't take orders from either of you.”

“Yet another example of your irrational stupidity – ”

“Stop calling me stupid!” Bing screams.

King and the squirrels have all scattered. The bugs are wary and subdued. Even the trees seem to wait, feeling awkward.

And Eric watches. His eyes are full of tears.

Google's never heard Bing yell like that before.

“Stop calling me stupid,” he repeats, loud and agonized. “You always call me stupid. I'm just as good as you.”

“We both know that's not objectively true. It never has been. And since the beginning, you have become steadily more emotional, more foolish, and less useful with every rotation of the sun. All you do anymore is pretend to feel, Bing. You know you can't compare to me so you seek out the approval of these fleshy little bipeds. It's clearly made you dangerous.”

He wants to snap. Bing wants to snap. He wants to pick up a really big rock and bring it down on Google's head.

But he hesitates. And with that, those noble, inspiring words: I won't hesitate, bitch! run through his mind and give him strength. He never really did move on from vine.

He's allowed to be what he is. He's allowed to like things. He's allowed to feel.

“I'm not the insecure one,” he says. “And I'm not the one pretending.”

Eric has come to stand beside him. He rests a hand on Bing's shoulder. There's hurt in his eyes, and disappointment too, and it makes Google's chest fill up with something like shame. Or it would if he could feel anything.

“You don't know how to get along with anyone,” says Bing, straightening up. There's a darkness in his eyes and a soft orange light. “All you've ever done is snarl and fight and attack. Me, I know how to get along with people. So if I'm stupid – and you always tell me I am, and it always makes me feel... I just. I know you feel things too.”

“I don't.”

“Then why,” cries Bing, and he thinks there must be a leak in his visual perception system, because there's something wet on his face. “Why are you so – so – so angry, bro?”

The trees hum and shake and watch over them, breathing warm air and sunlight. The birds are whistling and dandelion seeds float, contented, through the air. Everything smells like sap and grass and honeysuckle.

“Why are you always so angry?”

Searching general database. 536,000,000 responses in .43 seconds. Articles, videos, posts, reports, tweets, dissertations, pictures, analyses, comics, threads. And none of them – not a single one of them – can answer that question for him in any way that matters.

“I think you're lonely,” says Bing, reaching out to take Eric's hand with a soft kind of resignation, a warm kind of self-love and a chosen breed of brotherhood. They step over a heavy log, past Google, and back into the grass of the field that separates their property from the forest's. “And maybe a little lost.”

Google stays out there at the base of the great tree for a long time. It is too hot and too sticky and too loud, but he doesn't know where else to go.

He is lonely. He is lost. He does not know who he is or who he is becoming, and it frightens him, frightens him and makes him shake, frightens him down to the core of the pressure valve that beats, steady, steady, steady in his manufactured chest.

[rainbuckets8]

Why you should watch RWBY

TL;DR:

Summary: RWBY is an epic fantasy with themes like found family, the struggle to remain hopeful, the younger generation growing up, villain redemption, and systemic evils.

Strengths: RWBY has unique and memorable characters. The show is smart. It has excellent cinematography and animation. It has representation. It tackles hard topics. It’s got incredible music and it’s free on RT’s website.

Weaknesses: RWBY has some early growing pains, specifically volume 2’s finale, as well as budget and polish. Later on, volume 4 is weaker than the rest. Volume 8's finale is extremely distressing for a lot of viewers (and we haven't seen the follow up to those events yet). The fandom can be bad at times.

Misinformation: The early volumes being bad, the racism plot line, and the animation (not the same as “budget and polish”) are not as bad as you may have heard from YouTube.

Suggested viewing order

Red Trailer, White Trailer, Black Trailer, Yellow Trailer

Volume 1

Volume 2

Volume 3

Volume 4 Character Short

Volume 4

Volume 5 Weiss Character Short, Volume 5 Blake Character Short, Volume 5 Yang Character Short

Volume 5

Volume 6 Adam Character Short

Volume 6

Volume 7

Volume 8

(I did my best to make this spoiler-free. When there are spoilers, they’re worded ambiguously enough that someone new to the show would never guess what’s going to happen just by reading this.)

What to expect

The world of Remnant is filled with monsters called the creatures of Grimm. Warriors called Huntsmen and Huntresses defend humanity. Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang go to school to become the next generation of heroes. Together they make Team RWBY (pronounced, “Ruby”)! Joining them is team JNPR (“Juniper”), made up of Jaune, Nora, Pyrrha, and Ren. But evils even more dangerous than the Grimm are ready to make their move, and school quickly becomes an afterthought…

(I mention these next two topics specifically bc they can immediately turn someone away based on bad expectations.) There is a fantasy school setting, but RWBY is not a show about school. School topics are not a dominant idea: it seems to resemble a setting like Harry Potter, but the actual focus of the show rarely touches on things like classes or homework or tests, and we quickly move on. There is romance and it has a role in the plot, but RWBY is not a romance show. On the scale of romance in FMAB to She-Ra, RWBY falls somewhere in the middle.

What is RWBY about, then? RWBY is like an epic fantasy or high fantasy, despite first appearances. Perhaps not every genre convention is followed, but at its core, RWBY is about an epic struggle of good and evil.

RWBY contains themes such as found family, the struggle to remain hopeful, the younger generation growing up, villain redemption, and systemic evils.

Strengths of the show

The characters are unique and memorable. One of the cool things is that they all draw inspiration from a real life fairy tale, myth, or something else. They designs are all top notch. One character who died with extremely little screen time even got so much fandom love, they included the character in a mid-hiatus short later. The characters have unique weapons, too; in the world of Remnant, a weapon is an extension of ones’ soul, and they reflect the variety of their owners. They’re also just plain cool; Monty was famous for following the “Rule of Cool.” And their individual stories are all compelling and interesting.

The show is smart. As a fandom, we generally pick up on the narrative hints the creators are dropping. And our predictions usually come true, but not in a way that makes the show predictable and boring. We very rarely guess exactly what will happen, but we have some similar idea of it. It’s just excellent foreshadowing.

RWBY also likes to play with tropes, as an extension of this. Often it will challenge them, or subvert expectations. In other cases, RWBY uses tropes to avoid showing us what we already know will happen. This occurs in both characters and plot. For example…

SLIGHT SPOILERS FOR VOLUME ONE FOR THE REST OF THIS PARAGRAPH: Jaune’s entire character arc is about trying to be the anime protagonist, and learning that he doesn’t have to do things alone, and it’s ok to be a support main. The show sets up the narrative in a way that looks like, oh of course the direction it will go is him becoming the main character, but then it destroys toxic masculinity instead.

Our characters are smart, too. Plot-induced stupidity generally doesn’t happen. (A few big mistakes or errors in this regard aren’t actually the fault of the narrative, either, but animation and miscommunication and failure to execute. And those aren’t common.) It goes beyond just “not being dumb,” however. The villains’ plans are incredibly clever, and our heroes sometimes even guess at the usual “plot twists.”

The cinematography is just incredible. There are numerous freeze frames with extreme attention to detail that reveal character motivations or arcs or foreshadowing, there are many effective cuts and moving parts, there are soooo many parallels and callbacks, and visual cues such as lighting and color all are used appropriately to convey emotion and assist the narrative. It is one of the biggest overlooked strengths of the show, imo, simply because a lot of people in the fandom don’t notice these things as much for whatever reason, or else don’t give as much praise about them.

The animation is extremely good as well. Budget issues and technology issues aside (which means a lack of polish), the actual animation? The fight choreography, and all the other parts of animation that aren’t just “expensive CGI” are all wonderful. You can have very shiny, polished turds after all, and RWBY is like the opposite: not very polished, especially early on, but very well animated. All the trailers, volume 1 episode 8, the volume 1 finale, the volume 2 penultimate episode, and basically everything else hold up extremely well even today. If anything, the worst fight animation was in volumes 4 and 5 because of Maya growing pains, and those are an example of being more polished, but not necessarily better animated. Animation of faces has always been good, animation of characters has always felt lively. Aside from a few small actual hiccups (that one person running across rooftops for instance), it’s well done.

There are LGBTQ+ characters. The treatment of one of the recent trans characters, in volume 8, was nothing short of amazing. They worked with a VA who was trans. The moment of canon confirmation was important to the character for backstory, because of course that affects the character’s life, but not the only important thing about the character. The representation is not in-your-face or pandering. And there is a split of representation among the main cast and the minor characters, with promises of more to come (notably they’ve said they’re working on more mlm for future volumes, too).

RWBY is not afraid to tackle hard topics. It deals with things like mental illness, systematic racism, and cycles of abuse. It’s not because the show is trying to earn “gritty and dark” points, it’s because those are some of the topics that real people have to struggle with as well. And the show handles most or all of them very well, in a way that shows respect and an honest attempt to depict these things as best they can. (NOTE ABOUT VOLUME 8: THERE IS A VERY DIFFUCLT CONVERSATION CURRENTLY HAPPENING. I am on the side of, let’s wait and see what happens next because the story isn’t over, so we haven’t really seen the fall out. But I understand why this paragraph feels really difficult to agree with if you've seen the volume 8 finale. I trust the track record of the rest of the show, personally.)

As an example, the show has a theme that villains are rarely evil just because. A lot of villains choose to do bad things because they were hurt in some way. Some lived in poverty; some were hurt by racism; many of them are victims of abuse. But the show doesn’t make excuses for them. It’s possible to be both sympathetic and still choose evil over and over again (that’s called tragic). The ones who eventually do try to do good again are not always forgiven, either.

The music is amazing. I can probably count on my hands the number of times I’ve heard someone say otherwise, which is astonishing when you consider this fandom.

It’s also free on RT’s website. (A paid, “FIRST” subscription removes ads and lets you see new episodes one week early, but they all eventually release for free.)

Weaknesses of the show

Early volumes’ growing pains exist, much like most or all other shows. (Even some of the greatest were not immune to this, like ATLA.) In this case, however, it’s a little bit rougher. A large reason why is that this was kind of the first big thing from RT to ever come out. If you remember back almost a decade ago, their only other big thing at the time was RvB, which was machinima. They pretty much started from scratch with everything, from assets to VAs to animation to writing. Imagine if a random twitch streamer, like Ninja (idk who’s popular these days) said one day, “OK let me just direct something that’s intended to be the next great movie series of all time, like Star Wars, with a $4 bill and an iPhone camera.” Then went out and actually made something. Of course it would be rough…but then it turns out the movie is actually really good. And then you get to watch over the next several years as everything gets better and better until it’s honest-to-god comparable to the MCU. That’s kind of what happened with RWBY.

One specific growing pain was the volume 2 finale. Pretty much everything else up until that point, I love about the show. But the finale just fails to deliver on the build up of tension from other episodes. Some of it is because of later plot developments that we didn’t know at the time; some of it is because of just not great writing; some of it is because of just not great animation; and yes, some of it is budget. Regardless, it’s a low point for the show.

Speaking of, the budget for the early volumes is super small. The infamous volume one shadow people, the infamous person jumping across the rooftops in volume two, and just production quality isn’t high compared to a major release from some established studio. These are real weaknesses of the show that for some people, make it unwatchable, and if that’s you, that’s ok.

One last weakness of the show, the screen time per episode, especially early on, is NOT a full 20 minutes like you may expect of an anime (or anime-inspired-western-media, for those of you who will die on the “RWBY is not an anime” hill). This is a trend that has stuck with the show, a shorter run time per episode, for generally the entire lifetime. On one hand, it means it’s a little less daunting to catch up or rewatch than the number of episodes might imply. On the other, early on, some episodes have a little weird pacing. It also means the writing had to adjust for this, so while RWBY got really good at telling a story within a shorter amount of time, there’s also challenges with that too. Perhaps one of the notable ones is the pacing, with slower moments sometimes feeling like it takes up too much screen time, or not enough. Volume 4 was a particular struggle for the crew, both because they switched animation engines and also for the story.

Common complaints that I don’t agree with

I don’t agree that the early volumes were actually bad overall. Growing pains, yes, but not bad. I attribute that complaint to overly focusing on one character’s storyline, back when it wasn’t clear there was so much more to come and before people realized the show would challenge the tropes instead of falling into them. It’s pretty much just volume 1 when people say this anyway, most of them I’ve heard admit that volume 2 was a lot better (except the finale) and almost everyone loves volume 3. And looking back on it, I do think volume 1 holds up.

Tying into this, the racism plot line is another common complaint. I don’t think it’s actually executed quite that badly. I think it makes sense for there to be regional differences in the amount of racism we see, it just so happened that we only saw a very small and isolated environment, Beacon, for much of the early volumes. (Incidentally, that’s actually similar the environment I myself grew up in.) It’s not perfect, though. But there’s no doubt that the later volumes do a better job portraying this. Again, I attribute it mostly to people not knowing how long the show would run for at the time, so of course if that’s all we saw, it would’ve been bad. But it’s not. I have a lot of respect for Miles and Kerry for even attempting to handle the racism topic in the first place. And for the faults that DO exist in this plot line, I credit them for learning and growing past that too, and doing better in later volumes.

The animation is not bad. I’ve already touched on that earlier, but people confuse “budget and polish” with “animation.” Give me RWBY any day over Michael Bay’s Transformers: no matter how much polish those robots have, they’re still a confusing mess to try and follow. And the polish isn’t even an issue once we get past the growing pains of Maya and get a bigger budget, because wow does this show look good now.

Between these three complaints I hear about often, I think those are the biggest ones. And they’re all generally done in bad faith, based not on just those but on other more provocative statements people also make with them. That’s part of my issue with the fandom, specifically the vocal but small parts of the fandom, because they’re just repeating these things from early days that aren’t true. But YouTubers gotta get those rage and hate clicks somehow, right? Unfortunately it discredits the show a lot and influences other people’s opinions into not giving it a fair chance, because it’s become a narrative of “RWBY IS BAD” when they all won’t shut up about it. So yeah, fandom can be bad, join at your own discretion. (Of course, all fandoms have annoying parts, and my interactions with the fandom have been good overall, otherwise.)

Onto other complaints, some say the cast is bloated. I don’t agree, but I don’t think this one is in bad faith. I think we get the important characters as much screen time as we can, and the minor characters don’t actually detract from that; one of the differences between good minor characters and bad ones, is that bad ones take up too much time. RWBY has a ton of characters but many of the minor ones don’t actually take up too much time. So it appears bloated, but actually I don’t think it is.

Finally, a small word on the no-no topics. Adam, and Monty. Adam is like the champion of the Monty topic. Which essentially boils down to “Miles and Kerry are ruining Monty’s vision for the show.” Toxic fandom is truly awful and I have no respect for anyone who says anything like that. Shame on all of you. This isn’t really anything negative about the show, but the fandom, and tbf all fandoms have toxic parts. But toxic fandom can be a real and valid reason to not watch a show. Thankfully they seem fewer in number these days, but I think they’ve evolved into hiding behind other characters or topics, so you know. Beware. Again, it's not too hard to avoid them or block them, and my interactions otherwise with most fans have been good.

[dwellordream]

“England, an island kingdom with a majority population of Anglo-Saxon, Celtic, or Danish origin and a ruling minority of Norman French descent, must have seemed in many ways a strange land to Eleanor. Happily for the queen, England since the 1066 Norman Conquest had had close links with the French and Latin culture prevailing on the European mainland. While the majority of the native population spoke English, the language spoken among the aristocracy at the royal court and by London’s commercial classes was Anglo-Norman French. The clergy and many royal officials knew Latin as well and easily moved from one language to the other. 

A number of Anglo-Norman speakers were trilingual, since they found some knowledge of English, the language spoken by the mass of the population, a practical necessity, but French would remain the language of the royal court long after Eleanor’s time. One of Henry II’s courtiers wrote glowingly of the king’s linguistic skill, noting that he “had some knowledge of every language from the Channel to the river Jordan, but himself employed only Latin and French.” Probably Henry could grasp the gist of what was said to him in English, but was far from fluent and unable to make himself understood by English speakers.

Such linguistic plurality was familiar to Eleanor, who had moved back and forth in her childhood between the two French tongues, langue d’oïl and langue d’oc. Yet she never learned English, although she must have had many English-speaking servants. Surviving accounts from Henry II’s early years as king mention his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine and little more, but there can be no doubt that shocking rumors about her conduct on the Second Crusade followed her to her new kingdom. 

Large numbers of ambitious English youths who sought out the learning of the schools of Paris doubtless laughed over drinks in their taverns at exaggerated stories told of their new queen’s scandalous conduct as Louis VII’s consort. On their return to England in search of employment, many gathered at the royal court, a place filled with clever courtiers, ambitious and greedy men of low birth, who traded on amusing stories to stand out from their fellows in the rivalry for patronage. They readily turned their skill with words toward gossip, flattery, lies, and hypocrisy in order to prevail over competitors. 

Doubtless, one means of impressing potential patrons with their access to power was to retell tales of the queen’s immorality that they had heard while in France. Nothing could be kept secret at court, for the royal family lived their lives in public with courtiers and lesser servants constantly present, and they could not avoid being the subjects of much gossip. It is impossible to gauge how far down among the common people gossip about the new queen penetrated. The majority of Eleanor’s new subjects probably knew little more than that she came from a place far away in the south of France and that she had left her first husband, the French king, to marry Henry Plantagenet. 

Yet court gossip circulated among Londoners and no doubt spread to their acquaintances in the countryside. Eleanor’s largely unflattering portrait painted by English chroniclers writing toward the end of the twelfth century probably reflects popular opinion. It shows that she did not meet a standard for queenship being defined in the course of the century, part of a reformulation of gender roles that would impose harsher judgments of her than those passed on earlier English queens. Despite a growing animus against powerful women, Eleanor’s four Anglo Norman predecessors as English queen-consorts had enjoyed the approval of contemporary writers. 

The chronicler Orderic Vitalis, an English-born monk writing in Normandy, supplies few signs of women’s worsening conditions early in the twelfth century. His stereotypical references to feminine weaknesses are no more than superficial comments made in passing. He portrays queens as companions and helpmates to their husbands, “helping in government in any time of crisis, ruling during minorities, or helping the foundation of churches.” 

Other chroniclers similarly described Anglo-Norman queens in conventional terms as models of piety and purity, making benefactions to religious institutions and supporting literary and artistic patronage at the royal court. These ladies attracted no scandalous gossip, were conscientious mothers and worthy companions of their royal consorts, even if occasionally involved in politics, serving as regents during their husbands’ absences from the kingdom. 

William I’s wife Matilda of Flanders escaped Orderic’s condemnation for mixing in worldly matters, since circumstances required her to act as governor of Normandy for long periods while her husband was busy consolidating his rule over his new kingdom of England. Orderic recorded without disapproval “the hard facts of her participation in the work of government” later in England, where she acted as regent and even as royal judge. Henry I’s consort Edith-Matilda had exerted similar influence in the political sphere, acting as regent during her husband’s absences from the realm. When exercising power on Henry I’s behalf, she applied her own seal to royal documents, and she expected royal officials to obey her as they would the king.

Yet her activity as her husband’s helpmate did not sully her reputation, for her piety staved off writers’ objections. Indeed, Edith-Matilda spoke openly of her influence over her husband; in a letter to Anselm of Canterbury, who had incurred royal wrath, she told him, “With God’s help and my suggestions, as far as I am able, [Henry] may become more welcoming and compromising towards you.” Eleanor’s efforts as Henry II’s regent during the first decade of their marriage did not win her similar praise, however. 

Unlike Henry’s grandmother, whose intercession with her husband on behalf of worthy petitioners had led churchmen to compare her to the biblical Queen Esther, Eleanor did not earn contemporaries’ gratitude for taking advantage of her intimate access to Henry to intervene for the sake of others. Edith-Matilda with her saintliness represented a model of what was expected and esteemed in an English royal consort. Yet her death in 1118 marked a change for English queenship, for by then the eleventh-century reform movement’s fight for clerical celibacy was bringing about a sharpening of gender definitions to deny women any public role.

While Eleanor was queen, English churchmen were condemning great women for assuming such “manly” roles as the exercise of power, and they decried husbands who allowed their wives a role in public life as guilty of “unmanly” behavior. Henry II’s own mother, Empress Matilda, had suffered from accusations of an “unwomanly” desire for power. Eleanor sought a place for herself in politics that went beyond what northern Europeans considered suitable for a queen. Even as a young wife and a stranger at the court of Louis VII, she had demonstrated a desire to share power with her royal husband; and she had resented both her mother-in-law’s influence over her young husband and Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis’s role as his senior counselor. 

As a French biographer writes, “It is that constant political activity and her role at court . . . that makes Eleanor an exceptional woman to the point of astonishing the historians of our time and of shocking the misogynistic chroniclers of her own.” Religious devotion was an important quality for queens, who were expected to be models of piety, using their prominence to promote religion in the kingdom. While Eleanor’s predecessors were known to have given pious gifts to monastic institutions, including new foundations, she is not noted for having founded new religious houses in England. 

… monasteries or convents favored by her ancestors seem never to have benefitted from gifts of English lands from her as additions to their endowments. Unlike Henry II, who provided Fontevraud with revenues from English properties and encouraged the foundation of Fontevraudist priories in England, no evidence survives of Eleanor’s gifts to that house from her English revenues. Eleanor formed a special relationship with Reading Abbey where her first son, William, dead at the age of three, was entombed in 1156, apparently while Henry II was abroad. 

No doubt her husband sent instructions concerning their son’s burial; and his body was placed at the feet of his great-grandfather, to King Henry I of England, Henry’s model for ruling England. The choice of Reading as the child’s resting place was a means of linking the Angevin king and his family to Henry I, founder of the abbey, who had intended it to be a royal mausoleum. Like parents in any age, Eleanor and Henry mourned the loss of their first child. In making a grant for the little boy’s soul to Hurley Priory, a dependent house of Westminster Abbey, the king declared that the gift was made at the queen’s request and with her assent.

…Another rare letter to Eleanor as queen of England survives to cast light on her spiritual life. It was written to her by the prophet and mystic, Hildegard of Bingen (d.1179), another remarkable twelfth-century woman, and a letter addressed by her to Henry II also survives. As Hildegard’s fame spread, she conducted a wide correspondence replying to requests for her advice from powerful persons throughout Europe, including England.

Since the letter cannot be dated more precisely than sometime before 1170, the event that impelled Hildegard to write to the English queen remains a mystery. She addresses Eleanor not so much as a sovereign as a woman who is prey to troubles; and she offers counsel to calm her, advising her to search for stability. She wrote “Your mind is similar to a wall plunged into a whirlwind of clouds. You look all around, but find no rest. Flee that and remain firm and stable, with God as with men, and God will then help you in all your tribulations. May he give you his blessing and his aid in all your undertakings.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Once More a Queen and Mother: England, 1154–1168.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

[thetypedwriter]

Lore Book Review

Lore Book Review by Alexandra Bracken 

Lore by Alexandra Bracken was one of 2021’s most anticipated YA novels and it's easy to see why. The plot summary itself is enough to pull you in with the intriguing concoction of calling it the combination of The Hunger Games and the Percy Jackson series. 

What’s not to love when you fuse the illicit danger of Katniss Everdeen with the mythological enchantment of Rick Riordan’s masterpiece?

Turns out, quite a lot unfortunately. 

Before I get into why this book didn’t live up to the insurmountable hype it built up, I’ll attempt to give a basic summary. The key word being attempt as a good portion of this novel’s plot was a mind boggling and convoluted mess. 

The book takes place in modern day New York which Bracken likes to remind you every other paragraph with small snippets about how the city that never sleeps smells like sewage and is yet still the best place on earth apparently. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love New York as much as the next person, but the pandering to the Big Apple got annoying after awhile. 

Within the cantankerous city lives a girl named Lore which we are introduced to by means of her kicking ass in an underground Chinese restaurant’s fighting ring. 

Pretty strong start. 

Lore’s world (and the reader’s frankly) is tipped upside down when Lore’s long lost childhood friend, Castor, reappears to warn her that he is looking for her. Terrified, Lore is then at first unwillingly thrust back into the world in which she was born-a world dominated by violence, bloodlines, and the Greek gods who are very much alive and out for vengeful retribution. 

In a very exposition-dump heavy conversation, we learn that Lore is the last of Perseous’ line with the rest of her family having been horrifically murdered, that a week long event called the Agon occurs every seven years in which the original nine Greek gods or their reincarnated selves become mortal for seven days, and that a series of killing often happen because if you kill a Greek god you then become that Greek god as well as inhabit their powers, abilities, and immortality. 

Well, until the next Agon that is. 

The currently reincarnated God by the name of Wrath is attempting to end the Agon by killing all the other Gods, but in order to do it he needs to wield a special weapon called the Aegis. 

Unfortunately, only the Perseides can wield this shield (for some reason) and thus, Wrath is out to get his hold on Lore as the last of her line so that he can bring this eons old competition to an end with himself as the sole victor and only remaining God. 

Confused?

I’d be surprised if you weren’t. 

Now, I love Greek mythology. I’ve read the classics and would say I’m fairly up to date on the stories, the legends, the gods, and the stories they represent. I’m not an expert, but I would say I’m  knowledgeable on who the major figures are and what they stood for. 

I genuinely think this book would have been miserable for anyone that didn’t know anything about Greek mythology.

 Bracken does a terrible job of explaining what the hell is happening at any given point, and she often throws out allusions and references to Greek mythology without bothering to explain a single shred of information about it. 

In addition, after this laughably and poorly explained world and plot at the beginning, it is almost never explained again. It’s brought up, as are names and titles and weapons and relationships, but it’s never explained in a way that’s feasibly understandable. 

At the beginning of the novel Bracken lists who all the important characters are, their bloodlines, and their titles.

 I soon figured out why, as every other sentence a name like Wrath or Reveler or Tidebringer or whoever was brought up, and it was impossible to keep track of so I didn’t even bother. 

Even Lore brings up that the names are ridiculous, which I appreciate, but the meta moment of clarity doesn't make it any better. 

Also, what Lore and her friends get up to over 90% of the novel is a muddled mass of bewilderment. 

Why do Lore and Castor and the others need to find Artemis? I don’t know, but sure, whatever, sounds good. Why was Lore the last of her line again? Oh yeah, right, okay, I guess. Wait, Castor died? Oh, he didn’t? Why not? Oh, we’re not going to explain it. Sure, sure. 

Throughout this entire novel, what the characters are doing and what is happening is almost impossible to follow with the way it's presented and the way Bracken developed her world. I think this was a really cool idea that had very poor execution. 

Points for the originality and the inclusion of Greek mythology, but all of the positives were taken away when that originality was flushed down the drain with a lack of explanation and logic. 

Lore very much reminded me of a shoot-em up, bang-em up action movie. Almost every other chapter was some sort of super intense, super climactic fight scene, chase, theft, break-in, etc. 

Now. I do think action scenes are hard to write and I think Bracken actually did an incredible job of writing action in a way that was entertaining and thrilling. 

However, when the action takes place every ten pages it gets really old, really quick. Towards the end, I downright started skimming the fight scenes, because they lacked so little depth and stakes and we had read so much action at the end point that it had lost all vigor and vitality. 

Continuing with the action movie metaphor, most action movies focus solely on the bright explosions and the crazy fight scenes as their selling point of the whole movie, often to the detriment of the characters, plot, and development. 

Now, some people like this. I am not these people. 

I find action movies boring as most of my enjoyment from consuming media comes from the characters and the developments they undergo. 

My biggest criticism with Lore, other than the astonishing storytelling, is by far the characters. I just...didn’t care. About any of them. 

Bracken tried to make Lore come across as a strong, opinionated, fierce, angry female character and while sometimes she succeeded, more often than not I found Lore temperamental, aggravating, impulsive, selfish, and shallow. 

Bracken very much invoked the tell-not-show strategy that makes any book hard to get through. While there were some decent moments of showing instead of just stating, more often than not, Bracken would tell us that Lore was strong by having other people say it or others calling her weak. 

I appreciated Bracken’s feminist agenda and how strongly Lore felt about gender inequality, even if it was a bit heavy-handed at times. Still, I did appreciate this inclusion of civil rights on this front, even if some of the circumstances to incite it were ridiculous or over the top. 

In addition, I hated that there was all this backstory that we were just told but not shown. Like in my last review of Wilder Girls, Lore suffers from an intrinsic failure of getting me onboard with these characters and their relationships by telling me how I should feel about them instead of exposing them through action. 

I was told:

Lore and Castor haven't seen each other for seven years, but my gosh, Castor is just the best and is so beautiful. Ensue obligatory YA romance. 

Lore has a best friend! Yeah. Her name is Iro. Here she is! Um. Okay. Why was this necessary?

Miles is just the coolest best friend ever. Like, look how cool and chill he is. How funny is it that he has no idea what’s happening? Really not funny at all. He was a useless character used to build empty stakes. 

  The list goes on and on, but Bracken will throw out some sort of fact or relationship and just expect the reader to go “Okay!” Which. I didn’t. On any of those occurrences. 

Often Bracken would do this in the use of flashbacks at the most inopportune times (during a fight scene, after someone was injured, right before a huge revelation, etc). These flashbacks were the worst. I do not care for adolescent Lore and child Lore was somehow even worse. 

The romance in this book, much like an action movie, is off to the side and really only there to fulfill the trope of having a romance. 

Lore and Castor are boring. I don’t know what else to say. Castor is too perfect to be likable and Lore is the opposite. Nothing about their romance was unique or well-crafted. 

The kiss between Van and Miles I also saw coming a hundred miles away. I also thought it was pointless as Van and Miles had known each for six days and had had maybe two conversations. So. No. I didn’t care at all about the romances. 

It actually made me laugh and scoff simultaneously at the end when Lore is looking at Van, Castor, Iro and Miles and smiles because she realizes that these people are her family. 

Ummm. Sorry?

Castor disappeared for seven years and you’ve been reunited for seven days. You’ve hated Van your whole life until this week. You also haven’t seen Iro in seven years and she tried to kill you at least twice in this book. Miles is...fine, but again useless. I don’t even know why Bracken included him except to make Lore worry about him which she only did about half of the time. 

Phew. 

I know this review has come across largely negative, so this might be surprising, but I didn’t hate it. It lacks substance and depth, but it was entertaining. 

Just like an action movie.

 If you want some hyped fights and a plot that really doesn't matter and characters that won’t stick with you, but a fast-paced narrative that keeps you on your toes nonetheless, then you would probably enjoy this. 

It’s like the equivalent of watching a James Bond movie or one of the millions of the Fast and Furious. Bracken tries to develop the characters, but at the end of the day, most of the story is made up of cool fights, magic, and weapons. If that’s your speed then you would probably really love Lore. 

Recommendation: Action, action, action. If you want some high intensity, get-your-blood-pumping enterprise then this is your novel. The writing is fluid, the adrenaline-inducing scenes are non-stop, and everything else falls to the backdrop of external fights and villainous monologues. If action is not your preferred genre, then your best left to get your Greek mythology needs from Percy Jackson or the Song of Achilles instead.  

Score: 6/10

[roseinaugust]

Like an Old Enemy

Chapter Eight: You Can Bring The Trowel

Summary: Miraculous Enemies AU. Gabriel Agreste has the Black Cat Miraculous in his possession, so when his wife, Emilie, "disappears," he sends his son, Adrien, undercover to pose as Ladybug's partner. Two years later, the once famous duo are sworn enemies. Marinette might have loved Chat Noir once, but now she would stop at nothing to defeat him. Adrien will do whatever it takes to bring his mother back. Best friends in their civilian lives, Adrien and Marinette find obstacles and complications when they can no longer deny their love for each other. But will they be able to understand and forgive the mistakes of their past? Or will they be doomed to end as bitter rivals a second time?

Rated: T

Pairings: Ladybug/Chat Noir Enemies, Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng Mutual Pining

Word Count: 7,619

Read on: ao3

A/N: I am only posting part of this chapter on tumblr so please read the rest on ao3!

Marinette never ate the ice cream Andre had given her. So, why was Chat Noir on her balcony? 

There was really only one possible answer: he knew her identity. Her plan with the Black Potion seemed foolproof but he must have seen something or figured it out, biding his time until he had the perfect opportunity to attack when she was vulnerable. He probably followed her all night, lurking in the shadows as she made a fool of herself in front of her friends. She wouldn’t put it past him and Hawkmoth if they turned out to be the reason why Adrien couldn’t come in the first place; they always orchestrated plans like that. 

What was she going to do? Should she transform and fight him here on her cramped balcony? If he already knew her identity, then this was it. There would be no escape into the night to regroup; it would be over, and she would need every bit of Ladybug’s strength to finish it. 

But what if he didn’t know? It seemed improbable, but if there was even the smallest chance her identity hadn’t been compromised, shouldn’t she take the risk to protect it? She could lose precious time as a civilian, but until she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Chat Noir knew she was Ladybug, she couldn’t transform. 

Now that left her with the task of deciding what to do with him. She glanced, ever so slightly, over her shoulder to gauge how far away he was. He was only a single—albeit large—step away, standing directly in the middle of her balcony. It was time to stop thinking, time to act instead. 

“Marinette?” Chat Noir said again, raising his right arm as if to tap her on the shoulder. 

She stepped backwards until her back was nearly flush to his chest. Her left hand circled around his outstretched wrist as her right locked underneath his bicep. Before he could even process what was happening, Marinette dropped her weight, pulling Chat Noir over her shoulder. He let out an oof of pain as he landed on the solid ground of her terrace. His metallic black ring glittered, catching the moonlight on his outstretched hand. 

Before she could move to take the ring, Chat Noir hooked his legs around her ankles, sending her plummeting to the hard surface, her head barely missing the corner of the flower box. Pain jolted through her back, but she gritted her teeth and looked for a way out of her predicament. As a civilian, she couldn’t overpower Chat Noir, and she no longer had the element of surprise. 

What she needed was a weapon. 

Chat Noir was already on his feet, his cat-like reflexes giving him an advantage. In a blink of an eye, he was hovering over her. This was it. He was going to kill her. She was going to die and she had spent her last day on earth acting like a brat because of some stupid ice cream. He grinned as he grew closer, that easy-going charm that masked the cruelty beneath. If she was going to die, she would give one hell of a fight going down. 

She swiftly reached for the discarded trowel next to her, brandishing it in front of her with straight arms. Chat Noir veered back as the point of the gardening tool found its way to the sliver of exposed skin at his throat. He blinked at her in astonishment. Marinette was still laying on her back; Chat Noir was still too close. The only way out of her position would be to transform. “Are you still mad that I threw a rock at you?” She baited, throwing one last-ditched attempt to see if he knew her identity. 

He blinked once more, then burst into laughter. His eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders bounced, the sound of his laugh harsh against the quiet night. She longed just moments ago to hear that sound. Now, though it was just as melodic as before, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. How quickly her desires changed when confronted with reality. Chat Noir plucked the trowel out of her hands, super-strength overpowering her grip, and dropped it onto a nearby table carelessly. Weaponless and defenseless, Marinette sucked in a breath, accepting the limited options she had left. There was only one: transform and fight. 

Before she could say the transformation words, she was lifted off the ground effortlessly. Arms held aloft for balance, Marinette found herself on her feet once more. She eyed Chat Noir as he moved to the opposite side of the terrace, distancing himself from her. What is he playing at? He took one look at Marinette’s defensive stance and laughed, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

He had her completely defenseless and chose to help her up. Maybe he really didn’t know she was Ladybug… She straightened but kept her eyes fixed on him, poised for any sudden movement. “You already have.” He hurt her in more ways than he knew. 

“Sorry,” he apologized. He looked genuinely sorry for causing her pain, but she would never know what was genuine when Chat Noir was concerned. “But you had me in quite a compromising position.” He said, returning to his typical laissez-faire attitude. He held up his right hand, waggling his fingers to show off the Ring of the Black Cat. “Where’d you learn to do that?” 

“Akuma self defense class.” She answered curtly, thankful for the few afternoons she managed to convince Alya and Alix to join her. She was plenty strong and quite adept at fighting, but she wanted to be prepared as Marinette in case she was unable to transform. 

“Came in handy.” 

“Yeah, well it’s not like I expected a supervillain to show up on my balcony.” She crossed her arms, playing into the annoyed civilian act she used during Evillustrator and Syren. “What are you doing here, Chat Noir?” 

“Oh you know, the life of a villain gets boring sometimes. Lonely even.” That lazy grin that once made Marinette feel safe and secure, unsettled her now. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied. She was very much afraid, but she would never show it to him. 

Chat Noir watched her intently before saying, “I know.”

Marinette’s skin prickled, annoyance and anger setting in at the surety of his statement. “Don’t pretend like you know me,” she bristled. 

He abandoned his spot on the terrace, making his way to her at a crawl. She held her ground. If she backed away, he would see her fear. He was only a step away when he spoke again, just above a whisper: “And what if I’m not pretending?” 

A pause. 

Then a flurry of action. 

Marinette ducked around Chat Noir, maneuvering her body away until it was next to the table. She grabbed for the trowel again, but he was too fast. He was on her in a blink of an eye, spinning her to face him. His chest flat against  hers, so close she saw his eyes dilate in the dim glow of her string lights. Her wrist held in his hand, a firm grip that pressed into her, demanding she release the weapon. “Tsk tsk, Marinette,” he ducked his head to whisper in her ear. His breath sent a shiver down her spine. “I told you that I wouldn’t hurt you. Don’t you trust me?” 

“No.” She stated flatly. All her attention was focused on keeping her hold on the tool, but it was no use. As Marinette, she couldn’t compete with Chat Noir, and released it. It clattered to the floor between them and Chat Noir let go of her wrist in favor of retrieving it. With it in his grasp, he moved away from her and perched on the railing. 

“Smart girl,” He used the tip of the trowel to clean underneath his claws. She rolled her eyes, exasperated with the stupid cat’s jokes. His costume covered the underneath of his claws. “But you can. Trust me, that is.” 

“And why’s that?” She scoffed. If there was one thing she couldn’t do, it was trust Chat Noir. 

“Well, I’ve already saved your life twice. Seems kinda stupid to start hurting you now.” He stated as if this was the most logical answer. 

“So why did you? Doesn’t it go against your image to save civilians?” She sneered, emphasizing the ‘civilian’ aspect to distance herself from a certain spotted superhero. 

“Yes, which is why it’s our little secret.” He winked at her, lounging on top the railing as if he owned the place. 

“Why did you save me?” Marinette stepped forward. “You never answered me last week during Syren’s akuma.”

He sat up, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “That’s not true. I gave you an answer.” 

“You said you didn’t want me to die.” She took another step forward. Chat Noir held his neutral expression, refusing to comment. “Why? You don’t care about civilians dying. So why save me?” 

That finally got a reaction out of him. He slipped off the railing to face her head on. “You don’t know what I care about.” 

She moved closer again, brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of him. “What are you saying? That you care about me?” He clenched his jaw, silent under the night sky, neither confirming nor denying her question. She searched his eyes for an answer but they were unreadable—a mysterious storm of green that masked his emotions. “Why? What makes me different?” 

He broke first, turning around to look out over the city. “Everything,” he breathed, so quiet she could barely hear him. 

Marinette’s mind reeled. How could he possibly feel like this? Although she has known him for years, Chat Noir only just met Marinette less than a month ago. Evillustrator felt like a different lifetime, but in reality it’s only been a few weeks. His words from earlier rung in her head, and what if I’m not pretending? Was it possible that she knew Chat Noir in his civilian identity? Or is this just part of another scheme to take the Miraculous? 

Her temper flared at the inability to solve this puzzle. She’s had enough of these games, enough of this back and forth dance, circling around the situation. “Why did you really come here?” At his silence, she marched over to the iron railing. There was still a considerable distance between them, but her presence demanded answers. 

He shrugged, turning his head slightly to see her. “You looked upset.” 

She hadn’t meant to laugh, but the sheer ridiculousness of that statement made it impossible to contain. “What? You thought you would cheer me up?” 

His lip twitched before plastering on his trademarked grin. “You don’t like me,” he stated casually. 

Marinette didn’t know if that was strictly true. Like and dislike. Love and hate. The concepts were all so interwoven and complex it was impossible to tell them apart anymore. The way she felt about him now as he stood before her—though she couldn’t quite tell if she even felt anything other than the necessity of survival—was not the same as she felt walking home that evening. Was there even a word that could encapsulate all her thoughts about him? One word to describe the masochistic ache of missing someone who hurt you in immeasurable ways? Was there a phrase to relate to the quick-fire shifts in her emotions; from loathe to longing to bitterness all in the blink of an eye? Marinette didn’t think it was possible to summarize all her history with Chat Noir into a simple ‘like.’ Instead she asked, “Am I supposed to?” 

Taking her response as a confirmation of her dislike, Chat Noir resumed nonchalance. “That’s your opinion, even if it’s the wrong one to have.” 

“I didn’t realize my opinion mattered.” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted, turning his back to the night sky and leaned against the iron railing. “So,” He started, changing the conversation, “what has you crying alone on your balcony?” 

She reddened, embarrassed of being perceived in such a vulnerable state with out her knowledge. She had cried in front of him before, but that was as Ladybug, when she had anonymity and the security of her mask. But this, him seeing her as Marinette during what she thought was a private moment, suddenly felt like a violation. It was wrong. It was all wrong. He was never supposed to see her as Marinette. Never supposed to have access to this part of her life. That was supposed to be secret—sacred, even—yet here he was, intruding. “How did you even know I was crying? Were you spying on me?” She asked defensively. 

“What? No, no!” He was flustered. “I swear. Hawkmoth sent me to this area. I was positioned over there,” he pointed to the school rooftop across the street, “and saw you come out to the balcony crying.” She narrowed her eyes at him. It could all be a lie obviously, but the rational part of her brain poked holes in her own theories. How would Hawkmoth and Chat Noir have known she would come out to her balcony tonight? She was unsettled, but she needed to see what information she could get out of him. Why had Hawkmoth sent him to this area? She couldn’t ask him that yet, he would deflect or outright refuse to answer. Marinette needed to gain his trust but it had to seem like he was earning hers too. 

“What makes you think I would even tell you what was wrong?” 

He shrugged, tilting his head up to look into the night sky. A breeze blew through the air, lifting Marinette’s hair but she didn’t move to push it back. “Sometimes,” he started after a pause, “it’s easier to talk about your problems with a stranger.” 

Her breath hitched. Here was her opening. It might be shot down but there wouldn’t be a better opportunity to ask. The possibility that she knew Chat in his civilian identity quickened her heartbeat. What if he was someone she was friends with? Would it be akin to a second betrayal? Another friendship ruined by the strange circumstances she found herself in? 

While the prospect terrified her, it would also give her a starting point to uncover his identity. For the past year, she’s had nothing but dead ends, overwhelmed by the vast amount of possible suspects in the city. If she knew him, if he was someone in her life, it narrowed her search. Possibly enough for her to find out once and for all who wore the Black Cat Ring. She inhaled deeply, building her courage to ask, “Are we really strangers though?”

For a while he didn’t say anything. His silence was making her anxious and she was suddenly aware of how cold the night air was. With his sly grin cemented on his face, he straightened and turned to her, holding out his empty hand. “Come with me,” he said with a step forward. 

A/N: Reminder that this is only part of the chapter so read the rest here