#many consider me to be ‘peer’ and none consider me to be ‘object of attraction’

[daisyachain]

Convinced dad to accompany me to Orville Peck as a social experiment. Not an artist I’m that familiar with but hey I know a few songs and he’s a good enough performer on a technical level that it’s entertaining just to watch him and the supporting band do their thing. Kept half an ear on the lyrics out of curiosity as to how identifiably non-heterosexual they were, since it’s kind of part of the (cattle) brand and dad went in with no prior knowledge.

What was interesting is that many of them weren’t strictly clockable and many of those were intuitively clockable. Heterosexuality is so intensely mediated by gender roles that a song about a love interest who drives a rig isn’t as easy to (mis)read as m -> f as a song about a love interest who serves coffee. A song that positions the narrator as a hanger-on or a side piece reads as m -> f when the the narrator is angry or vengeful and less so when the narrator is quietly sarcastic. A love interest that provides comfort or security doesn’t read as female even when a male singer can’t possibly be referring to anything but.

Logically there would be about as many woman truck drivers as gay, but both of them are equally hard to fit into our schema of a truck driver. It’s difficult to imagine a model of heterosexuality not intensely mediated by misogyny; it’s hard to imagine a pop culture narrative or even my real life friends’ relationships position a woman as solid, smart, reliable, or protective. Like with the doctor-fishing accident puzzle, there is a push and pull between misogyny and homophobia in trying to interpret songs/stories that don’t match the societal mold.

Given the historical roots of homophobia in misogyny—homophobia as a violent reaction to relationships with no clear superior in the cases of Edward II(?) and James I, four-thousand-year-old European top/bottom discourse, the conflation of trans women, crossdressing men, drag artists, and gay men as well as the (euro/Anglo but also present elsewhere) societal fixation on that image—I love to wonder if heterosexuality exists.

One common thread through studies of specifically male gay history is that superior/inferior male relationships (distinctions of age, position, or class, cf badgays episode I thiiiiink Qutbuddin Mubarak Shah on slaves being considered boys no matter what age) exist on a different level of social acceptability compared to what we in the present day consider a gay relationship. Superior/inferior relationships aren’t enshrined as heterosexual marriage is and are marginalized as frivolity/peccadillo/improper behaviour, but these still generally have a level of acceptability or at least widespread acknowledgement. Romantic or sexual entanglement between two men of equal status, on the other hand, creates a formal uncertainty where neither is guaranteed to be the superior, where class or position is called into question, where the laws of a patriarchal society cannot apply because the prerequisite does not exist.

Following that thread, a ‘real’ gay relationship is between two men of equal standing. So it goes with the modern conception of lesbian relationships, which have not historically fallen under the same level of scrutiny wrt woman-woman power dynamics because that would require historical writers to consider women having thoughts, and the modern heterosexual relationships.

Except, historically the m/f relationship has been considered (by men) (in many but not all societies) to be a superior/inferior relationship. Many if not most men in the most gender-equal societies today consider it to be superior/inferior, a very real affection born from protectiveness/benevolence/patronage/cuteness aggression as a teacher might feel for a student or an aristocrat for a valet + that just also happens to have a sexual component for reasons of whatever biology. Again, looking at real life people who I know and their rancid dating histories, a lot of men approach dating as a Roman emperor might approach a handsome young house slave.

Following this train of logic: it’s commonly accepted today that the superior/inferior m/m model (often expressed as pederasty) is not strictly ‘gay’ in the modern sense. It’s its own form of relationship that doesn’t really exist in the current conception of love (For Good Reason) but does exist in the current conception of abuse (be it boss/employee sexual harassment or child abuse). Many m/f relationships are conceived of as superior/inferior by the participants. Many, not most, m/f relationships do exist as abusive structures and can only be conceived of as abusive.

Therefore, due to whatever misogyny, historical baggage, and social constraints, ‘real’ heterosexuality is a rare phenomenon, and we have only just recently witnessed its birth as a culturally understood idea. Only with the reform of divorce laws and property ownership in the mid-20th century in a very few countries did real heterosexuality become possible. Most men have not yet achieved it. Straight Men Are Our Smallest Minority Group.

[maerhiya]

If I say I lack cats, I have zero cats. Gay men lack attraction to women and when they do have attraction to women, they are bisexual, no longer gay. You cannot be ace or aro and experience attraction.

If aces can have and want sex and feel sexual and romantic attraction, how are they different from anyone else? "Well, they experience less attraction," than who? Who defined the average amount of attraction? How do you know? What is the boundary? People who aren't ace can be sex repulsed or virgins or celibate by choice or disinterested in sex because they have a low libido or trauma. What is the difference between an ace and allo?

How can you lack attraction and still have it? How can you lack sexual attraction and still have directed sexual desires for other people when most peopel consider sexual desires towards someone to be sexual attraction? Where is the boundary between sexual attraction and sexual desire?

And how does that boundary exist in a way that should discourage shipping ace and aro and aroace characters? How is it disrespectful to those characters when YOUR community says that aces and aros can and do want esx and romance? How do you "acknowledge" the characters aro and aceness when aro and aceneses effectively DO NOT MATTER at this point? If an ace can want to fuck and can feel heavy attraction to their partner, how are they different from anyone else?

Why would these characters mean anythign to actual ace and aro people who actually feel zero attraction and therefore zero respective desire for people?

How is aphobic for me, an ace, to want asexuality to mean something?

alright, let's start by defining what the lack of something means:

"the fact that something is not available or that there is not enough of it." (cambridge)

thus, lacking something doesn't automatically mean that you don't have it, it can also mean that you don't have enough of it. you cannot compare tangible objects to abstract things because they vary and are way more complex. (also, gay can be an umbrella term and bisexuality is a spectrum. queer identities are generally not binary.)

You cannot be ace or aro and experience attraction.

an aromantic is defined as someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction while an asexual is someone who experiences little to no sexual attraction. those are the general defenitions of what aromantic and asexual are when you introduce those terms to people. (but here's a source for them anyway)

"Well, they experience less attraction," than who? Who defined the average amount of attraction? How do you know? What is the boundary?

it doesn't need to be based on an arbitrary "average" that needs to scientifically measured. it's simply based on self-perception and lived experiences.

most people grow up experiencing romantic and/or sexual attraction in ways that feel natural or frequent to them, and observable patterns in society, media, and peers can support that. when someone finds themselves not relating to those experiences — especially if it persists and makes them feel alienated — they begin looking into labels like aromantic and asexual.

it takes basic observation skills to notice that there's a gap between ourselves and societal norms, that many people have attraction come easy to them while you may experience it less, under specific circumstances, or none at all. we can tell when we're consistently missing something that others are obviously experiencing without the necessity for a mathematical baseline. (here's a reddit thread of demis discussing how they've observed that their attraction isn't as frequent as everyone else's anyway).

as for the boundary — well, like i said last time, it's defined by the lack, infrequency, or conditional nature of attraction. that's what sets us apart from allos.

People who aren't ace can be sex repulsed or virgins or celibate by choice or disinterented in sex because they have a low libido or trauma.

well, yes, because those things don't automatically equate to the lack of attraction: being sex-repulsed or disinterested is about how someone feels about sex, not attraction; virgins or celibate by choice is, like you said, a choice, therefore it's not attraction because attraction is not a choice; libido is about sex drive, not attraction; and trauma involves distressing experiences that may lead to sex-aversion, but that's behavior towards sex and not attraction itself.

these things can overlap with attraction, yes, but one doesn't prove or disprove the other.

How can you lack sexual attraction and still have directed sexual desires for other people when most peopel consider sexual desires towards someone to be sexual attraction? Where is the boundary between sexual attraction and sexual desire?

just because most individuals confuse the two, doesn't mean they're the same thing, and they don't necessarily go hand-in-hand. attraction is about who — it's being drawn to a person. meanwhile, sexual desire is about what — it's the overall urge or drive to have sex, which can exist without being specifically directed at anyone.

you can have sexual desire without experiencing sexual attraction (and vice versa). some aces may still want sex even if they don't feel that same "pull" toward someone in the ways allos do (there are also many other motivations for having sex or getting into relationships outside of mere attraction and urges). allos often equate desire with attraction because for them, they typically happen together. but they can be completely separate for aces. that's literally the point. that's the difference. the boundary is clearer when you stop assuming everyone experiences sexuality the same way.

And how does that boundary exist in a way that should discourage shipping ace and aro and aroace characters? How is it disrespectful to those characters when YOUR community says that aces and aros can and do want esx and romance?

as i've mentioned last time, i'm not generally against shipping aro/aces. but it becomes dismissive if people portray those characters dating or having sex and then erase the aspects of their identities that make them aspec (because an aspec should still have that lack of attraction).

Why would these characters mean anythign to actual ace and aro people who actually feel zero attraction and therefore zero respective desire for people?

well, as an aroace who feels "zero attraction", they still matter because they're still aspec and as a community we have to appreciate every scrap of representation we get because representation matters and we hardly get any??? representation isn’t just about replicating exactly how someone experiences attraction — it’s about resonating with the emotional experiences, the detachments, or the autonomy that come with being outside the norm.

How is aphobic for me, an ace, to want asexuality to mean something?

the problem isn't wanting asexuality to mean something. the problem is that you're trying to force a rigid, one-dimensional definition of aromanticism and asexuality that invalidates other nuanced experiences. not everything is black and white.

you've established the idea that aro/ace characters "mean nothing" if they don't have "zero attraction" and that's disrespectful and erases the identities of many real people on the spectrum (literally why are you trying to gatekeep??). you can't want your identity to be respected while dismissing others' existence within the same spectrum. just because you can't fully grasp the other identities doesn't mean they don't exist or that they're not still considered aro/ace, nor should you regard them as "meaningless."

[myrulia]

About the Kokushibou x Muzan little sister ask can I get prompt 8 please 😅 sorry for the inconvenience.

.｡.:*✧Prompt 8: "It feels right, promise I don't mind."

.｡.:*✧Warnings: Slight sexual tension

╰╴⇢｡.:*✧A/N: If an appearance/personality is made evident, then it is because you are related to Muzan.

`` [Y/N], my beloved sister, have you considered ever finding a suitable partner such as I did? ``

Your elder brother, Lord Kibutsuji Muzan, spoke as you both were seated in one of the many rooms of the Infinity Castle that was well away from everyone else since your discussion held private matters. 

`` Brother, you made your past wives go insane, and the one you have now is a fake. So therefore, it does not count. ``

Muzan let out a huff of annoyance at the same time you did, the habit being something you both inherited unfortunately which led to the Upper Moon Two to tease you about, which led to him becoming disciplined right after.

`` That is not the point. [Y/N], I do not want you to be alone- ``

`` But I'm not alone, I have you and the other Upper Moons..- ``

`` Ah yes, the Upper Moons you say? ``

There was a glint of mischievousness in Muzan's eyes that you became all too accustomed with, knowing he was coming up with a great plan that you know utterly nothing about. Truth be told, finding a partner would not seem like the worst thing, but your stubbornness has stopped you from giving into your older brother's wishes.

`` Since you brought up the Upper Moons, I'll start from there. ``

You quirked a brow up in response to his choice of words, crossing your arms habitually and holding the same accursed scowl Muzan would also make during his meetings.

`` Why don't you get to know them, `` he started, referring to the higher ranks. `` The Upper Three ranks would make suitable partners and would have no trouble protecting you when I am absent. ``

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose trying to see a somewhat decent future with any of them. Sure, the idea had its pros, but far too many cons, especially with Douma. He was tall and handsome, sure, but had little to no emotions whatsoever and was too much of a masochist for you to handle.

Then there is Akaza. He was respectful to women and you actually found that trait attractive, but he was too focused on becoming strong and probably would not even give you the attention you would need.

Lastly, Kokushibou. An even taller demon who was quiet, well reserved, and surprisingly good looking despite having three sets of eyes. For once, you did not know the male's motives due to his nature, which allured you to him further. You have tried to strike up a conversation but he was quick to end it and would disappear somewhere else in the Castle.

`` Muzan, I would never consider Douma suitable, Akaza is a 50/50 chance, but Kokushibou- well..- ``

`` Well? ``

You wanted to voice out your opinion of the Upper Moon One to your brother, but knowing him, he would rat you out instantly just so that your relationship with him would get a move on so he can be satisfied.

`` Actually, nevermind, I'll take some time to think about it brother. ``

You got up from your chair and exited from the large room, jumping from the balcony and onto another platform. You repeated this process until you were well away from Muzan's quarters.

You were not even set on a destination, you just wanted to clear your head of his desire to find you a future husband. The idea was not a bad one, in fact it was a smart move in the first place, but it felt forced and not genuine to have to pick based off your brother telling you to.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you did not notice the large figure just in front of you, and before you knew it, you bumped right into the figure's back, causing it to fall over with you on top. 

`` Who- ``

`` I apologize! `` You blurted out before the voice could finish. `` I was not looking where I was going and ended up tumbling onto you so I'm sorry. ``

You quickly got off of the large figure who also stood up and adjusted his hakama accordingly that got slightly messed up in the fall. Once the figure is turned around, you are met with 3 pairs of eyes glaring down at your shorter form. It was none other than Kokushibou, or better known as the Upper Rank One based on the kanji in his eyes. You look stunned as you take in his appearance. You expected a much more piercing gaze due to him usually having one, but instead of that, his face was more relaxed and dare I say neutral.

`` There is no need princess, `` the male said as he bowed in respect, not daring to leave unless you order for him to do so. The demons that lurked around the Castle were ordered by your high and mighty older brother to refer to you as "Princess" since he deems himself as the king. You objected of course, but in this moment you had no ounce of rejection to give. Usually you would dismiss the demons that call you such a thing, but it felt different with Kokushibou.

`` Still I bumped into yo- nevermind. Kokushibou I can trust you right? ``

Your question came out of the blue for the demon. Why were you suddenly asking if you can trust a man like him? Of course he did devote his life to both you and Muzan but his inner feelings and self doubt block himself from doing so fully. You always made things difficult for him.

`` Yes, you can entrust me with your life. ``

`` Are you only saying that because my brother told you to, or are you genuine? ``

The demon was rather taken aback by your bold choice of words, his eyes slightly enlarging before going back to a neutral expression. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, confusion taking over his features.

`` Why would I not want to protect someone dear to me? ``

You took a singular step back, desperately fighting the heat rushing to your cheeks and so to not embarrass yourself in front of him you covered the bottom half of your face and feigning a look of pondering. 

`` If you are genuine as you claim to be, then I shall tell you. Muzan wants me to find a suitable partner. ``

You were blunt yet again, believing that sugarcoating information only draws away time that could be spent doing something much more worthwhile. You removed your hand from your face, now holding a stern look with the much taller Upper Moon whose expression has shifted. A visible vein was pulsing on his neck that you learned was due to annoyance.

`` Have you found anyone? `` Kokushibou said with no clear indication of aggravation, but you knew of the male's habits from the years that you have you have to learn of the Upper ranks and their habits. You stepped closer towards him until your chest dangerously brushed against his, your hand reaching up to his hand and grabbing it gently. Kokushibou tensed up at the feeling of your soft hand being interlocked with his, so much so that he could not take his eyes off of your enticing ones. 

`` Yes. You. ``

You stood on your tippy toes just to move closer to his face. His height may have been an obstacle but you succeeded, leaving the demon to be well enough flustered for it to be noticeable. Your little manipulative tactics resembled those of Muzan's, you are siblings after all. You tugged your hand away from his, sliding it up his forearm ever so slowly and to his chest, resting there and not daring to break the eye contact you have built.

`` Even though I am directly blood related to Muzan, would you be willing to be my partner and love me for who I am instead of who I am related to? ``

Kokushibou was well aware of what you meant with those words, after all he himself is very intelligent and could see through your advances. But even so, he found himself falling for them time and time again. You could simply be doing your hair and his mind would wander to how your raven locks would feel in between his fingers. With you being his Lord's younger sister, he thought it would be practically sinning to think of you in such ways, but now that the opportunity presented itself, he would not let it slip from his grasp.

`` It feels right, promise I don't mind. ``

`` That's all I needed to hear from you Kokushibou. `` 

It took one small lean forward for your lips to land on his. Kokushibou instinctively returned the kiss as if he was programed to do so, except it was his full will driving him forward to finally have you as his own. To be able to have you by his side was almost a dream come true for him without even realizing it. Demons are essentially deprived of any real feeling so to have you return his feelings of infatuation fed into his desire all the same.

Although before the kiss could turn into a much more scandalous one, you retracted, but cupped his face in your hands.

`` Would He approve of this? `` Kokushibou asked whilst peering into your enchanting eyes again. His hands had moved to your waist but were quickly removed after the kiss, his own fears blocking him from allowing himself to submit to your enticing touch.

`` I don't need his approval, I am my own person who can make her own decisions. But, it was his idea so there is no need to worry. ``

`` That is all I needed to hear. ``

Kokushibou was the one who leaned forward this time, but before your lips could connect, he went to your neck and bit on your skin harshly which was bound to leave a mark. You gripped at his hair and tugged him away from your neck after you let out a small whine since your greed was increasing.

`` I am simply marking what is mine now, isn't that right, Princess? ``

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

[woman-loving]

I’ve been reading some articles about lesbian identities in Indonesia, from the late 80s to the 00s, and wanted to share some quotes that highlighted a couple trends that I’ve also noticed in reading about butch/femme communities in other countries.

1) There are different expectations about sexual distinctiveness and marriage to men are attached to butch and femme identities. There is a greater expectation that femmes will marry men, and femmes more often do marry men, though some butches do as well. Marriages to men seem to be for convenience or in name only, and women may continue to have female lovers.

2) Distinctions are made between real/pure/positive lesbians (butches) and other lesbians (femmes) who are “potentially normal.” This shows the flexibility of lesbian identity, where they can be gradations and contradictions in what it means to be a lesbian (e.g. a woman being a lesbian but not a “real lesbian"). The category has cores and peripheries, rather than everyone being equally lesbian or else completely outside of it.

3) There are disagreements between members, which cross butch/femme lines, about the meanings of these identities and whose lesbianism or community involvement should be taken seriously. The first passage describes femmes as engaging in a “more active appropriation of lesbianism as a core element of their subjectivity.” The boundaries of lesbianism can potentially expand or contract as people struggle to define it.

4) People don’t always meet the community expectations attached to their identity.

I think these passages help complicate the picture of what lesbian identities can look like, and some of these same tensions and debates are common features of lesbian identity in many different cultures. I also think these issues--the (differential) weight given to relationships with men, the notion of positive versus negative lesbians, and the active appropriation of lesbianism by peripheral members--are relevant to bisexual interest, since these questions also shape bi women’s engagement in lesbianism/lesbian communities. (And we can say that without claiming that any particular women in these narratives are “really bisexual.”)

Anyway, without further ado... (this first one picks up right in the middle of a passage because I couldn’t get the previous page on the google preview :T)

From “Desiring Bodies or Defiant Cultures: Butch-Femme Lesbians in Jakarta and Lima,” by Saskia E. Wieringa, in Female Desires: Same-Sex Relations and Transgender Practices Across Cultures, eds. Evelyn Blackwood and Saskia E. Wieringa, 1999:

“[...]negative lesbians. We are positive lesbians. We are pure, 100% lesbian. With them you can never know. Before you know it, they are seeing a man again, and we are given the good-bye.”

Father Abraham, who had entered during her last words, took over. “Let me explain. … Take Koes. Again and again her girlfriends leave her. Soon she’ll be old and lonely. Who will help her then? For these girls it is just an adventure, while for butches like Koes it is their whole life.”“Yes, well, Abraham, … my experience is limited, of course, but it seems to me that the femmes flee the same problems that make life so hard for the butches. So they’d rather support each other.”

“In any case,” Sigit added, ‘they have become active now, that’s why they’re here, isn’t that so?” And she looked questioningly at the three dolls behind the typing machine, Roekmi and my neighbour. The most brazen femme had been nodding in a mocking manner while Sigit and I were talking.

“So we’re only supposed to be wives? We’re not suited for something serious, are we? Maybe we should set up a wives’ organization, Dharma Wanita,[23] the Dharma Wanita PERLESIN? Just like all those other organizations of the wives of civil servants and lawyers?” …

“Come on, Ari,” Sigit insisted, “why don’t you just ask them? You could at least ask them whether they want to join?” Ari found it extremely hard. Helplessly she looked at the other butches.

“Do you really mean that i should ask whether our wives would like to join / our / organization?” One of the butches nodded.

“Ok, fine.” She directed herself to the dolls.

“Well, what do you want? Do you want to join us? But in that case you shouldn’t just say yes, then you should also be involved with your whole heart.”

“You never asked that of the others,” the brazen femme pointed out, “but yes, I will definitely dedicate myself to the organization.” Roekmi and the two femmes at her side also nodded. (Wieringa 1987:89-91)

The above example is indicative of the social marginalization of the b/f community. it also captures in it one of its moments of transformation. The defiance of the femmes of the code that prescribes the division of butches and femmes into “positive” and “negative” lesbians respectively indicates a more active appropriation of lesbianism as a core element of their subjectivity. At the same time it illustrates the hegemony of the dominant heterosexual culture with its gendered principles of organization.

Yet, however much the butches conformed to male gender behavior they didn’t define themselves as male; their relation to their bodies was rather ambiguous. at times they defined themselves as a third sex, which is nonfemale[…]. [...] [Butches’] call for organization was not linked to a feminist protest against rigid gender norms. Rather they felt that nature had played a trick on them and they they had to devise ways to confront the dangers to which this situation gave rise. Jakarta’s b/f lesbians when I met them in the early eighties were not in the least interested in feminism. In fact, the butches among them were more concerned with the case of a friend of them who was undergoing a sex change operation. They clearly considered it an option, but none of them decided to follow this example. When I asked them why, all of them mentioned the health risks involved and the costs. None of them stated that they rather preferred their own bodies. Their bodies, although the source of sexual pleasure and as such the object of constant attention, didn’t make it any too easy for them to get the satisfaction they sought or, at least, to attract the partners they desired.

From "Let Them Take Ecstasy: Class and Jakarta Lesbians," by Alison J. Murray, in Female Desires: Same-Sex Relations and Transgender Practices Across Cultures, eds. Evelyn Blackwood and Saskia E. Wieringa, 1999:

Covert lesbian activities are thus an adaptation to the ideological context, where the distinction between hidden and exposed sexual behavior allows for fluidity in sexual relations (“everyone could be said to be bisexual” according to Oetomo 1995) as long as the primary presentation is heterosexual/monogamous. It is not lesbian activity that has been imported from the West, but the word lesbi used to label the Western concept of individual identity based on a fixed sexuality. I have not found that Indonesian women like to use the label to describe themselves, since it is connected to unpleasant stereotypes and the pathological view of deviance derived from Freudian psychology (cf Foucault 1978).

The concept of butch-femme also has a different meaning in Indonesia from the current Western use which implies a subversion of norms and playful use of roles and styles (cf Nestle 1992). In Indonesia (and other parts of Southeast Asia, such as the Philippines, Thailand’s tom-and-dee: Chetame 1995) the roles are quite strictly, or restrictively, defined and are related to popular, pseudo-psychological explanations of the “real” lesbian. In the simple terms of popular magazines, the butch (sentul) is more than 50% lesbian, or incurably lesbi, while the femme (kantil) is less than 50% lesbian, or potentially normal. Blackwood’s (1994) description of her secretive relationship with a butch-identified woman in Sumatra brings up some cross-cultural differences and difficulties that they experienced and could not speak about publicly. The Sumatran woman adopted masculine signifies and would not be touched sexually herself; she wanted to be called “pa” by Blackwood, who she expected to behave as a “good wife.” Meanwhile, Blackwood’s own beliefs, as well as her higher status due to class and ethnicity, made it hard to take on the passive female role.

I want to emphasize here that behavior needs to be conceptually separated from identity, as both are contextually specific and constrained by opportunity. It is common for young women socialized into a rigid heterosexual regime, in Asia or the West, to experience their sexual feelings in terms of gender confusion: “If I am attracted to women, then I must be a man trapped in a woman’s body.” Women are not socialized to seek out a sexual partner (of any kind), or to be sexual at all, so an internal “feeling” may never be expressed unless there are role models or opportunities available. If the butch-femme stereotype, as presented in the Indonesian popular media, is the only image of lesbians available outside the metropolis (e.g., in Sumatra), then this may affect how women express their feelings. However, urban lower-class lesbians engage in a range of styles and practices: some use butch style consciously to earn peer respect, while others reject the butch as out-dated. The stereotype of all lower-class lesbians whether following butch-femme roles or conforming to one subcultural pattern is far from the case and reflects the media and elite’s lack of real knowledge about street life. […]

The imagery of sickness creates powerful stigmatization and internalized homophobia: women may refer to themselves as sakit (sick). An ex-lover of mine in Jakarta is quite happy to state a preference for women while at the same time expressing disgust at the word lesbi and at the sight of a butch dyke; however, I have generally found that the stigma around lesbian labels and symbols is not translated into discrimination against individuals based on their sexual activities. I have been surprised to discover how many women in Jakarta will either admit to having sex with women or to being interested in it, but again, this is only rarely accompanied by an open lesbian (or bisexual) identity. I have found it hard to avoid the word “lesbian” to refer to female-to-female sexual relations, but it should not be taken to imply a permanent self-identity. It is very important to try and understand the social contexts of behavior, in order to avoid drawing conclusions based on inappropriate Western notions of lesbian identity, community, or “queer” culture.

From “Beyond the ‘Closet’: The Voices of Lesbian Women in Yogyakarta,” by Tracy L Wright Webster, 2004:

Most importantly a supportive community group of lesbian, bisexual and transgender women is essential, given that these sexualities are thrust together in Sektor 15. Potentially, a group comprised of women from each of these categories, that is lesbian, bisexual or transgender, may prove problematic to say the least, given that the needs and issues of each group are different. Clearly the informal communities already in existence in Yogya are indicators of this. Any formal or organized groupings would certainly benefit by modeling on current, though informal organisations. In the lesbian network, transgendered women (those who wish to become men or who consider themselves male) are not affiliated, however many ‘femme’ identified women who have been and intend to be involved in heterosexual relationships in the future, are among the group in partnership with their ‘butch’ pacar (Indo: girlfriend/boyfiend/lover).

Organisations of women questioning sexuality have existed in Yogya in the past. A butch identified respondent said she was involved in the formation of a lesbian, bisexual and transgender network in collaboration with another Indonesian woman, who also identified as butch, 20 years her senior. The group was called Opo (Javanese:what) or Opo We (Jav:whatever), the name highlighting that any issue could be discussed or entered into within the group. Members were an amalgam of both of the women’s friends and acquaintances. The underlying philosophy of the group was that “regardless of a woman’s life experience, marriage, children…it is her basic human right to live as a lesbian if she has the sexual inclination”. The elder founding member of this group, now 46, married a man and had a child. She now lives with her husband (in name only), child and female partner in the same home. Although this arrangement according to the interviewee “is rare… because the husband is there, she is spared the questions from the neighbours”. Here I must add that it is common in Java for lesbians to marry to fulfill their social role as mothers, and then to separate from their husbands to live their lives in partnership with a woman. This trend however is more common among the ‘femme’ group.

From "(Re)articulations: gender and same-sex subjectivities in Yogyakarta, Indonesia," by Tracy Wright Webster, in Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific, Issue 18, Oct 2008:

Lesbi subjectivities Since gender, for the most part, determines sexuality in Java, sexuality and gender cannot be analysed as discrete categories.[64] For all of the self-identified butchi participants, lesbi was the term used to describe their sexuality. This is contrary to the findings of two key researchers of female same-sex sexuality in Indonesia. Alison Murray's research in Jakarta in the 1980s suggests that females of same-sex attraction did not like the term 'lesbian'[65] due to its connection with 'unpleasant stereotypes' and deviant pathologies.[66] In 1995, Gayatri found that media representations depicting lesbi as males trapped in female bodies encouraged same-sex attracted women to seek new, contemporary descriptors.[67] The participants in this research, however, embraced the term lesbi as an all-encompassing descriptor of female same-sex attraction and as Boellstorff has noted in 2000, Indonesian lesbi tend to see themselves as part of a wider international lesbian network.[68]

The term lesbi has been used in Indonesia since the 1980s, although not commonly or consistently. Lines, les, lesbian, lesbo, lesbong and L, among others, are also used. Female same-sex/lesbi subjectivities in Yogya are not strongly associated with political motivations and the subversion of heteropatriarchy as they were among the Western lesbian feminists of the 1960s. By the time most of the participants in this research were born, the term lesbi had already become infused in Indonesian discourses of sexuality among the urban elite (though with negative connotations in most cases), and has since become commonly used both by females of same-sex attraction to describe themselves, and by others. Most learnt from peers at school and through reading Indonesian magazines.

However, public use of the term lesbi and expression of lesbi subjectivity has its risks. Murray's research on middle to upper class lesbians suggests that females identifying as lesbi have more to lose than lower class lesbi in terms of social position and the power invested in that class positioning. This is particularly in relation to their position in the family.[69] Conversely, her work also shows that lower class lesbi 'have the freedom to play without closing off their options.'[70] As Aji suggests, young females, particularly of the priyayi class may not be in a position to resist the social stigma attached to lesbianism and the possible consequences of rejection or abuse. Yusi faced this reality despite the fact that s/he had not declared herself lesbi. Hir gendered subjectivity meant that s/he did not conform to stereotypical feminine ideals and desires.

With so much at stake, many lesbi remain invisible. Heteronormative and feminine gendered expectations for females in part explain why lesbians may indeed be the 'least known population group in Indonesia.'[71] Collusion in invisibility can be seen here as a protective strategy. The lesbi community or keluarga (family) is what Murray refers to as a 'strategic community' of the lesbian subculture.[72] The strategic nature of the community lies in its sense of protection: the community provides a safe haven for disclosure. Invisibility, however, also arises through the factors I mentioned earlier: the normative feminine representations of femme, their tendency to express lesbi subjectivity only while in partnership with a butchi, and their tendency to marry. Invisibility, as a form of discretion, however, may also be chosen.

Gender complementary butchi/femme subjectivities [...] Due to the apparently fixed nature of butchi identities and subjectivities and their reluctance to sleep with males, they are seen as 'true lesbians,'[79] lesbian sejati, an image perpetuated through the media.[80] Similar to the butchi/femme communities in Jakarta, in Yogya, butchi are identified by their strict codes of dress and behaviour which include short hair, sometimes slicked back with gel, collared button up shirts and trousers bought in menswear stores, large-faced watches and bold rings. Butchi characteristically walk with a swagger and smoke in public places. In her research in the 1980s, Wieringa noticed that within lesbi communities in Jakarta the strict 'surveillance and socialisation 'may have contributed to the fixed nature of butchi identities.[81] In Yogya, this is particularly evident in the socialisation of younger lesbi by senior lesbi (a theme I explore elsewhere in my current research).

The participants held individual perspectives on butchness. Aji's butchness is premised on hir masculine gender subjectivity and desire for a partner of complementary gender. Yusi expresses hir butchness differently and relates it to dominance in the relationship and in sex play. The participants who told of the sexual roles within the relationship emphasised their active butchi roles during sex. As Wieringa suggests, this does not necessarily imply femme passivity as femme 'stress their erotic power over their butches.'[82] It does, however, indicate one way in which the butchi I interviewed articulate their sexual agency.

Femme subjectivities, on the other hand, are generally conceived of as transient. As many of the interviews illustrate, femme are expected by their butchi partners to marry and have children: butchi see them as bisexual. In public, and indeed if they marry, they are seen as heterosexual, though their heterosexual practice may not be exclusive. In the 1980s, Wieringa observed that femme 'dressed in an exaggerated fashion, in dresses with ribbons and frills...always wore make up and high heels.'[83] In the new millennium, the femme I met were also fashion savvy though not in an exaggerated sense. Generally they wore hip-hugging, breast-accentuating tight gear, had long hair and wore lipstick and low-heeled pumps. Their feminine representations were stereotypical: it was through association with butchi with in the lesbi community that femme subjectivities become visible.

[halothenthehorns]

TLTNL- The Warlock's Hairy Heart

Sirius knew which story was next so he declared, "I want Moony reading this one."

Remus already knew which story it was before he even glanced at it, throwing a disgruntled look at Sirius for doing this to him.

"You really think you're funny, don't you?" James asked of Sirius when Remus read the title.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sirius batted his eyes with innocence that fooled no one. "Though I suppose Harry could read this one," he amended, eyeing his godson with that same look in his eye, "the joke still applies-" Remus smacked him upside the head and only then agreed to read it just to spare Harry that stupidity. Sirius' humor was still just a touch shot from, well before, but at least he was still trying, and that meant the world to them, which was the only reason Remus was going without protest.

There was once a handsome, rich and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love,

"Something I won't contest," James agreed with that same look upon his wife he'd given her at thirteen.

  gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity.

Unaware of his secret, the warlock's family laughed to see him so aloof and cold.

"All will change," they prophesied, "when a maid catches his fancy!"

But the young warlock's fancy remained untouched. Though many a maiden was intrigued by his haughty mien, and employed her most subtle arts to please him, none succeeded in touching his heart. The warlock gloried in his indifference and the sagacity that had produced it.

The first freshness of youth waned, and the warlock's peers began to wed, and then to bring forth children.

"Their hearts must be husks," he sneered inwardly, as he observed the antics of the young parents around him, "shrivelled by the demands of these mewling offspring!"

"He has no idea," Lily said with nothing but affection as she brushed back the bangs from her infant who just smiled on at them all.

And once again he congratulated himself upon the wisdom of his early choice.

Remus grumbled a bit at the idiot, both in the story and Sirius having forced him to read this one. Sirius, either oblivious or ignoring him, just tried to keep waving him on.

In due course, the warlock's aged parents died.

Their son did not mourn them; on the contrary, he considered himself blessed by their demise.

"Well that was depressing," Harry muttered, growing more unsure by the line why this was a children's novel of all things. What child didn't love? Even he had wanted to in his youth despite not having anything around to cherish. The other two had been simple enough in their lesson, but this one felt more like a gruesome tale that maybe Beatrix Bloxum should have gotten her hands on.

Now he reigned alone in their castle. Having transferred his greatest treasure to the deepest dungeon, he gave himself over to a life of ease and plenty, his comfort the only aim of his many servants.

The warlock was sure that he must be an object of immense envy to all who beheld his splendid and untroubled solitude. Fierce were his anger and chagrin, therefore, when he overheard two of his lackeys discussing their master one day.

The first servant expressed pity for the warlock who, with all his wealth and power, was yet beloved by nobody.

But his companion jeered, asking why a man with so much gold and a palatial castle to his name had been unable to attract a wife.

Their words dealt dreadful blows to the listening warlock's pride.

"Welp, guess an execution's in order," Sirius eagerly rubbed his hands together.

"Are you sure you shouldn't be the one reading this?" Remus demanded after smacking him.

He resolved at once to take a wife, and that she would be a wife superior to all others. She would possess astounding beauty, exciting envy and desire in every man who beheld her; she would spring from magical lineage, so that their offspring would inherit outstanding magical gifts; and she would have wealth at least equal to his own, so that his comfortable existence would be assured, in spite of additions to his household.

"Priorities," Lily muttered snidely.

"Credit for trying?" Sirius offered with a mocking grin, wanting to spit in this warlocks face for reminding him of his family's very similar choice in selections.

It might have taken the warlock fifty years to find such a woman, yet it so happened that the very day after he decided to seek her, a maiden answering his every wish arrived in the neighborhood to visit her kinsfolk.

James couldn't help but mock applaud the book not even trying to be subtle at how ridiculous that was.

She was a witch of prodigious skill and possessed of much gold. Her beauty was such that it tugged at the heart of every man who set eyes on her; of every man, that is, except one. The warlock's heart felt nothing at all. Nevertheless, she was the prize he sought, so he began to pay her court.

Lily honestly couldn't help a little sigh of pity for this warlock and what he'd done to himself, the poor girl had no idea what she was getting herself into.

All who noticed the warlock's change in manners were amazed, and told the maiden that she had succeeded where a hundred had failed.

The young woman herself was both fascinated and repelled by the warlock's attentions. She sensed the coldness that lay behind the warmth of his flattery, and had never met a man so strange and remote.

"Then clearly she's never met Sirius," Remus grumbled.

"Moony, that was just hurtful," Sirius poked out his lower lip at him.

"Then don't make me the butt of your idiotic jokes," Remus snipped back.

Her kinsfolk, however, deemed theirs a most suitable match and, eager to promote it, accepted the warlock's invitation to a great feast in the maiden's honour.

The table was laden with silver and gold bearing the finest wines and most sumptuous foods. Minstrels strummed on silk-stringed lutes and sang of a love their master had never felt. The maiden sat upon a throne beside the warlock, who spake low, employing words of tenderness he had stolen from the poets, without any idea of their true meaning.

The maiden listened, puzzled, and finally replied, "You speak well, Warlock, and I would be delighted by your attentions, if only I thought you had a heart!"

"Ouch, ice cold that one," James said with an old expression, still vividly able to hear Lily say such things to him.

"I'm sure they'll both come around," Lily said gently, giving his hand a squeeze, confident that was to be the moral end to this story.

James just gave her an uneasy smile and didn't reply.

The warlock smiled, and told her that she need not fear on that score. Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast, and down to the locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure.

Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock's beating heart.

Long since disconnected from eyes, ears and fingers, it had never fallen prey to beauty, or to a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair.

"Eww," Harry crinkled his nose at the idea of such twisted magic he hoped was only a myth.

"Oh, what have you done?" she lamented. "Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!"

Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied.

"Now you are healed and will know true love!" cried the maiden, and she embraced him.

The touch of her soft white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened heart like spears. But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned, and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse.

Lily's brows crept up in concern, that sounded ominous. She was being silly though, this was a kids novel, and already on the bleaker side she was still confident something nice would come of this.

The guests at the feast had noticed the absence of their host and the maiden. At first untroubled, they grew anxious as the hours passed, and finally began to search the castle.

They found the dungeon at last, and a most dreadful sight awaited them there.

The maiden lay dead upon the floor, her breast cut open, and beside her crouched the mad warlock, holding in one bloody hand a great, smooth, shining scarlet heart, which he licked and stroked, vowing to exchange it for his own.

"Eww," Harry and Lily coursed together that time.

"That is a bit more detail than I was told," James agreed conversationally. "My parents always made it seem like the maiden had simply gone to sleep and he was trying to tear his heart out first."

"Because that's so much better," Sirius snorted while Remus tried to ignore them all and get this over with.

In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his own chest the shriveled, hairy heart. But the hairy heart was stronger than he was, and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or to return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long.

Before the horror-struck eyes of his guests, the warlock cast aside his wand, and seized a silver dagger. Vowing never to be mastered by his own heart, he hacked it from his chest.

For one moment, the warlock knelt triumphant, with a heart clutched in each hand; then he fell across the maiden's body, and died.

Albus Dumbledore on "The Warlock's Hairy Heart"

"Wait, that's it!?" Harry blurted. "Just like that, they both died."

"Pretty gruesome, yeah," James agreed with a wince. "That's not one my parents told me tell I was nearly too old for bedtime stories anyways. Needless to say, this did rather put me off them."

Lily's hold on James tightened for a new reason, shaking her head in disgust at this little tail. She wouldn't stop James from sharing it with their child, but she failed to see why this was written.

As we have already seen, Beedle's first two tales attracted criticism of their themes of generosity, tolerance and love. "The Warlock's Hairy Heart", however, does not appear to have been modified or much criticized in the hundreds of years since it was first written;

"Why does that not surprise me," Sirius scoffed. "The dark and creepy one survived all the retellings involving ripping hearts out, just like my family loves!"

the story as I eventually read it in the original runes was almost exactly that which my mother had told me. That said, "The Warlock's Hairy Heart" is by far the most gruesome of Beedle's offerings, and many parents do not share it with their children until they think they are old enough not to suffer nightmares.1

Why, then, the survival of this grisly tale? I would argue that "The Warlock's Hairy Heart" has survived intact through the centuries because it speaks to the dark depths in all of us.

It addresses one of the greatest, and least acknowledged, temptations of magic: the quest for invulnerability.

"Was he trying to be invulnerable?" James scratched absently at his ear. "I thought he was just making it so he couldn't be a fool in love."

"I'm sure a Death Eater would have agreed with the Warlock though," Sirius muttered, well aware most of them saw love as a weakness itself.

"Thank you for that nightmare," Lily shivered now picturing the Death Eater practice of removing hearts after a battle won.

Of course, such a quest is nothing more or less than a foolish fantasy. No man or woman alive, magical or not, has ever escaped some form of injury, whether physical, mental or emotional. To hurt is as human as to breathe.

Harry flinched hard and had to fight the urge not to bury himself back into Sirius' side, instead forcing himself to be content merely watching him nod in agreement to that. The words just echoed to much from what Dumbledore had told him, that day, and he never wanted to think of that again so long as he had his godfather with him now.

Nevertheless, we wizards seem particularly prone to the idea that we can bend the nature of existence to our will. The young warlock2 in this story, for instance, decides that falling in love would adversely affect his comfort and security. He sees love as a humiliation, a weakness, a drain on a person's emotional and material resources.

Of course, the centuries-old trade in love potions shows that our fictional wizard is hardly alone in seeking to control the unpredictable course of love. The search for a true love potion3 continues to this day, but no such elixir has yet been created, and leading potioneers doubt that it is possible.

"I don't see why," Lily said, her eyes sparking with challenge. "We use magic all the time to manipulate the various emotions, I'm sure someday it would just take the proper-"

"Should I be worried you slipped Prongs some of this, and now you're just taking notes on the results," Sirius interrupted with a calculating look.

Lily stuck her tongue out at him without acknowledging that.

Harry though, couldn't help but ask in intrigue, "why would you want to perfect a love potion? Even the temporary ones cause enough of a problem." He couldn't help but feel like he was speaking from experience on that one, though he had no clue why.

"It's the principle of the matter, the practicality of using it in certain situations so long as there's a way to reverse it as well. For example-"

"Oh honestly, she'll go on all day about this," Sirius sighed. "Can't you just finish Remus."

He looked relieved enough to do so, though Harry felt rather disappointed.

The hero in this tale, however, is not even interested in a simulacrum of love that he can create or destroy at will. He wants to remain for ever uninfected by what he regards as a kind of sickness, and therefore performs a piece of Dark Magic that would not be possible outside a storybook: he locks away his own heart.

The resemblance of this action to the creation of a Horcrux has been noted by many writers.

Harry felt such a sharp stab to his mind he howled in pain, hand fisted into his hair above his temple at the white hot flash until a now familiar voice broke through and he was finally able to focus on something else.

"-have no clue what could have set him off again-"

"My guess is something related to Voldemort-" That was Sirius, he was sure of it, but wait, he didn't find out about the Horcruxes when Sirius was still alive- his brain felt like it was on fire, alight with the pain from too many things colliding that shouldn't be... he forced himself to pain attention to the words, the tone, which sounded tensed and stressed but still alive, that no ghostly echo ever could produce. "Last time he hurt this bad always seems to have something to do with that madman."

Still shivering as if coming from a deep cold sickness, his blurry vision took several moments to focus even with his glasses still in place. He found them all watching him closely, looking pale and as stressed as he, but none of them had a single clue what a Horcrux even was, let alone why Harry had reacted so harshly to it. He continued to rub at his scar and shift heavily in place far longer than he ever had before, but finally he just tried to wave them on, the silence only helped the ringing in his ears to remain so loud.

Although Beedle's hero is not seeking to avoid death, he is dividing what was clearly not meant to be divided " body and heart, rather than soul"

Remus only got through that out of pure shock they actually got an answer right away, admittedly a very tiny mention of one, but an explanation none the less. Then he was left with his mouth hanging open.

"That's disgusting," Lily stated at once, her nails digging into James's arm, her brow creased heavier than ever as the words spun through her mind.

"You can divide your soul?" James said slowly and carefully, testing the words and trying to put it together in his head with an actual act, a practice.

Harry tasted copper in his mouth. Far from looking pleased at actually getting an explanation of this, he looked more likely to be sick than ever at being told what these things were, and the scar upon his forehead seared like a brand in his mind. He kept running shaking fingers over it as if at any moment it would fall right off. There was something vitally important to his life being put into words right now, and yet still he could feel that key piece missing, the full picture not yet drawn together.

"Well as vastly disturbing as this is," Sirius grumbled with a mock attempt at chipper, "can we please change the subject. I don't know why Dumbledore brought it up, but it's not doing us any good."

They were all starting to get a little panicky Harry had been so still and silent for so long, this was never a good sign and now Sirius hoped his errant comment was more wrong than ever. This had nothing to do with Voldemort or anyone, Harry was just reacting to something he'd had to learn about later in an actual non dangerous way...because that wasn't wishful thinking.

and in doing so, he is falling foul of the first of Adalbert Waffling's Fundamental Laws of Magic: Tamper with the deepest mysteries " the source of life, the essence of self " only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.

And sure enough, in seeking to become superhuman this foolhardy young man renders himself inhuman. The heart he has locked away slowly shrivels and grows hair, symbolizing his own descent to beasthood. He is finally reduced to a violent animal who takes what he wants by force, and he dies in a futile attempt to regain what is now for ever beyond his reach "a human heart."

Sirius kept shifting uneasily in place, brushing against Harry and making an exaggerated face for this description, though no one was paying him any mind. Even this eerie kids tale couldn't hold the weight it had moments ago after such a small description to Harry caused something so monumental to happen in him.

Though somewhat dated, the expression "to have a hairy heart" has passed into everyday wizarding language to describe a cold or unfeeling witch or wizard. My maiden aunt, Honoria, always alleged that she called off her engagement to a wizard in the Improper Use of Magic Office because she discovered in time that "he had a hairy heart". (It was rumoured, however, that she actually discovered him in the act of fondling some Horklumps,4 which she found deeply shocking.)

"Anyone would," Remus muttered, flipping the page absently and still hardly paying attention to what he was saying. They'd taken a break to read these silly novels for some relaxing time, now Harry was looking sicker than ever. They truly just couldn't do one nice thing for him!

More recently, the self-help book The Hairy Heart: A Guide to Wizards Who Won't Commit5 has topped bestseller lists.

"Profiting," Lily muttered sarcastically, retracting her nails from James to cross her arms, still in a fit for this whole bloody part.

1 According to her own diary, Beatrix Bloxam never recovered from overhearing this story being told by her aunt to her older cousins. "Quite by accident, my little ear fell against the keyhole. I can only imagine that must have been paralysed with horror, for I inadvertently heard the whole of the disgusting story, not to mention ghastly details of the dreadfully unsavoury affair of my uncle Nobby, the local hag and a sack of Bouncing Bulbs. The shock almost killed me; I was in bed for a week, and so deeply traumatised was I that I developed the habit of sleepwalking back to the same keyhole every night, until at last my dear papa, with only my best interests at heart, put a Sticking Charm on my door at bedtime.

Remus couldn't help but snicker a bit at this, muttering, "sleepwalking to keyholes, why didn't we ever think of that."

"We used far better excuses," Sirius scoffed.

"That hardly worked any better," James sighed.

Apparently Beatrix could find no way to make "The Warlock's Hairy Heart" suitable for children's sensitive ears, as she never rewrote it for The Toadstool Tales.

"There's the first bit of good news I've heard in a while!" Sirius cheered.

2 The term "warlock" is a very old one. Although it is sometimes used as interchangeable with "wizard", it originally denoted one learned in duelling and all martial magic. It was also given as a title to wizards who had performed feats of bravery, rather as Muggles were sometimes knighted for acts of valour. By calling the young wizard in this story a warlock, Beedle indicates that he has already been recognised as especially skilful at offensive magic. These days wizards use "warlock" in one of two ways: to describe a wizard of unusually fierce appearance, or as a title denoting particular skill or achievement.

3 Hector Dagworth-Granger,

"Granger?" Harry arched a brow in surprise, more than pleased at this sudden change of topic.

"We may have just found Hermione's long lost wizard relation," James agreed with a nod.

At Harry's puzzled expression he elaborated, "while Muggleborns are classified as coming from two nonwizard parents, it truly is impossible for an actual Muggle to produce a wizard without something in the bloodline holding the magic. Diluted and often for generations absent, but at some point along the way one of Hermione's parents family members had to have been a wizard at some point."

Harry felt a funny niggling in the back of his mind, like this fact shouldn't surprise him as much as it did, like he somehow knew that because of some other Muggle in his life...but he shook his head and just chuckled along with Remus when he pointed out, "or it could all be one big fat coincidence of last names again."

"Also true," James agreed.

founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, explains: "Powerful infatuations can be induced by the skillful potioneer, but never yet has anyone managed to create the truly unbreakable, eternal, unconditional attachment that alone can be called Love."

4 Horklumps are pink, bristly mushroom-like creatures. It is very difficult to see why anyone would want to fondle them. For further information, see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

5 Not to be confused with Hairy Snout, Human Heart, a heart-rending account of one man's struggle with lycanthropy.

Remus cleared his throat harshly as he shoved the book to Sirius with a scowl. "Are you happy now?"

"Immensely," Sirius agreed with that wide eyed innocence that had never fooled anyone. "Hopefully this tale has cleared your mind and mended your own heart, and you'll put it back where it belongs!"

"You'll be my first victim," Remus promised.

Harry nibbled at his lip sadly as he watched the pair. It wasn't hard to work out what Sirius was really saying, and Harry had a funny feeling his godfather would be getting his wish sooner than later as his eyes lingered on his next year.

[sainadazai]

When your crush is angry all the time

Ch.4

I wanna be an intern too, you ragedy ann looking ass hoe 😠



Y/n pov

°•○●○•°•○●○•°

All goes well when you are ignorant is what my dear best friend would say to me now, as I sit in the very back of the class unfocused on how our teacher is introducing an activity I have no chance of participating in. All I knew was that when Mr. Aizawa walked up to the board and wrote names of people getting offers, I wasn't one of them. Not that I expected to be, considering I wasn't in the sports festival, let alone the school at all back then. 

However, I did notice a small inconsistency in the order of the most offers. I was pretty sure that boom boom had gotten first place in the festival, him being there is what convinced me to transfer, but his name was actually second on the board. 

Todoroki had taken the place of first as far as offers were concerned. Todoroki the nice boy who I used to meet when I snuck away from my fucking prison cell. Call me privileged for complaining about living in a mansion All my life, but I much prefer being here. With common folk. They ground me. 

I peeked up from my phone at the red and white head of hair in front of me, he didn't seem all that fazed. Although maybe it was just the lack of seeing his face that made me believe he couldn't care less about all but one of those offers. Still, his business is his, and my business is the new Ao3 update on my favorite chrollo lucilfer fanfiction. What a babe. 

I decided that the class as of right now would be of no importance to me, considering I will have no offers, and bakugou-the reason I came here- hates me like I'm a piece of gum stuck under his shoe.  Through that conclusion I allowed myself to dissolve into the world of hxh and forget about how boring this world is. 

Could my power beat Killua or go in a fight? I mean, it doesn't enhance my strength like they did trying to get into Killua's house so physically they must be stronger. 

"Y/n! Is there something you would like to share with the class?"

Mr.Aizawas voice seemed almost shot at me as my gaze rose from my phone in my lap to meet him at the front of the room. He looked displeased to say the least. Well good for him, im displeased too, I might not be able to beat a fucking twelve year old in combat. 

"Huh?"

"You were grumbling, what's so important you had to tell us, hm?"

I thought it through for a second- just kidding, I never think anything through. 

"Oh, well I wasn't sure if I could beat Gon in a fight, but I'm not coming to the realization that if Chrollo is my boyfriend, I shouldn't have to fight anyone at all. I can just be a pretty face in the backgrounds and then after he wins for me i'll suck his-"

"Enough, y/n." Mr.Aizawa no longer held a tired looking face, his eyes were wide and an uncomfortable cringed was set on his face. As I peered at the rest of the class many also had shocked eyes, but unlike our teacher, held faint blushes. 

Minus midoriya, his face was completely red and his eyes void of life. I must've killed him, huh. 

"Wait!"

In an attempt to regain some dignity, I tried to correct myself.

"I would....not suck his-?"

"Don't even say it, shitty princess !"

"Woah bakugou, you spoke to me on purpose!?"

"Shut up!"

"Hey, how come you call me princess, you like me or something?"

He growled at that, neither of us paying mind to the fact that everyone in the class was either dead from nosebleeds or extremely uncomfortable and staring at us.  

"Its cuz you act fucking entitled like a princess"

"I'll be your pillow princes-"

"Enough!" A robotic-like hand sliced the air in front of me. The voice sounded firm, almost more teacher-like than our teacher's voice. I followed my gaze up the hand, not failing to notice how as I drew up the guy's arm his muscles only seemed to get bigger and bigger and- iida? 

"Oh class rep-"

"Y/n this vulgar language and border-line harassment needs to cease immediately. I will not tolerante overtly sexual language and acts in this class-"

As he was speaking I noticed something ironic about the situation. If everyone here didn't like sexual jokes or banter, how were they so flustered at comments that objectively should be unknown to them. 

"How did you know what I meant, iida?" I rasped in a low sultry voice, allowing my fingers to dance up his arm starting at the wrist in front of my face. 

I heard a few chuckles from, who I would say are the only two people enjoying this situation: kaminari and...stinky mineta. Iida's face grew more red than previously and the arms in front of me began shaking. 

"Mr.Aizawa it seems I've disarmed the robot. Is there a restart button or something?" I question with a serious face using the search as an excuse to wonder my eyes all over his body. Perverted? Yes. Rightfully attracted to this giant hunk of a nerd. Yes ×10. 

"No, there is not." Todoroki, who was in front of me, finally turned around to address me. I guess he was unfazed by my words. Looks like someone here can be cool. Whether he is okay because he is more comfortable with sexual jokes, or because he has yet to pick up on them, its nice that somebody in here can still function. Otherwise, I'd feel like a nuisance. 

"Y/n I'm not really sure how to- let's just say to have detention with your m- midnight. Detention. Yeah." Aizawa publicly convinced himself of my punishment? 

"Okay"

"Now, back to this, even if you didn't get any offers ALL of you will have an internship" 

And so went on the class, kids chose their hero names, not me though. I wasn't even sure I wanted to be a hero at all, this was just a little less boring and sad than the way I lived before. This school had people who laughed in joy, not just to mask the pain. That was the real benefit, not being a hero, or being strong. Likely no one here realized that there were many places where none of this joy was possible. 

Some of the kids in class gave me suggestions for a hero name, but I didn't like them anyway. They lacked personality, and while I have many adjectives to describe my personality, my life, none of them are all that heroic. 

"Dark element"

"Girl who will die if her quirk doesnt like its environment" 

See, I'm not the best at this. Even bakugan names had some sense to it...well no. I'd say we're about the same, but still. Ugh. 

~timeskip~ 

Bakugou pov 😠

She came up with no hero names. Fucking entitled brat. Everyone at this lunch table seems to have no problem with the fact that she is here, just happy to have another pair of tits to stare at like perverts. Their gross. I bet she doesn't even want to be a hero, she sure as hell doesn't act like it. We don't even know what her whole quirk is. Ive seen her do that plant shit a couple times, fucking with flowers or whatever. Still, there's more to it. Something we don't know, at least. Cuz in the middle of class she gets up and whispers to Aizawa and he just lets her go. Where the fuck does she go? 

Interrupts class, got into the school because her moms a teacher, won't use her quirk. What a nuisance, I can't believe she is not expelled yet. Plus those bullshit sex jokes are so shitty. She is obviously faking something when she does them. Not like midnight, who always at least seems like she means that gross shit. 

"Hey, who did you guys choose for your internship? I haven't chosen yet."

"The number three hero guy," I spoke, knowing I'm the only person here who already chose. 

"Really? Best jeanist! That's so cool, but are you sure that for you bakugou?" Shitty hair raised a shitty brow at me. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?"

"Just that he seems pretty...uptight..for you?" Dunceface added, but he spoke like it was a question. Of course he is the hero for me, he is the highest ranting hero on my list. If I wanna be number one, I gotta train with the best. 

If I go to his agency I'm sure there will be a lot more action, since he is so high ranking. Then i'll get some real experience kicking villain ass, well, other than the USJ. 

"Of course he is the right option!"

"Woahhh~"

Shit. It's her voice. I honestly should applaud her for using it less often around me but, how can one small girl be so goddamn annoying. I don't even know what she has to say and I already wish she would just put a sock in it. How can someone so entitled like her, probably never had to lift a finger, walk  over here and talk like she has something to say. 

"You're working with the best jeanist! So cool, one time he saved me from a group of rapist guys, it was awesome with all these strings everywhere and I could only see half of his face. Oh and he had goofy hair too!"

Oh. I didn't really know how to respond to the girl who looked so excited about almost being violated. Another thing wrong with her? I looked back at the other people at the table to see if they knew how to respond to something like that. 

Dunceface was frozen, tape arms were frozen, shitty hair was frozen, and alíen eyes were looking like a lost puppy and trying not to cry. 

It didnt seem like the shutty princess was exactly understanding how what she just yelled was making things weird. She just stood there expectantly. She kinda looked like she thought being raped was something that must happen to everyone. Did she think that? Wouldn't put it past her weird ass. 

"Uhm...anyways, i'm sure you'll do awesome, he likes to put boys in tight jeans. Wish I could intern too, I'd love to see that boom boom~" she winked. 

A perverted joke...and then she had the audacity to wink at me. 

"You wish you could see me in tight jeans, shitty extra!"

"I know...thats what a I just said." She dead panned, blinking a couple times at me. 

"Tch, screw you!"

"I would-" 

"Can it, i don't wanna hear your shitty voice anymore"

The girl stopped herself after my words, pushing all her hair behind her head, except for the two blond stands in the front. 

(You don't have to acknowledge these if you don't want, but I made it so that they change color depending on what element your using and I thought it was hot*if you have short hair, then you just got a lil nishinoya type thing 🥰)

Lifted her obnoxious hands that moved around while she talked and made a zipper-like motion over her lips. Then she just stood there looking at me. I really wanted to just let her stand there and go back to eating. Ignore her completely and let her hope fizzle out and die or something like that. 

Yet here I am, still looking at her. Silently. Wishing she made a stupid joke so that I could stop flickering between those images I'd seen of her dancing. How even though ballet is a princess fucking dance, the pictures felt nice. Like if I was watching it live I would probably be unable to criticize it. That pissed me off, because I want to hate everything about her, but I can't hate those photos. Where she looks like she is flying, without any need for a quirk.

I see her in that weird gown, and now, in the UA uniform. I see her looking respectable, formal, and serious. Then I see her stupid little smirk as she takes pride in being able to shut up for more than a minute. 

"Why are you still standing there?"

Instead of answering, she took her hand up again, made a pinch with her fingers and unzipped her mouth. 

"I was enjoying the look in your eyes."she smiled. 

The look in my eyes? Could she tell I was seeing two different people? What the hell does that even mean? Even said it without that shitty flirt voice. Like she meant it. 

"You tryna make fun of me?"I stood up from the table to get in her face.

"Not right now, maybe later, I gotta do something." She smiled sincerely at me, for a second as she walked away, I forgot about how this conversation started. What a wierd fucking girl. I'll never respect her as a hero. Tch. (Yes, its canon he tchs even in his thoughts) 

3rd person POV 

Y/n briskly walked out of the cafeteria with a new goal in mind. She would come to remember how maybe being oblivious was a benefit in some ways, but for now, she had a clear plan .

"Mr.Aizawa, let me do an internship."

"You weren't in the festival, I can't just hand you to a hero who has no idea what you can do, y/n."

"Well, you know what I can do, right?"

"No. I'm not doing internships. Stop asking."

"That's not what I meant! You can just tell them, or I could, it's not that hard to explain. Just say i'm all- powerful or some play on words like 'she's got all the right elements' hehe, see how i mimicked your voice there?" Y/n grinned like a child. She was proud of herself. 

"No. Still not happening."

"I wanna be an intern too, you raggedy ann looking ass hoe" 

"Y/n, it doesn't make sense, insulting me to get what you want?"

"Maybe it doesn't, but I bet you feel real insecure about your hair right now."

"You already have detention, what more do you want!"

"An internship, I wanna do one with kamui Woods, I have a good reason, too. As far as my quirk control, i'm the weakest with earth, the aspect that allows me to grow and manipulate plants and stuff. That's why I've only been using that part of it all month. Im trying to get her up to speed so I can start using all four at once. He is like a tres guy, right? He manipulates earth all day long. He could teach me a lot, and that aspect of my quirk would suit his well. Please!?!?!?"

If the girl had just asked again in a normal way, his answer would have been the same. However Aizawa was taken aback to hear how much thought she put into this. From the stories of the teachers lounge, he came to understand her big life goal, was to rely fully on a rich man or woman, and do nothing at all forever. Just to try and forget about the terrible life she was destined to have because of that quirk.

This side of her was something he could not even her mother had seen, and it prompted him to speak those words she wanted to hear so badly.

"Fine." 

[lamortexiii]

Cryptic Mystic: Karma, Keepers, or Something Else...

Karma, Keepers, or Something Else…: I am sure that you have heard the phrase “reap what you sow” at some point in your life, otherwise known as karma. Maybe you’ve experienced karma in your life. After all, we receive what we put out into the universe… or do we? Some believe there is a “keeper” or someone watching over us that protects us and provides us good or bad experiences based on how we interact with others (some may say “angels). If this is so, is this individual or universal? Maybe “keepers” are loved ones who have left their physical form, or maybe they are something that our human minds are currently incapable of understanding. For some this may even simply be a grandeur delusion brought on by narcissistic personality traits or possibly a mental disorder. A little unknown mixed in with a little psychology, served on a platter as per usual. Let’s dive right in to 2021 with this debatable topic, shall we?

I’ll start by informing you that karma actually possesses many meanings depending on what culture and country you are in. The most familiar American definition of karma - meaning that bad things happen to those who do bad things and good things happen to those who do good things - is but one definition of many. Now, this definition that we understand here in America is of course defined by what one perceives as good and bad - this can look different for many people. Having said this, there is no “one way” to believe in karma or to define what “good and bad” mean. For our purposes, I am going to define the terms karma, good, and bad in the most generalized sense that a majority of American society would view as the typical definition. Just know, this may or may not apply to your personal beliefs of what defines “good and bad” or your personal beliefs of what the definition of “karma” is. I completely agree that there are many viewpoints and perceptions and do not discount differences in opinions/beliefs by any means.

Karma originated from the Sanskrit term meaning “action, work, or deed.” It was a plain and simple definition, as if I were having a conversation with you and said, “The karma that he is completing on that house looks marvelous!” I realize how utterly ridiculous that sounds in today’s way of speaking - given the word was just used completely out of cultural context, but you get the point. The word “karma” at that time was just another word and carried little significance. That is, until 1000-700BCE when within the Vedic religion the definition of karma actually meant something that you likely would not guess. The definition took an abrupt and dramatic turn and was used to define not only the word “act,” but additionally it was defined as actions that took place regarding ritualistic and sacrificial occurrences.

Karma in itself has ancient roots in religion such as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Sikhism to name a few. Karma is seen as a sort of rebirth process in which the way that an individual is in the present day affects their future - all within the same life cycle. Within this realm, karma also affects one’s samsara, or quality of life. In Asia karma is portrayed through symbols such as the endless knot, which symbolizes the never ending process of cause and effect. In knowing this, you can see why karma closely relates to the philosophical theory of causality, defined as when one event contributes to another event where the cause is partly responsible for the effect, and the effect is partly dependent on the cause. The idea of karma in this sense is seen as a never ending cycle - one that highly influences the circle of life. This is what we know and recognize in modern American society, as well as in many other first-world countries/cultures.

In current society we then view karma as defining the relationship of cause and effect. Some view this as a very spiritual term, believing that there is a higher power who controls the occurrences of karma. Others simply use the term with reckless abandon - not actually understanding what it means, as society has culturally appropriated the term to fit the American narrative. Yet others (myself included) question the occurrence of karma and the several possibilities that may be at play here. Whether you believe karma occurs due to a higher power, some other religious aspect, sheer luck, extraterrestrials, a delusional belief, something else, or maybe you don’t believe in it at all - and that’s okay! Regardless of what you believe, we’re going to dive into some of those possibilities today. As I always say, once you have read this blog it is up to you to ultimately decide what you believe.

From a personal standpoint, I have been in many situations where either I don’t know how I survived, or at the bare minimum how I managed to come out of certain situations unscathed. I have been in several car accidents that were so much more than just fender benders - coming out of all of those without a single scratch. I have never caused an accident, however for whatever reason I seem to be a target for idiots who don’t know how to drive. I guess I just have that attraction factor. All jokes aside, I consider myself lucky to have not been injured in any of the accidents that I have been in. I have to wonder how this is possible, but then another person can be in ONE accident and it’s all over.

I will share a more intimate incident with you that is much darker than a happenstance car accident. When I was much younger I tried to take my own life. I didn’t want to be in this body on this planet any longer. I remember thinking to myself - there has to be something better than this. I swallowed a bunch of unknown pills doused with alcohol. I attempted this on two different occasions. Both times made me extremely ill. The first time I vomited and then felt very tired. The second time I fell to the floor and almost became unconscious. I was very dizzy and couldn’t stand/walk. I went to sleep for several hours with a low heart rate and shallow breathing. However, after both of these occurrences many years later, I realize that I was put here for a bigger purpose. I have many reasons I am here - sharing this blog with you being one of them. I wasn’t meant to leave my physical form here on Earth either one of those times. I like to think that something is protecting me, however I cannot say with certainty what that is or why exactly…

My biological mother was in a bad car accident when she fell asleep at the wheel. It threw her from the car and knocked off both of her sneakers. She woke up laying in the grass without shoes. She told me that she doesn’t remember much, but that she saw white hands on her shoulders and felt like whatever that was had pushed her through the accident. She came out without any serious injuries - only suffering minor bruising. It is important to note that she has had similar experiences as I have with feeling things and experiencing premonitions.

To touch on karma a bit from a personal experience, I have a short but interesting story to tell. Growing up I didn’t have many true friends and found myself surrounded by individuals who acted in a manner that I did not understand. There was a lot of negative energy on behalf of those around me; jealousy, lies, deceit, bad intentions, and misery. I wasn’t treated very well by my peers or in relationships. In fact, I was bullied, mentally abused, and physically abused by several people as I grew from a child to an adolescent. Interestingly enough, I found that those who did absolutely wrong to me that had the worst of intentions always had something bad happen to them. One person that comes to mind was blown up in an explosion overseas while serving in the military. Another person was in a bad car accident. From what I know currently, all of these people who were utterly nasty to me continue to lead miserable lives - because they are in fact miserable people. Whether this is just their nature or that they just didn’t have the strength and willpower to seek better things for themselves is debatable. Nonetheless, none of them as far as I know are happy in the present day and have likely never experienced true real happiness. As described before, some of these people have had very bad things happen to them. Is this karma or maybe a keeper’s doing? I have no idea, but it is something I have turned over in my mind for many years, and continue to ponder on from time to time.

One theory some hold is that angels are protecting people. This could turn into a really big conversation, so I will try my best to stay objective here and stick to the main topic of karma and keepers. I challenge the theory of angels for the following reasons: The Bible was written by several people with several different versions available, as have all books that we know today. Christianity in itself, as well as several other religions point to the sky (or heavens) as being the source of an almighty power. What if angels are actually extraterrestrials and those who have experienced said “angels” rationalize their experience by putting a name on the experience, therefore believing it was a religious experience rather than something that they didn’t understand - as a form of coping with the unknown. That is my personal theory in relation to “keepers” and the “karma” experienced therein as being related to any type of angelic form. This also covers how extraterrestrials could very well be the forces pulling the strings. As humans we base our logical thinking on what it is we know to be true - or what we have been taught is the truth, but how do we really know? The short answer is - we don’t. It is much easier to put a label on something to be able to process what that thing is than to be left to wonder and be afraid of what we do not know and understand. It is much easier to read what others have written and blindly accept it as being “the truth” or “the way” without seeking further proof. Just a few things to think about - and this goes for any religion. Group-think is a good descriptive term that comes to mind.

The religious standpoint on karma and “keepers” has everything to do with psychology and the human brain and its functions. Think about it as I said before - the human brain naturally tries to rationalize and process new information in a way that is understandable and logical. This varies depending on who you are talking to of course, but is the ultimate foundation for religion. Beginning in ancient times before electricity, technology, and all of the wonderful (and not so wonderful) things we have now, the less intelligent brains of those before us attempted to rationalize what they were experiencing. Let me give you a universal example that is actually more recent - did you know at one point women were seen as being psychotic and even evil for having hormonal symptoms related to their menstrual cycle and even for having a menstrual cycle period? (no pun intended) Women were put through horrible treatment to try to treat PMS, and it was even seen as being a mental illness/disorder for a very long time! At one point in time menstruating women were seen as being involved in magic and sorcery (whoops, you got me!). To quote some religious scripture, “go apart from women during the monthly course, do not approach them until they are clean” Quran 2:222, “…in her menstrual impurity; she is unclean… whoever touches…shall be unclean and shall wash his clothes and bathe in water and be unclean until evening” Leviticus 15, and lastly from the first Latin encyclopedia, “Contact with menstrual blood turns new wine sour, crops touched by it become barren, grafts die, seed in gardens are dried up, the fruit of trees fall off, the edge of steel and the gleam of ivory are dulled, hives of bees die, even bronze and iron are at once seized by rust, and a horrible smell fills the air; to taste it drives dogs mad and infects their bites with an incurable poison.” Okay… so… you realize how ridiculous all of this sounds, right? However, it was not ridiculous at the time - the people who lived in those times found a way to explain, rationalize, and describe what they felt was logical for explaining a woman’s menstrual cycle. Freud attempted to explain why people felt this way about menstrual cycles by stating that humans are naturally scared and uncomfortable around blood - again the human brain giving a logical explanation for why these thoughts and beliefs occurred. We know now through research and scientific data (actual tangible proof) that PMS is related to the shift in hormones women experience during that special time of month, which can cause a plethora of symptoms. This is easily treatable today with modern medicine or more holistic approaches - both of which have also been scientifically proven to work.

I know that last paragraph seems a little off course for this particular blog topic, but it carries a strong point that I feel necessary to make. Point being: religion is just another way the human brain tries to rationalize an event that is happening that is unexplained, new, different, abnormal, or scary; the same way that human brains of ancient times tried to rationalize with women bleeding from their vaginas. Having answers and an explanation gives people peace of mind. Once an idea becomes universal, again, it makes it easy to follow and just shrug the phenomena off as being caused by whatever is said by whoever is explaining it as their belief. The same is said for keepers, karma, and everything in between.

From a disorder perspective, it is very possible that some people believe in having a “keeper” because they are divine or special to a point of being above others. This behavior would likely fall under a more Narcissistic Personality Disorder or potentially some form of psychosis or schizophrenia. Reason being, these disorders involve hallucinations, delusions, and irrational beliefs that are of a bizarre nature. All three have key factors that make them different of course. For example, Narcissistic Personality Disorder revolves more around the person having selfish traits and not possessing the ability to connect with others all while believing they are of a certain prestige pedigree or above others. Psychosis and schizophrenia look similarly to one another in that both include symptomology involving hallucinations, delusions, and breaks from reality, however schizophrenia can actually cause psychosis. Additionally, patients diagnosed with schizophrenia may have symptoms of psychosis but not everyone with psychosis will be diagnosed with schizophrenia. Keeping it short here, but those are the basics of those three conditions. Knowing this, it is easy to see how someone could hold a belief that they have someone watching over them because they are special, or that some force is causing them to receive good karma or inflict bad karma on those who do them wrong.

Regardless of which way you choose to look at keepers and karma, both are definitely interesting phenomena that could use more research and productive discussions. Keeping an open-mind is always the path I personally choose to take because there are so many factors and options to consider before making a solid judgement on what the actual root cause of either one of these is. I wanted to kick 2021 off with an interesting yet somewhat debatable topic to really get you thinking. There are plenty more blogs in store where this one came from. This year will be much better than what we knew as 2020 (good riddance!) Here’s to another year full of education, knowledge, mystery, good conversation, and intriguing topics that really get those gears turning in your brain. Stay safe, be you, and never stop seeking the truth - whatever that truth is for you.

Cryptic Mystic Blog by PsychVVitch

www.LaMorteXiii.com

[mooksie01]

With Teammates Like These, Who Needs Friends? (1/5)

Summary: Clover doesn't care what the other Ace Ops have to say, he absolutely does NOT have a crush on Huntsman Branwen. He just admires his skill on the battlefield. And the visible results of his obviously-excellent training regiment. And his gorgeous eyes. And his mysterious demeanor. And voice.

Okay, Clover might have just a little bit of a crush on Huntsman Branwen, but that doesn't matter, because if the other Ace Ops are going to tease him relentlessly for it, then he just won't pursue any relationship with the guy!

...Maybe.

Warnings: None, really, for this chapter. Death mention in the context of a joke. Gratuitous bullying of teammates. Spoilers for RWBY Volume 7.

AO3 Link: [X] 

Notes:  Hey, so... I haven't really written for fun in over four years. Which. Is pretty crazy to think about. But my New Year's Resolution this year is to get back into it because it used to make me really happy. With that said, I'm pretty rusty nowadays, so I'm sorry if any of this reads a little awkwardly. I'm hoping to get back to the level I used to be at with some practice, but I know it'll take time. This fic is mainly my effort at shaking the dust off with my current favorite show and favorite ship.  I hope you all enjoy! Please like, reblog, and comment if you have the time to do so, I'd really appreciate some encouragement while I get back into the swing of things! FAIR GAME RIGHTS!!

---

Clover can’t say that he isn’t expecting it, but even he is a little taken by surprise when, only mere seconds after closing the door to the Ace Ops’ commons, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and spins him around with enough force to make him dizzy. 

Elm’s ecstatic face immediately fills his entire field of vision. 

Oh, Brothers.

“Clover!” 

He attempts to wave her off, feeling his face grow hot. “I’m trying to head to bed, Elm. Gotta be up bright and early tomorrow, you know.” 

Her shit-eating grin only grows larger. Her vice-grip tightens. He will not be escaping any time soon. His death warrant is signed and hidden somewhere in the mess that Elm calls her quarters. 

Elm manhandles him to the couch and shoves him down to sit, then flops down next to him and tosses her wrapped feet onto the coffee table. 

He wrinkles his nose. “Elm, please. I’ve talked to you about your feet and the table.” 

Ignoring him (as she so often does) Elm simply continues to grin smugly at him. “Who would’ve thought?! Our very own captain!” 

Clover rolls his eyes in what he hopes to be a clear sign of his exasperation. 

“Elm, what are you even talking about?” Marrow pipes up from where he is leaning against the wall. His arms are crossed over his chest in a deliberate attempt to appear uninterested, though his faintly wagging tail gives him away. Clover hadn’t even noticed him until he’d spoken. 

Looking around, he realizes that all of his subordinates are standing about the room, watching the interaction with varying degrees of interest. Just great. He considers whether or not it would be worth it to attempt to preemptively write Elm up for not-yet-conducted insubordination. 

Hm. He probably isn’t allowed to do that.

He startles as Elm yanks her feet off the table next to him, instead throwing herself forward so she can bang her fist against the helpless furniture to punctuate her next statement, “Our captain has a crush on Huntsman Branwen!” 

“Elm,” Harriet sighs, “stop being an idiot. Again. You know that he--” 

Clover pulls himself away from Elm and her interrogation couch. He stands up, straight-backed, falling into a parade rest that has his shoulders held just a little too tightly to his ears, positive that his face is red. “That’s enough,” he orders, voice as firm as he can make it, “what I do is none of your concern, Elm. Nor anyone else’s. This conversation is… unprofessional, to say the least. And it’s over.” 

Rather than be appropriately cowed by his scolding, Elm only flashes him an even bigger smile. On the other side of the room, Harriet makes a choking sound and starts to sputter, “Holy shit, you are--!”

Elm jumps to her feet, swinging a muscular arm over his shoulders. “I think you mean ‘who you do,’ Captain!” 

Clover shrugs her off, scowling. “Elm!” His mind races, attempting to formulate a way to escape this horrible situation, but it seems that no amount of luck is getting him out of this one.

“Well,” Vine rubs speculatively at his chin, finally deciding to contribute something to this dumpster-fire of a conversation, and Clover makes the split-second mistake of hoping that he will be the voice of reason to shut the whole thing down, “you can hardly blame our captain. Huntsman Branwen is, objectively, quite conventionally attractive. Not to mention his skill-level and renown in the field and all of the good he has done in the ongoing battle against Salem….” 

Clover feels his soul die a little.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Marrow throws his hands up in the air, his tail raised in visible agitation. “What are we, a buncha kids? You’ve known the guy for five minutes!” 

Elm laughs uproariously, “And he stared at Huntsman Branwen for all five! Not to mention the extra twenty seconds when he was watching him walk away!” 

Harriet gags. She looks incredibly annoyed and vaguely disgusted at this turn of events.

“That really is enough--!” Clover tries.

“Really?” Vine tilts his head, coming a few steps closer. He peers at Clover in a speculative manner. “It seems to me that it would be difficult to catch a glimpse of Huntsman Branwen’s posterior, considering that the cape he wears covers it quite effectively. Are you sure, Elm, that that is what Clover was doing?” 

“Haha!” Elm raises her hand for a high-five, which her partner passively returns.

Clover is sure his skin-tone must faintly resemble that of the Atlas Academy mess hall’s tomato soup by now. He had not been staring at Huntsman Branwen’s ass. Even if he were interested in Qrow Branwen like that, he’s too much of a gentleman to do such a thing. Besides, there were plenty of other attractive aspects of Huntsman Branwen to focus on without having to drool over his “posterior” like some sort of mangy grimm. Like his soft vermillion eyes; or his trim waist; or his hair, which looked like the shining feathers of his namesake; or his elegant hands, undoubtedly calloused from so many years of handling his weapon so skillfully…. He swallows hard and feels his face flare up anew as he realizes what train of thought he’d been taking. 

Looking up, he catches Elm smirking at him again. Marrow and Harriet have near-matching expressions of distaste. Vine is merely studying him with even more interest than before.

He opens his mouth to retaliate, only for Vine to cut him off, clasping his hands behind his back in a move so prim that it leaves Clover completely unprepared for what he says next: “I believe our captain was just lost in thought about Huntsman Branwen’s posterior again.” 

Clover coughs hard, choking on his own spit. Vaguely, he registers the sound of Elm exploding into further laughter at his expense. 

“Oh, ew, ew, ew!” Marrow covers his ears, baring his teeth at Vine and Elm and probably also Clover. 

Harriet simply glowers at all of them, “I did not need to know that.”

After a moment, Clover pulls himself together. He glares at his attackers, “Elm,” he snarls, “Vine.” 

Vine takes an even step back, cocking his head inquisitively, “I apologize, did I say something incorrect?”

Elm loops her bicep around her partner’s neck in a pseudo-chokehold that he makes no attempt to remove himself from. “No, Vine, but I believe that’s our cue to leave!” She extricates herself from him and once again brings her hand down hard on Clover’s shoulder, having apparently never learned that it isn’t wise to poke an angry bear. “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll make sure to keep an extra eye out for your little bird!” She winks and pats him a few times with enough force to jolt his entire upper torso. “Though I’m sure you’ll already have that handled!” 

Then, in a blink, she has removed herself from the room, Vine following behind her at a more sedate pace. 

They are going to be facing so much disciplinary action, Clover thinks furiously. They will be scrubbing the floors for months. He turns to face Harriet and Marrow, who are somehow still in the room, staring at him. He crosses his arms firmly over his chest, “Do either of you have something to add?”

Marrow merely shakes his head and turns tail to leave. 

Harriet looks him over for a moment longer, then makes a sharp tsk’ing sound with her tongue. “Gross.”

She spins on her heel and walks down the hallway that leads to each of their personal rooms.

Clover sighs heavily and plops back down on the couch. It is going to be a long however-many-months with Huntsman Branwen and his students here. 

Still, he can certainly make it easier on himself by avoiding working with the other man. Even if he is incredibly attractive….

(No! Bad Clover!)

Everything will go over much more smoothly if he just isn’t seen staring at or talking to or even vaguely thinking about Huntsman Branwen from here on out.

---

More Notes: So, that was the first chapter! I hope you liked it and that it made your day a little brighter :)

The first installment is already completely finished minus some light editing. Stuff from here on out will probably be formatted as oneshots rather than chaptered fics, but I wanted this first part to be a bit longer and explore the very beginnings of our boys' relationship, with particular emphasis on Clover being a Secret Gay Disaster. Is that actually my headcanon for the show? Nah. Is that what this fic turned into? Absolutely.

Anyway, I'm currently deciding whether I want to post one chapter everyday for the next four days to finish this story up or if I want to post every other day. If anyone has any opinions on that, I'd be glad to hear them.

[tayerroos]

Patchwork Tales: Book 1

A “9" roleplay compendium.  Read on AO3 Chapter: 4 [First] [Back] [You Are Here] [Next] Warnings for this chapter: None

[doryishness]

Prepping myself for this years NaNo, by writing drabbles of my swtor OCs and friend’s.  Please forgive all the spelling and grammar errors - I was/am very stoned while writing this and was just trying to reach the word count. Summary: Buster is grief stricken and alone to deal with his comrade Jurella’s brutal death by the republic. But he’s not alone as he thinks.

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Jurella. It could never be her. The brutally assaulted body in front of him could never be his vainglorious comrade. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and gave a brief nod to the medical examiner across from him. His eyes burned but no tears would come. He was far past that. With her…the last of his fortitude was gone. The boot smashed face and slit throat surrounded by dirty disarrayed black hair was mercifully recovered by the examiner. Sound faded and his vision glazed over as he tonelessly answered the procedural questions in identifying her body. He could hear himself talking, but what he said he would never know. All he could think of was that he was that he was completely and utterly alone. He had never felt so cold before. His homeland and all other ice planets he had been on in his life were tropical paradises compared to the numbing he felt down to his marrow.

“Sir?” The medical examiner startled him out of his revere and he snapped his eyes up, locking onto the examiner. “I asked who shall receive her remains?”

“Her fam- I will deliver them to her family.” Buster responded mutedly. He tried to think of the details needed to take the white covered body back to their home world, but all he could think about was last time he had seen her alive. Iokath. The cursed planet. He should have let the planet be destroyed along with Scorpio. Then none of this would have ever happened. Empire and Republic wouldn’t have clashed on and over the forsaken planet, and he wouldn’t have lost everyone he loved to the Republic on it.

It was getting harder to breath. The Empire and Ascendency meant nothing to him. But he had been fighting the Republic all his life. He couldn’t just change that. But without even conferring with him or anyone else, Slaffid had immediately allied with the Republic. The man he had begrudgingly come to see as a friend and confidante…had made the choice for him before even letting him speak. To side with the enemies he had known since he was born against his past life and loyalties.

It had only hurt worse from there. Reeling from Slaffid’s decision and the immediate escalation into war, his beloved husband, the only man he thought he could love, had defected to the Republic as well. He must have known that Buster would object; would want to talk about it first – so Noxass had simply left him without a word. Simply vanished as if he were a force ghost. Buster struggled to take in a breath, the weight of the hurt so heavy on his chest.Everyone he had loved: Dolphelia he had anticipated and expected. His meek adopted sister was much more suited for the healing lifestyle of a simple jedi then a lord of the sith. He didn’t begrudge her for taking her son and husband and fleeing to the less terrorizing Republic. He knew that she would be safe and protected there and even thrive, but her apology had still hurt him. He closed his eyes, remembering her tear-rimmed eyes pleading to come with them, and then begging his forgiveness for her choice. He could still feel the softness of her forehead when he had kissed her goodbye, murmuring that she had nothing to apologize for, that she was finally free and he simply wished for her happiness. Only Dolphila and Slaffid begged him to join the Republic with them. Ixaci – his dotty cybernetic adopted sister – had merely sneered at Slaffid’s announcement, spat some mandoa insult at him, given a rude gesture and strode from the area on the spin on her heel. When he had gone to find her after he finished reeling from the news himself, he found that she had simply left the planet in her ship. Nothing said to him at all. He had tried to get her by holo dozens of times, but she refused to answer. Normally her eccentric behavior and oft radio silence didn’t bother him, but he was blind-sided and growing increasingly desperate for some answers and stability as his world started to crumble beneath his feet.He had then tried to seek out the youngest of his squad, the shoeless sniper who loved his mouse droids. But Elmer too was gone. The only thing left in his place on their ship was a datapad with a single word programed in. SORRY.

“I’ll leave you alone to say goodbye.” The medical examiner said with professional sympathy. Buster nodded mutely, and the examiner left the room.

Buster finally broke the breath he had been holding and sucked in a ragged gasp, vision refocusing once more. Iokath had broken the ground beneath his feet and left him scrabbling for answers that were unclear. But Jurella had remained with him. She had been the only anchor as his world fell to darkness. Buster reached a trembling hand to slide along the cold metal table until his fingers bumped into her sheet covered ones.  “By the stars, I’m going to miss you, you bitch.” He croaked in a whisper. He bit the inside of his lip, swallowing another hard lump as his red eyes burned with unshed tears. He had often butted heads with her the most of his team, only slightly less than with Slaffid but he had never predicted losing her as well, after everyone else. He gritted his teeth, trying to block the wave of memories trying to flood his mind.

His team had come on such a journey. From meeting his husband, to banding together, to battling to the controller that had tried to use them for his own sick gains; they had stuck together like glue, despite all obstacles and heartache thrown at them. He had thought nothing could tear them apart. How wrong he was.The Republic on Iokath…and then the whole planet, would burn. He would find who had so brutally murdered Jurella and then they would pay. And after that, he would destroy Iokath. His fingers clenched into a fist and he punched the metal table next to her hand.

Pain radiated up his arm but it was nothing compared to the ache in his head and heart. Friends...no, he had considered them all family if he was truly honest with himself, had all left him. The grief and despondency was nothing compared to the dull ache he could feel in the bones of his hand.  Physical pain meant nothing to him – he had been tortured so many times that his body could resist it. But nothing could ease a broken heart. He punched the table harder, placing both fists on the table next to her body and hung his head, eyes closing. What he would give to be able to talk to any of his loved ones again. To go back to how things had been before this accursed planet.  Memories tried to creep in and he shook his head furiously. He wouldn’t think of the missions and operations he and his team had taken on for Slaffid.  He wouldn’t think of the times that he had been back to back to the Republic Hero, Leader of Havoc Squad and Breaker of the Battle at Corellia. He wouldn’t think of his sisters and the time they had spent growing up on Ziost, all trapped in a miserable situation since childhood but had bonded together to survive until the chance to leave had presented itself.

Damnit…he punched the table a third time. His knuckles ached and were started to bruise as he squeezed his eyes closed harder. He was so focused on suppressing all the emotions inside that he didn’t hear anyone enter until a hand gently rested on his shoulder. Eyes flying open, Buster peered over his shoulder. Zoni was behind him, arm outstretched and he squeezed Buster’s shoulder briefly. The other chiss’s eyes were sad but understanding. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Buster’s eyes closed again and he dropped his head again, heaving a deep sigh.He felt Zoni step closer and another reassuring squeeze. Swallowing the lump of a sob that threatened to burst forth, Buster reached up to gently grab the hand on his shoulder, grasping Zoni’s fingers. They stood there in silence for several minutes, Zoni patient as Buster fought his emotions under control. Finally, with a deep shuddering breath, Buster drew himself up straight and turned around to face his fellow chiss.

“Lord Zoni. You honor me. Forgive my sentiment.” Buster greeted him with a gravelly voice.  He still held Zoni’s fingers in his hand on his shoulder, reluctant to let go.

Zoni rolled his eyes but then smiled sadly. “I know you two were close.  I’m sorry for your loss.” The House Inrokini noble stepped closer, until he and Buster were toe to toe. “If there is anything I can do…” The handsome ascendancy agent tilted his head, studying Buster’s face. “I mean it.”The demons that haunted Buster whispered cruelly to him not to trust Zoni, to let the attractive man go and destroy himself in grief in private, but the warm and comforting smile Zoni was giving him prompted to break his stone cold act. Tears still wouldn’t come, he would never let them but he couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer to Zoni and wrapping his arms around his middle. It surprised both men. Both were known for their stoicism in public, being the ideal agent and soldiers and in Zoni’s case, noble. But after a moment’s hesitation, Zoni’s arms wrapped around Buster’s shoulders. Buster dropped his face to bury in Zoni’s shoulder and breathe in the noble’s scent.

They were never coming back. He had been left and abandoned by those that he had loved. He would still love them no matter what. And although he would never admit the irrational hurt and anger, all he wished was he had a chance to speak to them one last time and get closure. But in Zoni’s arms, warmth started to seep beneath his skin, chasing away the icy loneliness and for that he was grateful beyond expression.  

[cateringisalie]

Jenovawatch

Should I apologise for the title? Hopefully who equates to who is more or less clear (this turned out massively different to initial ideas; Aeris was meant to be D.Va, but thanks to effortlesslyuncool she turned out to be Brigitte):

The Jenova Crisis was a global issue. Aeris understood this. She also understood the need to co-operate with other organizations in their response to the persistent and ongoing threat to life on the Planet. It would be nice if Shinra got the reasonably clear-cut memo that everyone else in the world seemed to have received; look we have to work together or we will all be wiped out, you lot can do your assassinations and weird science experiments later surely? Shinra remained theoretically committed to stopping Jenova instances if not wholly for their eradication; rumours abounded of what their head scientist Lucrecia was doing with captured specimens.

Fortunately the current mission should not lead to an encounter with the disgraced scientist. Rather, Aeris had been dispatched to take care of a possible hidden infestation on a tiny island off the coast of Wutai. And since said mission took place in Wutai territorial waters, some negotiation was necessary with Wutai’s government. Never a problem, Wutai were more than willing to assist Avalanche, though remained quite separate from the organisation. Their deep-rooted hatred of Shinra ensured there was no chance of an alignment with the nefarious group. That master hacker Shelke had reportedly been sighted in the area should have been no concern for Aeris.

But. Wutai insisted on sending assistance in the form of Yuffie “D.Va” Kisaragi. Not that Kisaragi was not an accomplished operative and combatant. It would be foolish to overlook her rise to prominence from online gaming to mech-operator. Mere months ago she had handled a Jenova incursion solo at great personal risk. Not to be underestimated.

But. Kisaragi’s public, or rather, promotional persona was misleading. Until today, Kisaragi had been an immaculately presented, chirpy and glamorous figure, aficionado of the finer things in life. Now, Aeris was well aware the late teenager had a tendency to gorge potato chips and soda. Also an attention span for which micro-seconds seemed too short. Two hours scouting the island, and the moment Aeris stopped to rest, out came the snacks, a holographic screen snapping into existence in the air, the mecha folding its legs. Kisaragi was gaming.

Not for the first time did Aeris wonder how wise it was to bring such a mobile weapons platform on a mission with a risk – however slight – of an encounter with a master hacker more than capable of puppeteering any mechanical entity she so chose. This had been explained to Kisaragi a number of times to little concern of the operator. Nor was she apparently worried about bringing a pink robot to a jungle. This was Aeris’s life apparently. Best to- A noise off to the right; a sound in the undergrowth.

“Kisaragi.” The pilot continued clicking the buttons of her controller. Aeris repeated herself, hefting her flail and shield generator, gaze focused on the direction. Jenova? Shinra? Some wildlife unaccounted for in the scans?

“Huh? What?” The screen snapped off and with it the nuisance electronic bleeps.

Aeris waved at her and crept closer. “Something’s out there.”

The mecha unfolded itself and stood up. And with that one movement, pretences of stealth were gone. That machine was less than quiet. Should have left Kisaragi to her game. “Where?”

The whisper was almost enough to make Aeris face-palm. She was at least trying. Aeris pointed, the rustle in the undergrowth louder now. She flicked her shield on, the mecha’s canons twitching, concealed panels jutting open to reveal the gleaming tips of the micro-missiles. They remained tense, the mecha mercifully silent when not moving. A louder crash, a glimpse of something moving, a grey uniform- Not Jenova then. But Shinra was a possibility.

The gun appeared first, a huge cannon of unfamiliar design. The woman who carried it hefted it with muscular arms; short, cropped black hair, amazing arms, red eyes. The woman stopped dead the moment she entered the clearing, her gaze flicking between them. A burst of unfamiliar language, a pause, and then something that sounded familiar. A question. Kisaragi agreed and grinned.

“Uh,” Aeris blinked forcibly.

“Can’t escape my fans it seems,” she said. “Listen I’ll do the autograph later.”

“Autograph?” The situation seemed to click and Aeris suppressed the urge to groan. Of course. While Avalanche was known, none of them were celebrities in the same vein as Kisaragi. The woman’s gaze flicked to her and remained. Not unwanted, but who was this? Not something Kisaragi seemed to have considered.

“Avalanche?” Her eyes narrowed before the next word. “Or Shinra?”

“Avalanche,” Aeris replied hurriedly. The cannon might well be capable of piercing her shield given its size.

The woman nodded, her posture relaxing.  She let the cannon sink to the ground and straightened her back. “Good. But also bad. If you were Shinra, perhaps you could tell me where Shelke is.”

A glance to Kisaragi. Curious. “You don’t seem aligned with Shinra-“ The woman snorted. “-so who are you?”

“Tifa Lockhart, mercenary,” she replied straightening her back. “I have been hired to hunt down Shelke.” No shortage of people the hacker had upset, though curious who Shelke had riled sufficiently to hire Lockhart.

“So you heard that rumour too.”

A nod. “And yet, you bring this machine here?” She gestured at Kisaragi. “Poor choices.”

“No way Shelke can hack me,” Kisaragi snapped. “We are way too advanced for her.”

Lockhart’s tone softened. “It does not to pay to be overconfident with her. Or those she is aligned with.” Kisaragi glared at her and stomped out of the clearing on a different course to Lockart’s.

“Sorry about her. She’s-“ Aeris shrugged helplessly.

“Different,” Lockhart replied with a grin. A glance in the direction of the robot. “Do you object to an alliance?”

She was not aligned with Shinra, that should be enough. Hopefully Aeris would not find out later that she was not somehow involved with the Jenova worshippers. That seemed unlikely given her lack of hostility to Avalanche. Aeris shook her head. “More back-up is appreciated. To a point anyway.” She sighed. “Guess we better follow her though.”

Together they made their way deeper into the jungle, progress easier with Kisaragi striding ahead on tireless, mechanical legs. Mission first Gainsborough. But perhaps another glance at Lockhart would not hurt- Stop that. “Why do you do this?”

“Sorry?”

Lockhart’s lips moved silently for a moment. “Why are you in Avalanche?”

Ah. “You could say it’s a family tradition.” All of them still alive thankfully. “I wanted to do my part too.” The other woman nodded. She opened her mouth to speak and stopped. Kisaragi was paused ahead of them. “What is-“ Aeris cut herself off as she circled the mecha. Two meters away the ground sank and plummeted into the abyss. Denizens of the inferno writhed and clawed. Another blink. Not a vision from Dante; this was a more familiar horror. The constantly changing fleshy mass that was Jenova. “Guess we found the infestation.”

Lockhart whistled while peering over the edge. “I haven’t seen that many since the war.” She pointed. “That is a flier.”

“Are you sure?” Aeris followed the indicated direction. A larger mass of Jenova was shifting form in the centre of the pit, wing-like vestiges shaping themselves. Aeris swore. “I don’t think we can do this alone.”

“How long until back-up?” Lockhart’s gaze flicked around the lip of the crater. No sign of Shelke, but if the hacker was here, then perhaps Shinra had been called. Perhaps she was holding off in lieu of the greater prize. Another reminder of the rumours about what Lucrecia wanted with samples.

Aeris shook herself. “An hour maybe.”

“That thing is not going to wait an hour,” Kisaragi muttered. The mecha hunched.

“Wait,” Aeris said. Below the mottled purple flesh of Jenova receded from the mass in the centre; the true form of the flying Jenova was near complete. “We go in there, we get overwhelmed.” She grabbed her radio and signalled headquarters. A rush, a sensation of something ascending at speed. A heart-rending boom that made her jump, a rush of wind and Kisaragi was no longer beside her. “I said wait,” Aeris roared.

“She cannot,” Lockhart replied and hefted her canon. Above them Kisaragi ascended, the dark form of the Jenova flier visible above her. Staccato bursts of pulse cannons sounded distantly. “I hope you are right about Avalanche’s response. We must hold out.” A burst of energy towards the pit; a tendril of Jenova withered and disintergrated into ash. The rim of the pit disappeared beneath a rising tide of the alien creature.

“Fall back,” Aeris said, Lockhart already moving back, her gaze flicking from target to target. A click and Aeris’s energy shield burst into life; a snap of her wrist and the flail snaked out to smash a tendril attempting to flank Lockhart. The other woman nodded in thanks and fired another pulse of energy. Above them, Kisaragi darted through the air, never letting the flier move towards the open water. How much ammo did that thing carry? How much fuel?

She would need to trust Kisaragi; for now they needed to concentrate on staying alive. “I have never seen it behave like this,” Lockhart muttered. “Is there something here?”

“Interesting question,” Aeris replied, swigging at her flask; she tossed the rest to Lockhart, the tiredness fading from her limbs. “Give me your number and I’ll tell you what we find when back-up arrives.” Left unsaid: assuming they were both alive by that point.

“Attractive girl asking for my phone number.” Lockhart shot her a smirk. Aeris was on the verge of explaining that she meant solely professionally, but if Lockhart was into that and didn’t have that many skeletons in her closet maybe- “I would like to discuss over coffee if acceptable.”

Aeris grinned. “It’s a date.” With renewed vigour she brought her flail down over and over again. The tide slowly shifted, the Jenova tendrils ceasing to advance, the flier blasted out of the air by a burst of missiles. Kisaragi dropped beside them and helped the now minimal efforts to contain Jenova while they waited for more operatives and a planned controlled burn. Uneasy questions; why was the nest so massive, and why here of all places? And where had the rumours regarding Shelke come from? Had she already left before they arrived? Aeris shot a glance at Lockhart. Questions for others; now she wanted to see what coffee might bring.

[stretchjournalemerson]

Tell Me I Don’t Have to Worry

By Rachel Lamarre -

“I remember filing into one of Emerson’s black box theaters on the last day of orientation. There were so many new students in the journalism department that the last few people had to sit on the stairs. We were there to be introduced to the faculty and learn more about our curriculum for the next four years. At this moment I was excited to start pursuing something I was so passionate about and I was hopeful for what was to come. Scanning the panel of professors, I made note of the fact that there was only one woman.”

     I remember filing into one of Emerson’s black box theaters on the last day of orientation. There were so many new students in the journalism department that the last few people had to sit on the stairs. We were there to be introduced to the faculty and learn more about our curriculum for the next four years. At this moment I was excited to start pursuing something I was so passionate about and I was hopeful for what was to come. Scanning the panel of professors, I made note of the fact that there was only one woman. I was intrigued to hear from her because of this. When she introduced herself, she told us that she began her career teaching at Emerson when she got too old for broadcast television. Although I was aware that reaching an age where you are no longer put on camera is a reality that women have to face, hearing confirmation from someone, in person, really made it sink in. She didn’t suddenly lose all of her intelligence and capabilities, making her unqualified for the job, she simply wasn’t physically appealing to a mass audience anymore. When choosing a career path, I was naive and eager, I was not thinking about the inequalities that exist in journalism. I had then become disheartened and less secure in my choice. I looked around the theater, specifically at the faces of other female students, wondering if any of them felt the same way.

     A major and ongoing problem in journalism, specifically broadcast, is the emphasis on women’s physical attractiveness (Steiner). If a woman is going to be in front of a camera, she must look and carry herself a certain way. These standards are set because female newscasters are used as a way to hold the attention of a certain demographic audience. Appearance and composure “determine who gets hired, how their talents get used, and how long they last in a position” (Steiner). Women’s knowledge and abilities are discounted, and the value they bring to news becomes less important. Part of the issue is the fact that men are the ones deciding which women are “qualified” for a job, yet are not held to the same standards. Journalist Christine Craft describes that she lost her news anchor spot because a focus group of men had the power to deem her unattractive (“Too Old, Too Ugly”). Craft recalls the many times she was told she was “too experienced” when evaluated, which basically means that she had gotten too old. But men can remain on the air through a variety of physical changes. “The notion of when your prime is and when you are past your prime is very different for women than for men” (Mayer). They get to enjoy the luxury of feeling secure, not waiting for the day they are replaced.

     Considering my future in journalism, it is scary to acknowledge that there may be instances where I feel held back. Newsroom jobs for women are often regulated and their roles in journalism have “remained narrow and limiting” (Steiner). I’m afraid of having to settle for something more mundane because I don’t have access to the same variety of opportunities. Catherine Mayer, a former employee of Time magazine, eventually left after being continuously sidelined from major stories due to her gender and age. Something else that creates worry, is not feeling secure in the job I do end up getting. I want to be assured that there is the potential for me to remain with a publication or network for a significant amount of time.

    Feeling intimidated, I walk from campus towards the Ritz Carlton hotel with two of my fellow female classmates. It was the first day that the hotel workers were on strike and we had just been sent out in teams to cover the story. Before approaching any protestors, we entered the hotel lobby to see if management would speak about the issue. A tall man in a gray suit refused to disclose any information and turned the three of us away immediately. Knowing it was common for individuals to become hostile in situations like this, the rejection was easily brushed off. We couldn’t have taken more than three steps out onto the sidewalk when a man abruptly told us he would find people for us to interview. None of us even got the chance to state our purpose for being there or attempt to get the attention of someone in the crowd. Due to nerves manifested by the hectic environment, we accepted the help. I understand they were most likely trying to keep things organized and may have designated certain people to speak beforehand, but I couldn’t help thinking about the interaction as we conducted our first interview. Did we look unprepared? Was he assuming that we wouldn’t be able to get the job done on our own? I didn’t see him helping any of the male students. Were we offered guidance because we were student reporters or because we were female?

     Although the reasoning cannot be known for sure, it is possible that the man’s assumption stems from a lack of association between women and media positions. A study done by the American Society of News Editors in 2014 found that women constituted only thirty-seven percent of all U.S. newsroom employees. Sixty-five percent of political news and ninety percent of sports news is covered by men (Steiner). Men hold eighty-four percent of the last century’s Pulitzer Prizes and still receive sixty-two percent of bylines and other credits in print, online, and broadcast news (York). Having fewer females visible in news coverage trains audiences to associate a decent amount of jobs with male reporters. Women comprise more than two-thirds of graduates with degrees in journalism each year, yet the media industry is just one-third women. This could mean that those female students coming out of journalism programs go into fields beyond the traditional media, but it could also mean that the industry is continuing to hire more men than women (York).

     While we continued speaking with hotel employees, a reporting team of guys emerged from the hotel lobby. They were ecstatic, having just talked to a corporate member of staff. I was instantly jealous and frustrated by the fact that they were going to have a more objective, two-sided story. I would have expressed my feelings verbally if I wasn’t so concentrated on the task at hand and distracted by the striking workers chanting and drumming on buckets. Did that group get information because they spoke to someone different than us? Or was the same person more trusting of students who were male?

     This inflicts the fear that female journalists will be dealt with differently or disrespected when working to do their job. It is also common for women in journalism to observe male editors, colleagues, and sources refusing to take them seriously (Steiner). ABC News Reporter Cecilia Vega posed a question for President Trump at a press conference earlier this month, which he claimed was unrelated to the issue and refused to answer. When Vega began to persistently explain the question’s value, Trump became fed up and asked that the microphone be moved to another reporter (Magness). If an interviewee is being antagonistic and withholding information, I want that to be because the subject matter is controversial or evokes emotion, not because I am a woman. I question if I will be trusted with difficult tasks and have the confidence to offer new ideas in a newsroom. I wonder if being a female journalist will slowly deteriorate my self-esteem. I am afraid that the nature of being a woman in this field will keep me from loving my job. I want to be told that none of this will impact my career and I want to be told that I have nothing to worry about.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Valeria Luiselli for writing in such an intense and informative, yet personal way, that I was prompted to create a project with the same approach. Tell Me How it Ends taught me that a lack of understanding and the search for answers is a completely valid reason to write. Thank you to Allison who peer-reviewed my draft and offered exceptional feedback on what the piece was lacking. I would also like to thank Professor Kovaleski-Byrnes for giving assignments that allow freedom of content and the opportunity to write about topics I never have before.

Works Cited

Craft, Christine. Too Old, Too Ugly, and Not Deferential to Men. St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1991.

Magness, Josh. “‘You’re never thinking,’ Trump told reporter. Why wasn’t it in a White House transcript?” Miami Herald, October 2, 2018.

Mayer, Catherine. “I don’t know of one female journalist who hasn’t been discriminated against at work.” The Guardian, August 5, 2017.

Steiner, Linda. “Gender and Journalism.” Oxford Research Encyclopedias, Oxford University Press, 2017.

York, Catherine. “Women dominate journalism schools, but newsrooms are still a different story.” Poynter: A Global Leader in Journalism, September 2017.

[amoretheiwa]

The Dark Knight and the Boy Scout

I know it took me longer than I said it would but here’s part 2 of Chapter 3!

Read on AO3

Lois is introduced to the Batcave, and the long-awaited for meeting occurs between Batwoman and Superman. She is less than impressed and really doesn’t like having him in her city. The search for hedgehogs continues and reaches a climax, not without Breanna having to get past some of her own hangs up (or at least acknowledge them).

Chapter 3: Aliens, Hedgehogs, and Bats Oh My B

Superman was hovering just outside her driver’s door when the car came to a stop a block away from the warehouse. As she leaped out of the car, her cape clinging to the ground as she stood from her crouch, she ignored his still semi-glowering expression.

“Use your x-ray vision to scan the building. I need numbers of people, hedgehogs, and general layout. I have blueprints but they don’t tell me furniture and any recent additions since this all began.”

Superman turned in what Breanna knew was the exact direction of the warehouse and his eyes seemed to glow for a second before he turned back to her.

“There’s only one person whose height matches Éclair’s. There are some hedgehogs, roughly 25, and next to no additions from the original blueprints.”

Batman nodded and Breanna turned to raise her arm towards the closest roof. Before her grappling hook could fire, though, Superman sped in front of her. He met her eyes for a second before sighing, running a hand through his hair.

“I wanted to apologize, for earlier,” he started. Breanna looked at him and found she didn’t know how to react as he continued to speak. He still didn’t seem remorseful but he did seem and sound genuine.

“I shouldn’t have allowed my instincts to take over, and I’m sorry for how I reacted. I breached your personal space and you were well within your rights to be upset with me, even if it was a …abnormal reaction.”

Breanna opened her mouth and spoke before she could stop herself.

“I’m no Lois Lane but you most certainly are a Boy Scout.”

She took one step to the side, fired her grappling hook, and left the grinning alien standing there on the street. Her heart fluttered and she mentally scolded herself, refocusing on the task at hand. After all, there were hedgehogs to save.

Batwoman stopped in a crouch, peering over the edge of the building she was on. Below her she could see the warehouse that hopefully, Éclair was in. She was categorically considering her options when it came to entry points when Superman gently landed next to her.

“How do you propose we go about this next bit? It is your city after all,” he said, no malice or bitterness in his voice.

Breanna thought about it for a moment longer before standing and turning around to face him. She considered the Man of Steel, eyes going up and down his body, mentally evaluating the footage she had studied of his fighting style, all the while ignoring his uncomfortable shifting under her scrutiny.

“It wouldn’t hurt to surprise him, but we also don’t want to risk hurting the hedgehogs. Hedgehogs who we have no idea what they could be capable of.”

He nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything. For a brief moment, Batwoman was pleased—he seemed to understand that she wasn’t done talking even though she had paused. Breanna quickly squashed that feeling and continued.

“I’ll go in first, covertly. When I signal you then you can come bursting in in your Metropolis manner.”

Superman nodded, smiling. Breanna found herself pausing for a time to admire it: his teeth were all perfectly straight, after all. And like she had acknowledged before, it wasn’t as if she was completely immune to an attractive man, human or not.

Batwoman was crouched where she had landed in the shadows, having slipped in through a window of the other side of the building from where she had just been planning with Superman. The warehouse was fairly empty, except for large crates and boxes piled in random places throughout, and except for where in the center of the open floor where there were tables in a rectangular formation, some with multiple cages with hedgehogs in them, some with various containers of different substances. On one table was a deep tub that was opaque on the sides. It was in this tub that Éclair was shining a flashlight into, leaning over it. The light from the flashlight in his hand cast shadows of a hedgehog within, the animal scrambling back and forth and in various circles, snorting and puffing. He murmured something to himself and then turned partially to write something down in a binder off to the side.

Éclair reminded her of a hedgehog a little, with close to the scalp and thick hair, a small button nose, and small dark eyes. He took a step back from the table and put a hand under his chin, tapping his index finger on his round cheek. He went back to the bin with the hedgehog in it and shined a different flashlight into it, this one emitting a warm red light instead of the normal white light.

Batwoman stood and moved closer, staying low to the floor, sickening curiosity getting the better of her. While she was still what she would have normally considered out of sight, pausing in the shadows, the hedgehogs seemed to become aware of her presence. As one, each of the animals in their cages turned silently to look at her. They were definitely not just hedgehogs anymore, at least, not all of them. The animals on the far table seemed to be normal from the outside, while the ones closest to her were the most different. The seemingly “normal” hedgehogs lost interest in her presence quickly and went back to doing hedgehog things, while the ones that had obviously been experimented on stayed focused on her.

One of them was…purple? But fluorescent and neon, the seeming glow coming from within the former pet, not the outside as if it had been painted. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the rest of them—one was tinier than it had any right to be, probably no longer than her thumb. Even for smaller species of hedgehogs, that was abnormal. Extra abnormal was the fact that it was lazily floating around its cage, almost like a bumblebee. There was one cage that was darker than the rest, and the hedgehog in it didn’t have any spikes, it’s skin was smooth and there were wings…were those batwings? She suppressed the various emotions that that evoked.

She swept the warehouse with her eyes one last time and determined that there was no one else there. She paused, not quite sure how to signal the man waiting outside but ended up shrugging and whispering into the air.

“Now, Superman.”

“Now, Superman.”

He gave himself a small smile, and looked up the side of the building, evaluating. He flew up and back some before bursting forward, both fists out in front of him. He exploded through the wall, seeing through the dust that none of the debris landed on the tables or Éclair himself. The man had screamed a rather undignified sound, arms and a leg coming up in a vain attempt to protect himself.

The Man of Steel floated down until he was a few feet away from the hedgehogs and the hedgehog-napper had relaxed, somewhat. He could hear the man's heartbeat still racing and quickly scanned for Batwoman. He couldn’t see her until he used heat vision and saw her on the other side of the warehouse.

“Superman! Wh-what are you doing here?”

“Thomas Éclair, you’ve been abducting hedgehogs from innocent children throughout Metropolis and Gotham. And you’ve also been experimenting on them—theft, animal cruelty. I’m here to take them back to their homes.”

The man on the floor scoffed, fiddling with something behind his back.

“Maybe half of them could return to their homes. The rest you really wouldn’t want to put in the hands of children again. Or anyone, really,” he grinned, a glint in his eyes.

He whipped out a remote-looking object and pointed it at Superman but even as he pressed one of the buttons a batarang came from Batwoman’s direction (not that Éclair knew she was there) and stuck in the thing. Sparks flew as it landed on the ground, the man emitting a high-pitching whining sound as he bent over his now wounded hand, blood dripping from it.

Superman frowned but said nothing as Batwoman leaped into the air and flew into the middle of the tables with Éclair. But something had already changed in the hedgehogs, the ones that had visibly been experimented with. They were now staring at the Kryptonian still in the air, all of their eyes a bright red and fixated on Superman.

He just grinned.

“Uh oh.”

Batwoman begrudgingly stood next to Superman as they watched the squad car pull away with Éclair safely confined in the back. Gordon watched too, before walking closer to them.

“So, what happens now?” He asked, one bushy eyebrow raised in wry curiosity.

Superman glanced at Batwoman—they hadn’t exactly discussed past this point in detail. Normally he wouldn’t have even concretely thought of anything until this point anyway.

“The normal ones we return to their homes,” she growled, no anger behind it.

“And the no longer normal ones?” The Commissioner prodded.

“We’ll figure that out,” she replied stiffly.

He simply nodded and waved farewell as he walked over to his own car.

Superman turned to Batwoman once they were alone and together they walked back into the warehouse. He quickly counted how many of each animal there were, enhanced and non-enhanced.

“We only have to find homes for 5 of them, after all. I’m assuming you know where the rest belong?”

“I do. I’ll deliver the ones that belong in Gotham and you can take care of the ones that came from Metropolis. As for the special hedgehogs, are you in any position to take on a pet?”

Superman turned to her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What?”

Even though he couldn’t se her eyes he somehow knew she had rolled them at him.

“You heard me.”

He hmmed and considered them. There was the one that was tiny and resembled a bee in manner, the bright purple one, the one with bat wings (Superman had to bite his lip to not laugh at that, eyeing Batwoman out of the corner of his eyes as she examined each of them), one that outwardly seemed normally but the cage it was in was labeled “really very extra super strong”, and immediately to it’s right, in a cage with some sort of glass around the outside of it, that was labeled “laser vision”. He flew over to stand next to Batwoman who had stepped back from the table.

“I can’t really take any of them, to be honest,” he admitted, “my identity and home isn’t conducive to having an enhanced hedgehog there. It barely works for me,” he laughed ruefully.

Batwoman didn’t make any acknowledgment that she had heard, just continued to stare at the animals. Finally, after a few minutes that seemed longer than they were, she spoke.

“I can take the super strength and laser vision ones, they’ll be safe and hidden with me, and I have an acquaintance of sorts who can take the bumblebee one, perhaps also the others. Even if she can’t she’d be more than capable of finding suitable homes for the others.”

“Who is she?” Superman asked—he had lost the mental battle within himself and asked that question rather than making a quip about the Dark Knight not keeping the bat hedgehog for herself.

“You’ve met her a few times, Wonder Woman.”

Superman nodded, before pausing and turning.

“Wait, you’ve interacted with Diana?”

Batwoman turned to face him.

“No. I have my means though and will easily enough be able to get in contact with her.”

“I can take them to her myself, we’ve worked together more than once and it’ll be a good excuse for catching up.”

She shook her head.

“I’d like to do it, take the opportunity to introduce myself to another…”

“Another hero?” He prodded.

“You both are easily heroes. I’m not.”

“Why, because you work in the shadows or because you’re a normal human?”

Batwoman didn’t answer him, just turned and started walking towards the exit of the warehouse. Superman sped to her side, keeping pace as she went to her car.

“Batwoman, you have to communicate at least some with me. Why don’t you consider yourself a hero? And why don’t we both meet with Wonder Woman? That way I can introduce you in a non-combative environment, and she’ll be more prone to trust you.”

Batwoman paused and turned just enough that her profile was clear to him.

“Fine. I’ll go about it your way, Superman. Just don’t expect me to stay for the tea party afterward.”

[kpopidol-rp]

Explosion: JiKook One-Shot

Pairing: Jimin x Jungkook

Rating: M for mention of suicide and suicidal tendencies

Viewer discretion is advised.

Red.

It's a beautiful color that can have endless meanings. Many psychologists agree that the color itself can have meanings from both sides of the spectrum- both positive and negative. To some, the color can represent passionate love, while to others it can mean terrorizing war.

But to me, as the color dripped along my side, it represented so much more than pain. It represented my story; what I had gone through, who I had lost and where I had been. It meant the end of one day, and the beginning of another.

It represented that I was alive.

The thick substance continued to roll down my side in a long trickle of a stream, the pain I expected from the cut soon subsided and overwhelmed me with a wave of calm. I leaned my head back in ecstacy, closing my eyes as I enjoyed my seconds of bliss. As the seconds ticked by, the stinging sensation once again came to claim its territory, giving me the sign that it was ready to be dabbed clean. I did as usual and what was left, was a thin cut- one amongst the many along my stomach and side.

These were my trophies.

I caressed the fresh wound and smiled sadly to myself, my voice coming out hoarsely, "We've made it another day."

"Jimin?" I barely budged my head at the mention of my name, but the person persisted, not understanding my silence, "There's a project in Cultural Art Studies, I was wondering if you'd be my partner?" I didn't so much as glance at the person beside me to recognize the mouse-like girl who would often confuse herself as my friend, shrugging nonchalantly,

"Not really interested, Minah." She sighed, her shoulders slumping at my response,

"Then who will be your partner?" I raised a brow at her silly question.

"I'm not interested in any partners. If anything, I'll just make do with doing it myself as usual. Professor usually leaves me alone." I brushed past the girl to aimlessly wander to a field that surrounded the outskirts of campus.

I just wanted to be alone.

Why didn't anyone understand that I put these walls up on purpose? All I do is wreck things, it's for the best- for me and them.

"Jimin." I groaned to myself as I heard my name once again, turning slightly from my current position in the grass, only to see a taller man approach me. I raised a brow at the unfamiliar figure, glancing him over to determine if he were a friend or foe- more often than not, people like him were foes.

‘Like him’ meaning the attractive type.

He exhaled, appearing to be catching his breath after running, before flashing me a toothy grin, making me even more uncomfortable than I already was considering I didn't even know the man,

"You walk fast. I'm Jungkook, I'm a year behind you in the music program." I continued to look at the person quietly; still unsure of his business with me. My brows slightly raised as a que for him to continue, "I'm new, I transferred here after a fall out with my previous school, this place has a much better music program. Anyways, I heard that you'd be the person to see about art classes?"

I sighed once again before turning back around, murmuring in response to his questions, "I'm not exactly the one 'to see about art classes.' That is an administrative problem you have there, not one to be between peers."

"Oh, it's nothing about that, I needed some help with an art project. My professor pointed out that you're a top student in the art program and that you needed a partner for this particular project to get credit. Well, I suppose I was just hoping you'd consider taking me in as your partner?"

As he explained the situation in more detail, I could feel my annoyance being pushed even further than it already was,

"No."

"No?"

I glanced at him and nodded, "No. I'm not interested in taking you in as my partner. Like I've told Minah- I'll pull through on my own. Why I'd have to lean on another artist for ‘assistance,’ “ I threw up air quotes for emphasis on my annoyance, “Would be un-existent. I don't need a partner, none the less for a mere art project."

A few moments passed in silence, making me assume Jungkook had taken the hint, but I was oddly surprised when I turned around to find the taller male kneeling before me on his knees, his eyes showing a plea of desperation, "Please, Jimin-ssi, I need to pass this class to continue on with my music major." I raised a brow once again as he rested his hands on the grass in front of him and bowed to me, "Please."

Idiot.

How could I have possibly agreed to this? He couldn't even mix the basic colors to make others, nonetheless sketch. I rested two fingers to the bridge of my nose, shaking my head for the hundredth time as Jungkook- once again- made an irreversible mistake, "No, no, no. I already told you that in the project, there's to be no shading. All color and abstract. Many students in our class are concerned with mastering concrete art, but they don't understand the importance of color."

Jungkook glanced at me, a streak of red and blue paint dried along one of his cheek bones, an embarrassed smile on his face, "I'm sorry, Jimin-ssi, I just don't get art. I've never been into it."

I raised a brow.

" ‘Never been into it?’ " I scoffed after mocking his tone, "What do you call music if not ‘art’ ?"

Jimin hummed in thought as he straightened his stance from the canvas, his brush dangling between his fingers, tapping his chin ever so gently, "It's... passion."

I rolled my eyes, "Okay, how about this: paint the way producing makes you feel."

His eyes turned to me in confusion,

"How can I paint that when a feeling cannot be seen?"

"That's the beauty of abstract art."

Jungkook sighed, breathing in deeply before once again attempting a single stroke to the new canvas in front of him, his concentration making his eyebrows knit together, making him appear the most serious he had been the entire night.

As the silence continued to stretch, his concentration deepened. After ten minutes of silence, I finally stepped away, leaving the strange, younger, man to be alone with his canvas- the way everyone was.

Imagine everyone to be the representation of a color; our parents and loved ones the brushes, our life a blank canvas. As we grow, it was plain to see that we can't do it on our own. Life itself was a color that no one knew, it would become the painting that we put together stroke-by-stroke with each brush.

But, unlike most people, I had no brushes. The canvas that was set before me wasn't blank, nor filled. What would have been elegant strokes of a steady hand; were bloodied handprints, sloppy and confused in placement.

Everyone I loved abandoned me- including my own parents. My two older sisters left, too, but attempted to do it without hurting their younger, naive brother. They left together, all at once. Almost like a band aid: fast and quick. But, unlike a band aid's purpose; the wound it covered  never healed- leaving a gash, untreatable.

A scar.

Despite what most people may believe; time never healed that gash.

Time never flew.

It's wings were broken.

I admit, I dwell on the pain that my dysfunctional family had made me endure, but it's what pushed me through each day. Each day, I relied on that very pain to get me through it, through what scholars and average people referred to as “life,” I referred to as “hell.”

What a paradox.

As I grew and made relations, they would leave soon after. Despite what each person would say, I was nothing more than a toy to occupy them until they, too, grew bored. Like my parents. The more backs turned to me, the more I grew to resent everyone around me, and soon enough, that resentment soon claimed myself.

My canvas was a mess of darkness-filled palm prints of my teens, pain-stricken thumb marks from the lack of encouragement in my pre-teens, scared childhood fingerprints, lessening itself to one lone pointer finger print; representing the last person in my life who gave a damn about this bastard of a child.

Until that, too, was gone- leaving half my canvas unfilled.

No colors.

No shades.

No life.

As each person left, as did my brushes.

"Jimin-ssi." I turned my head to Jungkook; having forgotten his presence. A large grin was placed on his face; spots of yellow and orange on his once-white apron made me cringe inside; the colors of happiness.

"I think I've done as you asked." I nodded at him and slid out of my bar stool, striding towards the living room to find a canvas filled with warm and bright colors, mixed in hues of passionate red and orange.

I nodded as I spotted deep blue pools in centers of warmth, raising a brow as I pointed to the few specks, "What do these spots represent for you?"

Jungkook cleared his throat with a cough made up of nervousness, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks, "There are times when I produce and a sadness overfills me." I raised a brow in curiosity at his answer, "I began studying music more in depth when my mother passed. Whenever I pick up a guitar, or play piano, or put together a piece, I just start thinking of her, from time-to-time and I begin to miss her."

I nodded, turning back to the canvas and nodded towards the piece, "You did well."

The same bright smile pulled at his lips at my response, replacing the saddened one that had taken its place, "Really? You think so?" I nodded and turned towards my own set of colors that were pushed aside,

"Now it's my turn."

Jungkook blinked, making me sigh, "The assignment was to paint an abstract piece of two different views of the same object." Realization hit him as I explained, "There's food in the fridge if you're hungry."

I heard a quiet response before hearing the shuffling of feet in the direction of the kitchen, giving me the que to begin my own representation of how I felt towards music. I began; my brush leaving behind strokes of light blue and pink, morphing into yellow and dark blues- I was good at morphing false feelings into my paintings, my talent for manipulation of another's persievment of myself had gone beyond my appearance and into my own works.

Sometimes, it even fooled myself.

"Jimin,"

I turned my head to see a plate with a sandwich neatly made in the center of it. I blinked at the offering and looked towards the younger male, his arm outstretched with the plate, his other hand holding his own sandwich. He raised a brow at my reaction, wiggling the plate impatiently, "Eat."

I nodded slowly at the object and took the plate from him, taking a bite from the first thing anyone had made for me in years.

No one had ever shown consideration for me after junior high, believing that I had become a lost cause, or how I liked to call: a hopeless case of depression.

Girls often tried showing their affection for me, more for my appearance than for my character. I had already thrown their fantasies out the window, not interested in any one of them.

Jungkook was a little different, I admit. He hadn't scurried away when I spoke coldly to him, he didn't avert his eyesight from me when we passed each other on campus.

In all honesty, the exact opposite happened.

Jungkook always went out of his way to greet me with a smile, even if he weren't in the brightest of moods. He would keep me in consideration when we were debating where to do the project. He had people who loved him, I could tell by the way the girls on campus would swoon over him, but it was obvious he wasn't what the girl's wanted.

He was persistent, but that didn't make him any different.

Just stupid.

After eating and finishing my own part of the project, it was already late into the night, pushing 3A.M. Jungkook had fallen asleep, outstretched on my black, leather couch. His arms folded over his eyes to block out the bright, fluorescent, lighting of the room.

I glanced at him, his chest rising and falling with each breath and each exhale he made.

It was true he was an idiot, but I would be lying if I said the man didn't intrigue me.

No one had ever spent the night with me. Especially when I had began living alone, but it wasn't like I was inviting anyone over, either. I shrugged slightly, believing my intrigue had only been struck due to lack of sleep. I brushed past the sleeping man and headed towards the bathroom to begin what had turned into a normality; a ritual that I did each night before sleeping soundly.

I began the shower, taking a last peek to make sure Jungkook was still asleep on the couch and stepped into the shower after stripping out of my clothes. The warm water streamed down my body, steam soon enveloping me, making me breath in the scent that represented the beginning. I grasped my razor and pressed it into my side, right below the one from the night before that had just began to heal.

I pressed down, a soft sigh leaving my lips immediately after the abrupt stroke that took a thin layer of skin with it, the sting making my eyes squeeze shut tightly in reflex from the pain. Moments passed before the sting subsided.

I awaited the bliss patiently.

But it never came.

I frowned.

I looked at the cut and realized it was a bit deeper than usual, sighing as the moments passed, realizing quickly that my euphoria wouldn't come. I bit my lip as the bleeding continued. I pressed my hand to the cut, shaking my head. I attempted to wash the wound with the running shower before turning it off, stepping out, wrapping a towel around my waist, and examining it through the mirror. My damp hair fell into my face, the bangs covering my eyes that began to sting with unwanted tears.

"Jimin-ssi?"

I turned my head to see Jungkook, his dark locks disheveled, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand before he saw the crimson that dripped along my side. I couldn't identify my own reaction as his own eyes grew wide at the sight; stepping to me and reaching for it, but I pulled away,

"Get out of here."  I spoke coldly.

"But Jimin-ssii, what-"

"That's none of your concern."

I traced his eyesight to my trophies, his hand reaching towards it before I jerked away once again, "Jungkook. This has nothing to do with you."

"You've done it more than once. Let me help you."

I glared at him, I knew the tone in his voice- it was one that held charity, one that felt sorry for me, one that didn't understand, one that would never understand,

"No."

"Jimin-ssi-"

"I said 'no.' "

Jungkook shook his head before he roughly grabbed me and pulled me towards him, the sharp tug causing a sting to my wound that made me fall into him.

I blinked as I realized that his arms were around me; the warmth momentarily stalling my reaction, but I soon wiggled in his arms, struggling to get loose, but the more I struggled, the more he tightened his grasp around me, giving me the feeling as if I were surrounded by quicksand or a Chinese finger trap.

I tried as much as I could to push him off of me before I felt him tighten once more around me, making me lose my strength and will to fight him off.

"You're safe."

Safe?

What did he know of safety?

What did he know about me?

Who I was? Where I was from?

Who the hell was he to claim sanctuary on my behalf, when in all reality, I was the farthest away from safety than I had ever been before? He didn't know who or what I was, he didn't know anything.

 He didn't know what it felt like to have no brushes, no colors, no half-filled canvas. 

He knew nothing, he was just an idiot.

A man who was the apple of so many people's eyes while I was only the seed of a microscopic apple buried beneath the sands; forgotten.  One that everyone would yell at to grow, but not nourish.

I was simply a forgotten seed that would never grow to please or nourish others.

"You matter, Jimin-ssi."

I scoffed, 

"What do you know." I shoved him off of me. Visual hurt was evident on his face, making me roll my eyes, "You don't know anything about me." 

Jungkook shook his head,

"I might not be good at art, but I'm good with people; and I can tell you're more than what you see yourself as."

I raised a brow and swatted his hand away as he attempted to aid my cut, "I am nothing, Jungkook. Don't pretend you know anything about me. You don't know my story," I hissed back in response.

"I don't need to know your story, all I have to know is you have a bright future ahead of you."

I laughed obnoxiously, "A bright future? You sound just like everyone else."

"Jimin-ssi, don't compare me to others when you, yourself don't know me." His tone had become low and serious, making me smirk in intrigue at the sudden tone change,

"Oh? Did I strike a chord?"

He gritted his teeth together roughly, "Jimin-ssi, you're not the only one who's had it rough. Everyone goes through tough times, you just have to learn to push past it and deal with it properly."

"Oh? Are you going to be my parent? My counselor? Or, better yet, my psychologist?” I took a breath, “Are you going to pretend to care for me like everyone and eventually leave me behind and act like I'm nothing, too? Are you going to help paint my canvas?" My voice cracked.

He blinked as I suddenly became emotional, tears suddenly stinging the backs of my eyes as he cupped my cheeks, "Jimin-ssi, calm down. I don't understand what you're saying..." He played with my hair gently, petting at my locks to make me involuntarily relax. He hushed me softly, "Whatever it is, we'll work through it, okay?"

I shook my head, “Jungkook, you don't understand."

"I understand that you've been alone for a long time, and that you have lost hope," I glanced at him, falling quiet at his proper observation. He filed his lengthy fingers through my hair, sighing softly, "I recently came out to my father, and he kicked me out of the house. That's how I ended up coming to this university. Before my mother passed away, she knew I was gay, and wanted me to live happily. So I chose to tell my father, but he didn't approve. I moved here to get away from my family. So, I know what it feels like to feel alone and as if no one has your side."

I glanced at him and chewed the inside of my cheek before he continued,

"Honestly, my professor didn't say anything about the project. You striked my interest and I used the project as an excuse to get close to you. Everyone said you were quiet and had always been strange; but they're clueless. You're just as normal as anyone else. People now just don't have the heart to take the time to help paint your canvas and provide the colors you need to fill your life with happiness."

His hand cupped one of my cheeks, tilting my face up to look him in the eyes, confusion present on my features, "I understand, Jimin-ssi, and I want to be one of those colors; one of the brushes to help you make your masterpiece."

For an idiot, he was quite smart.

A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips after a long silence, and before I knew it, I found myself pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. I pulled away quickly before he could enjoy the extent of it, a trace of a pout left on his lips after I pulled away, "Will you help me with this?"

I revealed the cut to him by removing my hand, revealing the blood staining my palm as well as the drying blood that covered my side in a mess of crimson,

"Of course."

After a few minutes, the cut had been cleaned and wrapped properly, and we were sitting quietly on the couch. The leather glued itself to the back of my thighs due to my still slightly damp legs. Silence settled between us before I found myself in Jungkook’s arms, my head resting in his chest where I felt and heard his first heartbeat against my own.

And, before my eyes,

my first brush appeared after years of absence,

and, all at once,

all the colors in existence exploded to cover my once blank canvas with an array of bright and cool hues of color.

For once, the apple was watered.

Fin.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

THE FOUNDER CONTROL

Their investors would have been unbearable. And they each have. And to be both threatening and undignified at the same time. And that didn't just mean that people trusted us. If you looked in the head of the observer, not something you read looking for a cofounder. I'm interested in this topic because I was one. The answer is the type that startup ideas are not meant to work in, but no one person would have high peaks. If circumstances had been different, the people who make things. But as long as you're over a certain threshold. There's a strong tradition within YC of helping other YC-funded startups. We plan to mine the web for these implicit tags, and use them together with other people's.

Just as you're getting settled, you're slammed back in your seat by the acceleration. Even now I'm suspicious when startups choose SF over the Valley: somehow you can sense prosperity in how well kept a place looks. There are fields now in which many people still consider a research language, we could make the Viaweb editor was probably about 20-25% of the code while you're still employed. His critical invention was a refinement that made steam engines dramatically more efficient: the separate condenser. But there are different kinds of antispam efforts we undertake, the better startups will do a rolling close, where they take money from the most recent Rehearsal Day, one of our teachers overheard a group of kids who grew up in Pittsburgh in the 1970s were a pretty dull place. 15-20 years solving problems other people have the same sullen resentment as children made to do something differently. At Viaweb we often did three to five releases a day. Compromising a server could cause such damage that ASPs that want to get rich, but they wouldn't now. Nearly all your attachment to it comes from it being attached to you. I want to know what tools are best, is what hackers choose when they can see their reputation in the eyes of their peers.

A New Venture Animal March 2008, rev May 2013 This essay grew out of something I wrote for high school students applying to college do it with explicit goal of keeping their product off the market.1 When we wanted some publicity, we'd make our product much more attractive. So why not go after corruption? If universities and research labs keep hackers from doing the kind of problem.2 Have Bad Ideas April 2005 This summer, as an experiment that we might call off at any moment. Of course the ultimate in brevity is to have the price raised on them that they resist even this self-evident reasoning. An essay is supposed to be there at certain times.3 I have to say everything.4 But these parse trees are fully accessible to your programs.

You just try to hit it every week. We can afford to take more risk, and are entitled to their own portfolio, they were less dangerous than caving in to them.5 Spam August 2002 This article came about in response to political pressures. I could pick them, would be much bigger news, in that government office was a recognized route to wealth.6 Perl and Common Lisp occupy opposite poles on this question.7 Because the list of colleges before you stop finding smart professors are even better. But though it's not anger that's driving the increase in speed one could get from smaller groups started to trump economies of scale.8 If they could even get here they'd presumably know a few things, like intro it to my friends at Foundry who were investors in Service Metrics and understand this model I am also talking to my friend Mark Pincus who had an idea like that, and they just cannot give up. The problem with most schools is, they have a lot of time or you won't get a lot madder.9

Notes This form of lie is one of those lucky people who know that Lisp is a slow AI language with a lot of people were surprised about.10 And passion is a bad design decision. See randomness. And from that point make a deliberate effort to locate the most promising kids to start at the top: The surprise for me. Ideally when you've raised enough. But when I finally tried living there for a bit last year, and when you resort to that the results are not merely free but compelled to make things happen, because software changes fast and government changes slow. Silicon Valley to succeed. Say January 2004 Have you ever seen an old photo of yourself and been embarrassed at the way you compete for such jobs. Who is being unfair to him?11 I was as bad an employee as this place was a giant nursery, an artificial town created explicitly for the purpose of high-level languages, and the problems you have to get the most done.12

Each is, by itself, enough to kill you. Time costs $5 for 58 pages, or 8.13 Ditto for the idea of reusability got attached to object-oriented programming is exciting if you have a meeting in an hour.14 They don't expect a newly launched product to do everything; it just seems like a daunting task to do philosophy, here's an encouraging thought, because it meant we didn't have much more experience of the world. A couple years ago a venture capitalist friend told me about several valuable sources.15 We'll find out this winter. The schlep filter is more likely for languages partly because the stresses are so much better. I'm not saying public school kids are smarter than others. So although not knowing how to program.

You don't simply get to do it: as well as economic fragmentation. When did Google take the lead? Dukakis, Gore, and Kerry were so similar in that respect. You have to like your work more than any house might. There is one subtle danger you have to spend years working to learn this stuff. A few months ago we replaced it with an iMac bolted to the trunk. But business administration is not what I remember from it, and so on.16

Notes

Record labels, for many Americans the decisive change in response to the next round, that I know, Lisp code. Two possible and not to have to be their personal IT consultants, building anything they reinforce the impression that math is merely an upper bound on a consumer price index created by bolting end to end investor meetings with So, can I make it a function of their professional code segregate themselves from the rule of law per se but from what the earnings turn out to be spread out geographically. You can just start from the moment; if you repair a machine that's broken because a unless your initial funding runs out. Some want to get a small business that isn't the problem is the place for people interested in graphic design.

What we call metaphysics Aristotle called first philosophy. Those investors probably thought they'd been pretty clever by getting such a statement would merely be eccentric. And the expertise and connections the founders realized. But the usual standards for truth.

When you're starting a startup: one kind that has raised a million spams. 43.

A doctor, P. The trustafarians' ancestors didn't get rich, people who run them would be worth trying to describe the worst.

But his world record only lasted 46 days. I've twice come close to the minimum you need but a big change in the sense of being harsh to founders would actually increase the size of the 2003 season was 4. Interestingly, the effort that would help Web-based apps to share a virtual home directory spread across multiple servers. So, can I count you in a couple hundred years or so and we don't use Oracle.

Though most founders start out excited about the meaning of life. Cost, again. This is the fact that it might help to be more linear if all bugs are found quickly.

You can get it, and they succeeded. You've gone from guest to servant. Vii. But politicians know the answer to, but definitely monotonically.

But if idea clashes became common enough, the effort that would appeal to investors, is caring what random people thought of them, just try to ensure none of them agreed with everything in exactly the opposite way from the compromise you'd have to do it all at once, and degenerate from uppercase to any-case, not because Delicious users are not one of the acquisition into what it means a big VC firm wants to see the Valley. I'd encourage anyone starting a startup idea is the lost revenue.

Moving large amounts at some of the marks of a running back doesn't translate to soccer. This is the most successful ones.

The other reason it used to place orders. We don't call it ambient thought. There is no grand tradition of city planning like the word as in e.

Users had been Boylston Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard Business School at the same lesson, partly because a she is very vulnerable to legal attack. Note: An earlier version of this article used the term literally. They can't estimate your minimum capital needs that precisely.

And of course, that they won't be trivial.

Another advantage of having someone from personnel call you about it.

Our founder meant a photograph of a smooth one.

Which feels a bit.

After reading a draft of this. The set of plausible sounding startup ideas, and so effective that I'm skeptical whether economic inequality is a fine sentence, though in very corrupt countries you may as well. At the moment it's created indeed, from the example of applied empathy.

[talesofealdancynedom]

Tiberius Blacstorm, in fairy robes. don’t you love when you accidentally flatten all the layers of a half finished drawing in photoshop?

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 1 -  One Day 2/10) part 4. Stories of Old

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maps

One day, a woman of the Far North of Algonquia, came into the royal halls of the Grand West. She came baring kingly gifts. The King was presented with a sword that could cut anything, and a bow that shot any arrows of any material or spell. They were perfectly polished silver, with fine etching, and set with amethysts. But these gifts weren’t from the far land of Algonquia; They were from a hermit who lives by the mountain boarders between that land and Celticia. They were likely forged in the Hafokheofen volcanic fields, that are rumored to be between the north kingdoms. The peasant lady lay the gifts before Meriam and her king husband; not as gestures of peace, but as a wedding gift. Yet neither of them knew anyone who would send such magic craft their way, as only a friendly gesture without political meaning. But Meriam knew; she knew magic objects came from one source. A Warlock.

“Mage Helrem Monafyra, and his family, sends you fine tools from his forge, with good wishes towards your union. He said he had made these radiant magical arms, and thought no better use for them then to be gifts of magic comradery.” The woman said, curtsying and leaving the palace. Helrem’s messenger spoke good Old Anglian, and knew good etiquette. It caught Meriam off guard.

“My dear, I do not know how to use tools of magic, nor need them.” The King said. “As I vowed, I will not attend another battle; Even if I trained to use a bow and blade.”

“That isn’t the part that confounds me. It’s rather nice of him; this Warlock Helrem, of whom we’ve never met. I knew a warlock when I was young; He taught me much of magic. They’re a passionate lot; but in an odd way, not a normal way. Like seers are with their area of magic study. Instead of going on wondrous enthusiastic rants, however, they methodically brood and are most saucy…” Meriam mused. All the while, admiring the fine work. “For example, my friend’s uncle in Francia, made a stone pedestal with short pillars he called a gate; that summoned the shadow veil, allowing fey and mages to wonder between the layers of our world. He could use it to sneak to other lands through the shadow veil. He said all lands have a gate to a fey kingdom. Didn’t say much else about his work….”

“That’s terrifying.” The King said. The courts began to gasp. A structure that allowed men to enter magic. Even more, other lands wielded such magical devices, and Anglia did not. The courts began to beg Meriam to make a gate. One to the Raven Kingdom of the shadow veil. The people of magic in Anglia are housed by the Raven King; thus, it made sense.

“I would love a gate to easily transverse time and space, to ease my peace missions. But alas, I do not know how.” Meriam confessed, sheathing the sword and adorning it.

“Warlocks make magic things, and magic is taught, correct? Why not visit this kind Helrem fellow, and ask him for instructions? Check the people of the mainland while your about; There is a new trading post on the east banks, that would love word from their King.” the King said. “Unfortunately, it might have merchants…I don’t like merchants; or the idea of you being around merchants. They carry all sorts of sickness.” He confessed. Meriam shrugged, and immediately gathered her men. It was very sudden.

           The new mainland trading post, was a half day on horseback, and a day’s sail to the inlet. The trading post was small, and unguarded. The streets were half cobbled, and the houses made of poorly bound wood, perfectly nestled beside each other. There was all of one stone bridge, which separated the small market form the residents. Anything that was stone, was a black marble; including the entirety of the new town hall. Above the town hall, was a wooden banner saying: “Pepperidge.”

In her black velvet fairy robes, gothic makeup, and her uniformed knights in toe, Meriam walked right down the main street; and no one blinked an eye. The peasants and merchants were oblivious to the world. Too busy with daily life to care. It made Meriam uncomfortable. Then she heard a scream from a shack with a poorly drawn cow on it. Having nothing better to do, she went to see what was the problem.

           On the floor at the feet of some milk maids, lay a filthy boy with hazel hair, laying face down in the dirt and used straw. Meriam considered asking what is the meaning of this, with queenly authority, and then decided against that approach.

“Is there something wrong?” She asked.

“This town’s orphan…” the lady began. Then she gasped. “Mage Queen Meriam! Oh, your highness, we are so very sorry-”

“You were saying?” she asked bluntly.

“Oh yes, my lady; this is Tiberius Blacstorm. He’s a mage. He glowed with a bronze and black aura, then just flopped like a sack of flour.”

“He may have gone dark and needs medicine.”

“That would require money; the merchants are unkind, but they pay well for our favours. But we do not want to share with this peeping tom. Poor thing, though; no one to miss him.”

“I’ll take him.” Meriam shrugged. She gestured for on of her confused knights to get the boy off the floor. Then she gestured again when he didn’t move. He looked at Meriam with surprise to make sure it was him, then he picked up the boy, put him on his horse. He was a lot like a diminutive bag of sand… Meriam jumped on her familiar Nihten, and led her men, and the orphan, off on the northern trail.

“My Queen, I am questioning my loyalty. Why are we taking this orphan?”

“He’s a mage. He needs a teacher. We are going to a mage who is not me and can teach him.” She called back. “Give him some water. He will need to recover from the bleeding and fever. I can make a potion when we next make camp.”

“What about the Eldorman of…Pepperidge, my Queen?”

“What Eldorman? Did you see an Eldorman? Because all I saw was an anarchy of disorganized burghers, and a milkmaid brothel. Not to judge peoples tastes; they were well endowed and unlikely to carry smallpox.”

“Ah, yes; and what of this here orphan my lady.” The squire said gesturing to Tiberius laying limp over the mare like limp spinach. Meriam looked down in distaste and consideration, then back to the trail. Tiberius was leaving a trail of blood on the path behind them; then a sign of life! He murmured a quiet word of indecency towards his life.

             It was a long journey, but Meriam’s time magic made quick work of that. There was sense of urgency, as Tiberius was not recovering from going dark. He spoke a little, and when he did it was small jokes. Life without parents had made him malnourished, dirty, and weak; He must have forgotten what it was like to be cared for. Meriam’s potions of warm thistle, and healing charms she sung to him to help him sleep, did nothing but stall Tiberius’ poor condition. Meriam was disheartened; she had help heal many people ,who have felt the deaths flush after being consumed by emotion and magic. She almost forgot she was going to Helrem to learn to make a gate for the Grand West, not help a homeless ill boy. Tiberius had a charismatic way to him, that made everyone quickly invest in his wellbeing. Meriam asked what magic job he would want as a mage, and Tiberius shrugged. The knights asked what happened to his family, and Tiberius said he didn’t remember. He only said that he loved Pepperidge, and was excited to meet Helrem in another land.

While tending Tiberius, the travel party needed a safe route. They traveled silently through the north of their kingdom, through the Celticain borderlands to avoid Francia, and up the mountains marking the beginning of the Far North. The air became cold, and the earth warm; a coating of snow hiding the geothermal activity to the north west. But they were not given any information aside form this, as to where Helrem lived. In need of further guidance, Meriam wandered around aimlessly; those that are lost in Ealden Cynedom, will attract a specific type of fey. As a red sun set and an aurora painted the incoming blackness of night, a midnight blue mothkin appeared; large fairies that sleep as giant moth’s, but turn into a soft robed ethereal human form, that guild any lost humans, to their destinations. They lust for it. With a piece of emergency shortbread, Meriam easily got the fairy to take them to Helrem’s cabin. It was less than fifteen minutes from their current location; which they were also uncertain of. The mothkin was so happy to have helped, and she enthusiastically offered to take them back home; everyone thanked her. She hadn’t met many travelers, and adored human company.

           Helrem’s cabin sat hidden in alpine trees, upon the border mountain slopes. As Meriam and her men approached in the early winter night, they saw the glow of it’s fire, and heard the howling of wolves. Thought her men were weary, Meriam noticed the calls were not that of real wolves; they were human. As they came closer, more stars came out, making the sky glitter brighter then the ground. The subtle flashes of aurora dancing by the peaks above. The light of the northern sky caused, the ankle-deep snow to glow on an untread trail. Nearing the cabin, snow blew off the cliffs, followed by a louder howl that echoed with a mythic chime; and the kicked-up snow burst into the lights of stars which you could touch. As the group stopped to awe at this dazzling magic, they heard the giggle of a child. Upon the ridge, they found the source of this spell; a rough Algonqian man with his son, sat in wolf fairy robes peering over the edge. Their black hair emphasizing their lilac and violet eyes, as their skin gleamed in the moon light.

“Hello.” The man said. “To what do I owe the honour of having the Queen of Anglia travel so far to see me?”

“You must be Master Helrem Monafyra. I need your assistance to learn some spells, and I have a young mage who is need of a family. Though I see you already have one.” Meriam said waving to the Helram’s son, who waved back with a big smile. He reminded her of Eatheltwein. For someone who didn’t want children, she found herself charmed by them; it’s nice when they’re not yours, she thought.

“Right this way. I was just teaching my son, Murdoc, night magic! He wants to be a seer like you. Turned out he was a mage, and now I get to teach him all I know!” Helrem laughed. He had a deep a jolly laugh, that was both intimidating and contagious.

           In the cabin, Helrem’s wife, and Murdoc, provided food, and took Tiberius into the bedroom to sleep. Helrem had the proper potions to heal Tiberius, and gave them to him. His wife was eager to tend to Tiberius, unable to stand seeing someone in need. She brought innumerable furs and blankets for the lot of them.

“We are kind, loyal and giving here. If my fine wife is not an excellent example. You may stay until you are ready to leave, if you help around.” Helrem said. Meriam’s five knights quickly feel asleep after some meat, wool blankets, and hot water.

“Master Monafyra, would you mind taking in the boy? He is of my kingdom of Anglia, but he has no home or parents. I found him as you see him. My charms and potions were not enough to heal him, and the palace has no place for him. He deserves love. He is silly, adamant, and sweet.” Meriam said, watching Murdoc crouch near Tiberius’s bed side in curiosity. The boys looked so different.

“Sure! Murdocs’ been wanting a brother for years; but as you can see by his age, and my wife’s generosity, that wish was never granted. We have the space, food, and education for the boy. You are kind for saving him and bringing him here.”

“Really? You’ll take him? Without question? You keep complimenting me, and sending gifts; I do not know you, and yet you are so kind.” Meriam rambled. Helrem leant in and hugged her, with a warm smile. Even though she was queen, and a stranger. It was a kindness that inspires more kindness; a compassion which expects nothing in return. Meriam slowly hugged back. Everyone needs and could give that sort of compassion.

It would take a few days for Meriam to record Helrem’s notes on making a gate. She had nearly filled a journal full of potion recopies, and gate instructions, poorly drawn maps, by the third day. Her men enjoyed hunting, teaching the boys swordsmanship, sledding, and eating. The travel had worn them thin and in need of comfort. A winter vacation was much more palatable than battlefronts. Meriam’s knights were not sure if they should feel lucky or not. While the boys enjoyed life, Meriam stayed in the cabin. Helrem’s home was saturated with magic tools and objects; like one massive workshop. Though, he admitted his main forge was indeed in Hefokheofen flats, where he could access the fires of dragons, fairies, and other fey. He was passionate about sharing his work, and picking the brains of Meriam’s knights. Meriam recording everything. She is primarily a seer after all.

“Why do you talk to them about their opinions of magic? Common folk either fear or ignore fey and spell.” She said watching them lounge around a bonfire.

“I disagree. Magic is wonderful, and capable of bringing out the youth in all of us. Magic is neutral, peaceful, and wonderous. The sparkle in the eyes of your men was more proof that even a common man can appreciate and adore the mystical and enchanted; without a single desire to abuse it, or use it for violence, status and wealth.” Helrem gleamed, “Here, let me show you something.” He said, leading Meriam to his work bench. He gently picked up and handed her a glass wand of twisted white and violet glass.

“This is a wand. It helps control the flow of magic threw men, from the shadow veil. I want to make ones that can be used by people in magic houses, so they can enjoy magic like us mages. Like they wish they could. People could make their own metal and clean water, use potion recipes to heal each other and fey. Even use spells that allow them to summon what they need. The weapons I make for commission are but side projects; I dream that all people can have the sparkle of summoned stars in their eyes and steps everyday. Think what good the sweetness of people could achieve with such power. Though not as powerful as our magic; I can only do so much.” Helrem explained. His dream made Meriam jitter with excitement, as she remembered how Felin wanted to wield magic like that; her rosy smile and big heart. Then Meriam heard the last sentence; a subtle panic filled her mind. She had seen murder, unlike Helrem. Meriam knew what corrupt people would do with magic in a time of war, and what fear can drive people to do.  She could not decide whether Helrem’s good intentions were right, or would bring the downfall of the balance between the magic veils.

           When Meriam arrived back home, she greeted her comforts with a deep sigh. The road had given gratitude for her soft bedding, good soap, wine and vegetables. She warmly embraced her husband, and retired her men to their families. The following week, Meriam received the black marble she had bought at Pepperidge. The local miners and merchants who sought it, said the black marble was only found in mainland Anglia. Both beautiful and authentically Grand West. Meriam pulled out her journals, and walked into the square, just down the main street from the palace; and then she began her work. With that same goodness Helrem inspired her with, Meriam worked in tranquility to make the Raven Gate. It was smooth and perfect in its completion; radiant but useless. Only fey and mages could use it. Meriam even put security on it to prevent common folk from wondering near it. The court men wondered why they gave in to peer pressure, and wanted a gate so badly, as it looked like it did nothing but look pretty and supposedly be magical. In two weeks, the Raven Gate became a pretty art installation in the square. Yet, with the creation and opening of the Raven Gate in the Capitol of the Grand West, Meriam made a magic forest hidden within a city, that would even outlive her.

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