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monipoka · 3 years

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Addressing Content Warning Concerns

I am writing in response to points that were brought up concerning my recent post. If you haven’t read that post, you can find it here.

Be warned that this is a very long post (2.8k words). It deals with the topics of pedophilia and rape. Opinions expressed are my own; however, I do offer some resources for you to better educate yourself on this post’s content.

I will not provide a link to the user that responded as she had no ill intentions. Disclaimer if the said user reads this post, I write with peace and love at 4:00 A.M. There are a couple of places where I may sound aggressive or petty, but it is analytical and not meant to invalidate you or your opinions.

Red = user’s response with minimal changes (adjusted for grammar and clarification)

Black = my response

Part 1: Age Regression and Infantilization

To learn more about age regression, here are two lovely articles describing what age regression means medically and socially.

“Age regression [agere] is a form of coping meant to eliminate stress in potentially triggering situations. Agere is not a part of sexual play and never should be. I believe [Moni] is confusing agere for age play.”

This completely misses the mark. I understand that age regressors enter a younger psychological state often as a coping mechanism. There is nothing inherently wrong with age regression as therapy. My complaints are that people are FETISHIZING age regression. As stated in my post, age regressors enter the mindset of a child commonly called a “little space.” These individuals are to be treated like children as it helps them feel safe and loved.

In my experience on Tumblr, writers commonly misinterpret Daddy Dominant, Little Girl (DDLG) or Age Play (the larger, umbrella term) for age regression. For the purposes of explanation, I am going to be using DDLG and she/her pronouns. DDLG is a type of BDSM relationship where the dominant partner (male) takes on the role of a care-giver while the submissive partner (female) takes on the role of a child. This dynamic is pretend and intended for sexual interactions. Keyword here: pretend. While the submissive portrays childish behavior, she still has an adult mindset; therefore, she can give meaningful consent. Once writers describe the submissive slipping into “little space,” her mindset is corrupt as she has age regressed; therefore, she cannot give meaningful consent making the interaction non-consensual as she embodies a child.

“Infantilization is treating somebody as if they’re a child. For example, ‘babying’ someone is the best explanation for it. This, in my opinion, is not pedophilia because it’s not inherently sexual. If it IS sexual, I wouldn’t necessarily classify it as pedophilic, but it is questionable.”

Again, this misses the mark. In a non-sexual context, infantilization is completely okay. My complaints are that people are FETISHIZING the infantilization of characters. I used this term as an alternative language to age regression because I have encountered both on this site.

“Age Play, in my opinion, is pedophilic due to how the 'older’ of the partners is benefitting from it. So if [Moni] and I are thinking the same thing, but not really using the same terminology, then I agree.”

Age Play is a kink in the BDSM community between two consenting and level-headed adults.

Age Regression is characterized by regressing back to a younger headspace.

Sexualizing age regression is pedophilic because age regressors feel, act, and exhibit childlike qualities; they genuinely believe that they are a child.

If age play includes “little space,” then it is pedophilic because the submissive has age regressed.

“None of these is what I would consider illegal due to the fact that both parties are consenting adults. But age play definitely is pedophilic. But, obviously, if both people are adults, it can’t be considered illegal.”

I called pedophilia (and rape) illegal. In the eyes of the law, sexualizing age play--given that the individual is of age--is legal. This point used the transitive property of equality (Trans POE) to point out the hypocrisy in condemning pedophilia but supporting the fetishization of age regression. To clarify, it may not be illegal, but it is morally wrong.

“Infantilization and age regression aren’t inherently pedophilic because they revolve around the idea of a mindset and not physicality.”

This is contradictory to your previous point and only half true. Age regressors largely rely on physical objects (ie. clothes, stuffed animals, pacifiers) to feel safe. While the root of age regression involves a change in psyche, it is reflected in their appearance and environment.

Part 2: Dubious Consent and Non-consensual

To learn more about rape, here is a wonderful article on non-consensual sex.

“Secondly, I’m quite confused on what she [Moni] is saying regarding calling dubcon [dubious consent] and noncon [non-consentual] rape instead of dubcon and noncon.

They are rape, or at least some form of sexual assault, but I don’t think anyone’s trying to mask them from being as such.”

I whole-heartedly disagree. It is apparent by the staggering number of dubcon and noncon posts that people use these terms to try and justify writing rape because they consider it a “fetish.” The reason I am against these terms is that writers never specifically condemn them. Oftentimes, writers mix the content of the fic into their warning section. So, by writing ‘blowjob’ next to ‘dubcon’ it underscores the severity of the situation.

“Categorizing both of the two as 'rape’ could potentially end up being very damaging. Rape is a very triggering and harsh word for some people, which is why I believe a lot of people use non-consensual sex as a term to avoid potentially triggering people.”

Again, I believe that people use dubcon and noncon to try and justify their rape “fetish.” However, if using the term “rape” is triggering to some individuals and the terms “dubcon” and “noncon” are used as a substitution, why aren’t these writers coming out and explicitly saying that they do not support these types of interactions? Furthermore, why are they writing and sharing this content in the first place if they acknowledge it as rape?

“Also, I think it’s important to clarify whether the 'sexual assault’ in fiction is dubious or non-consensual. There’s a big difference between both parties being drunk in a fic (dubcon) and hard rape, and it’s important to distinguish the two in warning columns.”

Drunk people can’t consent. Both situations are rape. The “level” of rape that you refer to, being how consensual it is, is more damaging in my opinion. Because they were drunk, it means less than if they were sober. This perpetuates victim shaming. She was asking for it. She shouldn’t have drunk so much. Rape is rape. It is never okay. And one rape is never better than another.

“Dubcon is also very important to clarify in fics due to the fact that dubcon is only a fictional concept. It helps indicate the level of consent given in the fiction because someone could be not triggered by sex under intoxication but can be triggered by hard noncon.”

I’m going to use a quote I cited from this source because I feel that the writer describes dubcon more eloquently than I can: “What bothers me the most about this situation, and what I think you are partly getting at here, is when people say that their fic isn't "noncon" or they say it is "dubcon" or "noncon depending on your point of view." Come on! Have the guts to admit that what they're writing is rape. Dubious consent bothers me as a qualifier because if you aren't sure whether someone is consenting, you don't do it or it's rape. No excuses. So, I think that people should just bite the bullet and say, this is a rape fic.... If people want to write rape fic, go for it, and I will probably read it, but let's step up and acknowledge what it is we are writing. I take issue with these qualifiers because I think that it is far more insidious than out and out rape porn. At least when we say it is rape, then we can move on to the next step: saying it's wrong, just a fantasy, etc. But avoiding the label perpetuates the rape myths that have had such a damaging effect on victims and justice: did she enjoy it, she didn't really say no, she was a tease, they've done it before. None of those things matter, and when a person labels their fic, they need to stop pretending they do.”

Essentially, the writer is reiterating what I explained in my previous comment that rape is rape. Another statement that I found describes how damaging fiction can be in real life. While most readers understand that what occurred didn’t really happen, there are real-life consequences attributed to it: “...However, not everyone in fandom uses those terms in those ways. And I think that's a problem that we need to fix. Because, especially when situations that exist in real life and that would be called rape in real life are labeled "dubcon," I think it does real harm to us all.....We currently live in a culture where not fighting back - because, for example, the rapist has threatened to kill you, or someone else, or your pet, if you don't go along with it - will very often get a rape case overturned in court. Where judges and juries and god knows the popular media will pick out and analyze every detail of a person's life to determine whether they were asking for it, whether they secretly wanted it, whether they could have conceivably fought back more than they did, why they didn't scream, why they didn't report the blackmail that was used to control them, whether or not their "consent" might've been implicitly given by winks or nods or secret handshakes or a general miasma of sexual invitation. In other words, we live in a world in which rape culture, a thing we all unwittingly participate in at one time or another, works very very hard to label things dubcon when they're really noncon.”

“Most people 'romanticizing’ non-consensual sex are victims who are trying to gain some sort of control over their trauma, so they have every right to do so. If a victim of rape should have the ability to choose whether or not they want to read/write a noncon fic and if they don’t want to use the word rape because it makes them uncomfortable, they don’t have to and shouldn’t be forced to.

As a victim of rape and sexual assault, I find peace in having the control and ability to write about my trauma. It's a way for me to gain back control that I lost and the word rape does make me uncomfortable, it makes many victims uncomfortable, and if I prefer not to use that word then I should not have to if people know synonymous terms.”

Romanticize: deal with or describe in an idealized or unrealistic fashion; make (something) seem better or more appealing than it really is.

If you are writing/reading smut, you are trying to get off. If you are writing/reading dubcon/noncon smut, you are getting off to rape. Instead of writing/reading about how heinous rape is and how disgusting rape culture is, you write/read fics romanticizing rape since as a reader you enjoy the content to some extent: it is with your favorite character, it takes place in a cool universe, it got you horny, you felt good after reading it. Romanticizing rape is damaging to society as it subconsciously makes rape appealing. I doubt that is the intention, but you can’t deny that these underlying connections exist.

There is a difference between writing to cope and writing to entertain. My intention has never been to victim shame. But writing non-consensual sex between anime characters and a reader-insert is a form of entertainment. Remember the purposes of writing we learned about in elementary school? Yeah, I have a hard time believing that this is therapeutic. Journal therapy uses reflective writing to work through trauma and mental health issues. In sexual assault cases specifically, victims often write about their experience and/or letters to their perpetrator(s). However, if this is your way to cope, that’s fine. But writing rape fics is not the same as sharing rape fics.

“People know the severity of noncon and dubcon, which is what I think [Moni] is missing. No one is trying to not make noncon rape because it is rape. People know that it is. Most people just chose to say 'noncon’ to avoid unnecessarily triggering others.”

Do they? I think to my previous comments in this section, people use these terms to downplay the seriousness of rape.

“And there are far more 'consensual’ fics out there than noncon/dubcon fics, so I don’t exactly understand what [Moni] means by 'romanticize’ or 'normalize it.’”

Two comments up I describe what romanticization is and how it is being done in the community. I’m going to ignore the number part of this statement because I feel that there is no relevance; If there is a platform for rape fics and people are engaging with them, numbers don’t matter relative to another type of fic. I call that authors romanticize consensual sex because it is oftentimes not explicitly stated, and I think it should be. The character(s) and reader are in a relationship and sex is a byproduct of that (I do not consider this dubcon). Personally, I have found very few fics where explicit consent is written in. People sometimes think that asking for consent interrupts the flow and ruins a moment. Works of fiction have an impact on real life, and writing/reading about consent serves to reinforce healthy practices.

“Going off of that, I don’t understand what [Moni] means by 'fairly young’ audiences. I'm hoping that most 18+ consumers are, you know, eighteen or older (obviously that's not the case in all situations), and eighteen is a legal adult. Most people over the age of eighteen are very aware of what these terms mean, and they know right from wrong. So, there should be no need to clarify what 'noncon’ is for them.”

My point is that this community is relatively young. I have not encountered many writers or readers who are over the age of 25 (if you are, kudos). At this age, you lack experience. Many of these readers have never had sex or been in a relationship before. While you might know the difference between rape and consensual sex on paper, some of these things are more subtle--especially in person. You referenced drunk sex as something that you’d classify as dubcon although intoxicated individuals can’t consent. I recently read a fic where the reader was drunk and picked up at the bar by a character. He asked the reader if they consented to sex and they agreed. This is still rape as you cannot consent while intoxicated since alcohol impairs judgment. Regardless of enjoyment, which the reader experienced, this is still sexual assault. Can you see the confusion by labeling that dubcon? What is a young adult to think when they’ve been manipulated into sex but told they consented? It’s confusing, so these terms should be clarified.

Part 3: Fiction

To learn more about how fiction affects reality, here is this interesting TED-Ed animation that summarizes fiction’s impact. Also, I read this article that cites more examples.

“Also, our writing shouldn’t have to equate 'good practices,’ because a healthy-minded individual knows how to separate fiction and reality. Give people the freedom to write about whatever they want, whether it’s in private or not, that's what fiction is for.”

You claim that you don’t want to use the word rape to trigger people, so you acknowledge that not all readers are health-minded as they could be suffering from trauma or mental illness. Likewise, some individuals can’t discern fiction from reality.

More importantly, there is a connection between fiction and reality.

“Finally, I don't think we should be so open with connecting real-life issues with fictional ones. No one is going to become a rapist or want to be raped because they read fiction on it unless they’re truly a rapist or have been raped. Equating fictional works to real-life problems is a little insulting, whether [Moni] intended it to be or not.”

Watch the video and read the article. Fiction directly impacts culture and society. It may be insulting, but it’s factual.

“Because in the end, in rape fiction, no one actually got raped. In pedophilic fiction (I don’t support it don’t get me wrong), no one was actually a victim of pedophilia. Because they’re all fictional.”

That doesn’t make it okay. Again, my problem is that writers ROMANTICIZE these topics which reflect poorly on society.

“If someone is concerned about pedophilia and rape fiction, I believe it would be best to work towards real-life solutions to those real-life problems compared to criticizing fiction authors.”

If you’re concerned about pedophilia and rape FICTION, I’d hope you’d criticize FICTION authors. Honestly, this seems to be a diversion tactic to avoid accountability.

Part 4: “No Offense, but You’re Wrong About Everything”

“Overall, I think [Moni] had good intentions, but it was poorly worded.

You pose a counter argument to each of my points and make it sound like I did not educate myself beforehand. You then deflect to talking about rape and pedophilia in real-world context to downplay the severity of pedophilia and rape in fiction.

I sound petty here, and I do not mean for my words to hurt. I wish that there was some communication beforehand since it seems that there was confusion. If my original post was unclear, I hope my comments help.

Conclusion

This is for everyone:

Please check out the resources I provided and do your own research to understand the situation before forming your own opinion.

No hate to the writer of the response. I just wish you would have reached out directly for clarification before taking my words out of context and assuming their meaning.

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blackrosesociety-vampyres · 4 years

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WHAT WE ARE ABOUT – An Introductory Overview

You may have found us and equally found yourself at a loss to understand what exactly Black Rose Society is, what we are about, and where you might stand within all this. The purpose of the following texts is to give you a brief introductory overview of the central topics and avenues of exploration Black Rose Society focuses on. This way, we aim to provide you with a good idea of what you can expect to find in our community.

WHAT WE ARE

Black Rose Society is – first and foremost – a community of Vampyres, dedicated to Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture.

Black Rose Society is a place for serious exploration. We do not claim to possess all the answers, and we certainly do not speak for all vampire-identified people everywhere. Rather, we do our best to provide our membership with a conducive atmosphere to explore an extensive range of topics from within the perspective of Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture. We discuss how various groups of vampire-identified people arrive at expressing their varied experiences through self-identification with the vampire as a distinct category of person or archetype. We discuss how various groups of vampire-identified people have originated and shaped an authentic alternative subculture in the form of modern Vampyre Culture. We discuss the relationship between Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture – how one inspires the other, and how we in turn may be inspired as Vampyres.

Black Rose Society is also a social place of meeting. We provide our membership with a safe haven to gather, to mingle, to exchange news and information, to enjoy hospitality, to befriend, to learn on a basis of personal knowing. In this, Black Rose Society is explicitly open to all interested parties who might be sympathetic to us, both Vampyres and Black Swans, whether they seek closer affiliation with our sponsor in House Sauromatos or not, and indeed, whether they are familiar with the customs of Vampyre Society or still seek to learn more.

Lastly, we are about the celebration of being different, and we welcome all to have a good time in our spaces, as long as it is within the boundaries of our rules, guidelines and policies.

WHAT WE ARE NOT

Black Rose Society is decidedly not…

A roleplaying community Black Rose Society is a community of ‘Real Living Vampires’. This is not a game for us. While role players are indeed welcome to join Black Rose Society, we generally do not allow actual roleplaying in our regular community spaces. A dating community Approaching our community or any of our members with the sole intention of seeking a sexual or romantic relationship of any kind is firmly discouraged. Making another member feel unsafe or uncomfortable due to unwanted sexual advances or unwanted sexual comments may be considered harassment, and we will remove any offender from our community as soon as we become aware of any inappropriate behaviour. A provider of professional medical or legal advice Any information offered through Black Rose Society is considered to be for informational or educational purposes only, and is not intended as a substitute for, nor does it replace, professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Similarly, any information offered through Black Rose Society should not be in any way construed as professional legal advice on any subject matter. Should you decide to act or refrain from acting on the basis of any information offered through Black Rose Society, you do so at your own risk.

WHETHER WE ARE THE RIGHT COMMUNITY FOR YOU

Our community may not be the right fit for you, or it may indeed be the place you gladly call a haven.

You may have found the right place if you are at least one of the following:

– A Vampyre, someone who self-identifies as a Vampyre, or as Vampyric, or in any way identifies with the vampire as a category of person or archetype. – A Black Swan, someone who is a trusted friend to Vampyres and fully participates in the community, but does not or is not ready to identify as a Vampyre or Vampyric. – A Seeker, someone seriously questioning whether they are Vampyric, or whether they want to participate in Vampyre Culture in general. – Someone involved in consensual human blood-drinking between risk-aware adults, either as an active participant, blood drinker or blood donor, or as a close friend or family member of one, wishing to be supportive of them. – Someone engaging in advanced energy work, or Energy Vampirism, within the boundaries of Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture. – Someone pursuing Vampirism from the perspective of the Occult, open and sympathetic to Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture. – Someone with a genuine and enduring interest in all things ‘Vampire’, open and sympathetic to Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture.

We especially want to welcome you if you are at least one of the above and also:

– Someone passionate about furthering Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture, and ready to make meaningful contributions. – Someone intrigued by the aesthetic and mystique of Vampyre Culture, who wishes to actively explore its lifestyle aspects. – Someone with good questions.

You may want to look elsewhere if you are one of the following:

– A journalist or media worker seeking interviews. – Lacking the necessary maturity to deal with our topics. – Solely interested in hooking up. – Just curious for no particular reason. – Seeking to become a vampire in the hopes of gaining supernatural powers, lasting youth, increased lifespan, or things similarly fantastic. – Unwilling or unable to respect Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture, for whatever reason. – Unwilling or unable to comply with Black Rose Society’s rules, guidelines and policies, for whatever reason. – Scared of reading.

If you are unsure, you are most welcome to talk to our members on our Discord Community Server and have your questions answered in our #support channel or have a friendly chat in our #lobby, both of which are open to non-members.

BLACK ROSE SOCIETY ON VAMPYRE IDENTITY – There are no vampires in the Vampire Community

We begin with the Vampire Mythos. Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture are inevitably tied to the Vampire Mythos. We, Vampyres, are a people of the Vampire Mythos, in that our self-identification and our cultural self-expression as Vampyres will in some capacity reference the figure of the vampire from popular culture.

A vampire in the most common understanding of the word appears as a creature which drains the life (often in the form of blood) of humans to sate their own needs, enrich or prolong their own existence.

Vampyres do not believe that they are literal vampires as they appear in popular fiction or folklore. While some Vampyres might believe there to be some hidden truth to vampire stories, namely historical ‘Living Vampires’ who have passed into myth, Vampyres generally do not make any fantastic claims of possessing qualities commonly associated with the vampires of popular fiction or folklore. Vampyres are perfectly able to distinguish fact from fiction.

Indeed, the reality of Vampyres as a modern cultural phenomenon is a fact that is beyond any doubt. Since at least the latter half of the last century there are people like us – people who name themselves Vampyres for a wide variety of reasons.

What is commonly known as the ‘Vampire Community’ is in fact not a unified community but a collection of networks, groups and individuals who are associated with each other by virtue of their shared self-identification with the vampire as a category of person or as an archetype.

For our own purposes, we define Vampyres as individuals who are part of the Vampyre Subculture, or Vampyre Culture, and who identify as ‘Real Living Vampires’ specifically.

Note that we are observing the anachronistic spelling with a ‘y’ when referring to our kind, emphasizing and affirming our belonging to Vampyre Culture, with the benefit of helping to distinguish our kind from the vampires of fiction and folklore, spelt with an ‘i’ in the conventional way. (While not all vampire-identified people participate in Vampyre Culture, many are familiar with or adopt certain cultural ideas, customs, symbols and terminologies of Vampyre Culture.)

THEORIES ON VAMPYRE IDENTITY

Both outside of as well as within the ‘Vampire Community’ one will likely encounter arguments that Vampyrism may be a health condition or disorder, a sexual fetish, an escape fantasy, or a religious belief. We believe that Vampyrism understood as the phenomenon of modern ‘Real Living Vampires’ is severely misrepresented by completely reducing the whole diversity of Vampyre Identity to any one of the aforementioned explanations or rationalizations.

Despite unfortunately sounding like one, Vampyrism – as we understand it – is NOT a medical condition or psychological syndrome in the sense that Vampyrism cannot be sufficiently represented by completely reducing it as such, although attempts have been made to link certain facets of Vampyrism to various physical or psychological conditions, suggesting that there may be an empirical condition underlying some cases of Vampyrism.

Likewise, Vampyrism – as we understand it – is NOT a sexual fetish in the sense that Vampyrism cannot be sufficiently represented by completely reducing it as such, although there can be sensual, erotic aspects to Vampyrism, and individuals may experience excitement or receive gratification from or during certain Vampyric acts or complement their practice of Vampyrism with participation in fetish, kink or BDSM activities.

Further, Vampyrism – as we understand it – is NOT an escape fantasy, in the sense that Vampyrism cannot be sufficiently represented by completely reducing it as such, although Vampyrism has been proposed to be a reaction to trauma, abuse or feelings of isolation, and some individuals who regard themselves as outsiders or outcasts might be attracted to Vampyre groups, which in some cases can take on the role of surrogate pseudo-families.

Lastly, Vampyrism – as we understand it – is NOT a cult, religion, religious belief or religious practice in the sense that Vampyrism cannot be sufficiently represented by completely reducing it as such, although Vampyrism can have religious or spiritual facets, which can be studied in the context of alternative spirituality or new religious movements.

In Black Rose Society we prefer to regard the phenomenon of modern ‘Real Living Vampires’, or Vampyrism, to be primarily a matter of identity – personal, social and cultural. Approaching Vampyrism this way – as a social phenomenon and culture – allows us to appreciate a wider range of complexity and diversity of perspectives found within the different strata and subsects of Vampyric communities without confining us to a too narrow definition of the nature of Vampyrism, or – more precisely – of Vampyre Identity.

What makes one a Vampyre is – to the best of our understanding – ultimately tied to the very individual reasoning leading one to name oneself a Vampyre, to adopt the Vampyre Identity, and to participate in Vampyre Culture. Put more simply, a Vampyre is potentially anyone who chooses to name oneself a Vampyre for one reason or another. The individual reasons for why a person might identify as, or express themselves as a Vampyre, or as being Vampyric, are many and varied.

VARIETIES OF VAMPYRE IDENTITY

In Black Rose Society, you will encounter very different and sometimes seemingly conflicting perspectives being discussed – why one Vampyre might drink human blood, why one Vampyre might feed on human life-forces or subtle energies, why one Vampyre might do both or neither, ranging the more traditionalist to the more modernist, from the more materialist to the more spiritualist – as well as be offered some insights into the cultural development of the presented ideas and perspectives.

Black Rose Society is a community dedicated to the whole complexity and diversity of Vampyre Identity, and Vampyre Culture. In principle, Black Rose Society does not discriminate against and welcomes any individual expression of Vampyre Identity, so long as it does not conflict with Black Rose Society’s rules, guidelines and policies.

‘Real Vampires’

Some Vampyres practice consensual human blood-drinking between adults. Also known as ‘Sanguine Vampires’ or ‘Sanguinarians’, they often, but not always, claim to have an affinity or need to feed on human blood and that this practice is of some benefit to their physical, emotional or spiritual well-being, or that they experience some other form of relief due to this practice. Please note: In Vampye Culture the practice of consensual human blood-drinking often, but not always, happens within the bounds of a committed intimate relationship, but always strictly consensually between risk-aware adults. Black Rose Society explicitly distances itself from any acts of blood-drinking or bloodletting that involve and/or in any way abuse unconsenting persons, minors or animals.

Some Vampyres who are better known as ‘Psychic Vampires’, ‘Energy Vampires’, ‘Psi Vampires’, or ‘Pranic Vampires’ believe they have an affinity or need to feed on subtle life-forces which they believe they are able to draw or gather from another person or a group of persons by means of their innate nature or learned abilities. Similarly, they claim that this practice is of some benefit to their physical, emotional or spiritual well-being, or that they experience some other form of relief due to this practice.

‘Sanguine Vampires’ along with ‘Psychic Vampires’ are often categorized as ‘Real Vampires’.

‘Living Vampires’

Other Vampyres embody the archetype of the vampire by expressing it through facets such as Lifestyle, Aesthetics, Philosophy or the Occult, often, but not always, complementing the practices previously mentioned.

These individuals are known by many different terms and distinctions, but are sometimes categorized as ‘Living Vampires’.

‘Real Living Vampires’ or Vampyres

Be advised that any such categories are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Vampyres who – by virtue of their individual identity – may find themselves in both categories, and would be considered ‘Real Vampires’ as well as ‘Living Vampires’, we call ‘Real Living Vampires’, or just Vampyres.

Black Rose Society Vampyres are Sanguines and ‘Real Living Vampires’ in the majority – but we welcome all vampire-identified people and all those who may be sympathetic to Vampyre Identity and Vampyre Culture, provided they comply with our rules, guidelines and policies.

BLACK ROSE SOCIETY ON VAMPYRE CULTURE – What it means to be a Vampyre

Vampyre Culture, also called the Vampyre Lifestyle or the Vampyre Subculture, is an alternative subculture, meaning it exists as an alternative to – and apart from, yet within – larger society. Vampyre Culture in its current modern form originated with and is influenced by other alternative subcultures, alternative lifestyles or alternative spiritualities, and is often more closely associated with the Gothic Subculture, as well as with elements of BDSM, Paganism or Satanism respectively.

Although not all vampire-identified groups and not all vampire-identified individuals necessarily consider themselves part of Vampyre Culture, many groups of Vampyres or individual Vampyres follow their own authentic expression of Vampyre Culture. Vampyre Culture is often that which connects the various communities of vampire-identified people.

Vampyre Culture has its own complex heritage, with its own traditions and authentic lines of transmission. Prior to the advent of the internet, communities of Vampyres and groups of the Vampyric Heritage were – compared to today’s standards – relatively isolated from each other. This resulted in several more or less distinct traditions of vampire-identified people arriving to exist side by side in the current modern ‘Vampire Community’ with the turn of the century, each possessing an authentic history, each having an equally legitimate claim to what it means to be a ‘Vampire’, sometimes complementing each other, sometimes contradicting each other. Today there are multitudes of different Vampyre Houses, Covens and Clan-Families preserving, refining and transmitting their own piece of the Vampyric Heritage. Black Rose Society itself was founded as a Protectorate-Partner and functions as an Outer Court for House Sauromatos, a traditional Vampyric Household based in Germany.

MAKINGS OF VAMPYRE CULTURE

In Black Rose Society we are dedicated to the study and the discussion of Vampyre Culture from within the perspective of active participation in Vampyre Culture. We see Vampyre Culture expressed in our own ideas of social organization, in customs, in codes of behaviour, in etiquette, in philosophy, in spirituality, in our symbols, language and terminologies, as well as – to a limited degree – in our aesthetics, style, fashion, music, art, etc.

What makes up Vampyre Culture, and what Vampyre Culture means for us as Vampyres are among the most important questions Black Rose Society is exploring. According to our patron and sponsor in House Sauromatos there are certain traditions, fundamental ideas and concepts that one might consider to be essential to Vampyre Culture – its character, its values as well as its aesthetics and mystique: Feeding, Naming, Speaking the Language, Wearing Black, Secrecy, Education and Family

Feeding

For most outsiders and indeed for many Vampyres their interest in Vampyre Society begins and ends with Feeding. Although our words for and our ideas surrounding the practice of Vampyric Feeding may certainly differ, Vampyres as a category of person are nearly universally defined by the fact that we engage in certain Vampyric acts, or Vampyric behaviour, generally understood as a Vampyric person actively feeding on another person’s life-forces, often in the form of blood. The varied practices of consensual human blood-drinking between risk-aware adults, or the arts of feeding on life by certain subtle means are the most commonly expressed forms of practised Vampyrism. This is what we call Feeding. Our ideas of what it is Vampyres feed on, how and when Vampyres feed, why Vampyres feed, if there is a need for Vampyres to feed, of which nature this need might be and what it means for us as Vampyres will differ from place to place, group to group, individual to individual. Regardless of the variety of ideas present and expressed in Vampyre Culture, the concept and practice of Vampyric Feeding is central to Vampyre Culture anywhere. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Naming

Names have power. At the beginning of one’s journey, one often chooses a dedicated name to be used for any coming interactions within Vampyre Society. Taking on a new name – a Vampyre name – can be considered an individual rite of passage in Vampyre Culture. It signifies a dedication or desire to be known and recognized by that name as a part of Vampyre Society. A Vampyre’s chosen name is often highly meaningful and should reflect one’s personal identity and journey as a Vampyre. Therefore, care should be taken when choosing a name for oneself. Under certain circumstances, a Vampyre may accept a name chosen by one’s mentor or a person of similar standing. It is commonly permissible to change one’s chosen name when one has outgrown it. For some, taking on a new name can mean the freedom of leaving the past behind to begin anew, discovering or re-inventing yourself, to seek out new experiences, to forge new bonds, to choose a new family. Indeed, when joining a traditional group of Vampyres, one might, in addition, take on the name of the House, Clan, Coven or Family in question, or a name honouring one’s mentor, signifying individual belonging and lineage. Among traditional groups, one’s naming is often accompanied by certain rites and ceremonies. While naming customs may differ from place to place, a Vampyre’s chosen name is generally an important expression of one’s Identity as a Vampyre. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Speaking the Language

Belonging to Vampyre Culture is distinctly marked by the correct usage of specialized terminologies. While a complete Vampyric language never reached widespread use in Vampyre Culture, its specialized terminologies are similar to an argot, or cant, a type of secret language which can be employed to protect a group’s spoken or written communication from outsiders, establishing a subculture existing separate but within a larger society. To learn this secret language present in Vampyre Culture one would commonly access and study word lists, or learn directly from other Vampyres within an established group. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Wearing Black

Subtle and elegant, black is the preferred colour of Vampyres according to tradition and suitable for any social occasion or function of Vampyre Society. To complement a classic black attire, silver jewellery is often preferred by Vampyres, as is the wearing of certain signets and symbols associated with Vampyre Culture. Traditional groups are known to recommend stricter dress codes depending on various factors – yet, the colour black enjoys almost universal acceptance in Vampyre Culture anywhere. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Secrecy

Secrecy and confidentiality are paramount for Vampyres. From the earliest beginnings of what would become Vampyre Culture, our communities have relied on secrecy and mutual discretion. It comes with the territory, the deviant nature of our interests and activities, which are largely – and perhaps rightfully – considered to be taboo in larger society. Originating in traditional codes of silence, the importance of secrecy is near-universally recognized in Vampyre Culture, and it often is among the first lessons to someone introduced to Vampyre Society. Vampyres must ever take care not to disclose any information that could be in any way construed to threaten other Vampyres, their families, their friends, or themselves. The same applies to our trusted Black Swans, who know of us and keep our secrets. Do not seek the attention of the mundane. Especially avoid the sensationalist media like the plague. Do not misrepresent yourself as speaking for all Vampyres, or for any Vampyre groups you are not sanctioned to represent. When possible, entrust any outside public relations to those with more experience. Protect each other’s personal information. Keep your Vampyre life and mundane life separate. Do not reveal a person’s mundane name or any other aspects of a person’s mundane identity to anyone without explicit permission. Indeed, it is good etiquette not to inquire about a person’s mundane identity at all within Vampyre Society. Always keep the secrets entrusted to you personally. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Education

With knowledge comes responsibility. In Vampyre Culture knowledge is traditionally passed on personally – from person to person, from mentor to protégé – forming traceable lines of transmission. Being of the Vampyric Heritage, it is a Vampyre’s duty and responsibility to share one’s knowledge with others and impart them with the necessary skills to feed responsibly, to instruct them in the language and traditions of Vampyre Culture, and to prepare them to serve as leaders and guides for the next generation of Vampyres, passing on the legacy so that it may endure. In a traditional mentor-protégé relationship, a mentor is called to protect, to guide and to correct any missteps of their protégé – always leading by example. For the duration of a traditional mentorship period, a mentor is – to a limited degree – responsible for the behaviour of their protégé. A good mentor will provide access as well as personal insight by introducing their protégé to relevant texts and resources, teaching them protocol and proper conduct, and inviting them to attend gatherings and social functions with them. A good protégé will demonstrate an eagerness to learn by asking questions and show respect by being attentive and valuing their mentor’s time. By tradition, it is the mentor’s responsibility to assess whether their protégé has acquired the necessary level of experience, self-control and knowledge to stand on their own and be formally recognized as a member of Vampyre Society. The successful end of a mentorship period will often be marked by certain rites and celebrations, depending on ruling customs. Vampyre Culture’s distinctly personal approach to the transmission of knowledge often stems from an appreciation of the living Vampyric Heritage and the desire to keep the flame alive by passing it on from one person to another, one generation to the one following. Our Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire. This is part of Vampyre Culture.

Family

Blood is thicker than water. Vampyres traditionally organize themselves into clannish, close-knit groups of like-minded, kindred spirits. Traditional Houses, Clans, Covens, or Families of Vampyres often emphasize their familial nature as part of their self-image. Indeed, traditional groups of Vampyres can at times resemble surrogate families, providing safety, stability and support – a life among your own kind, where other support systems might have failed you. Someone’s Vampyre Family is a true family of choice, often just as important to the individual as someone’s original family – if not more so. For these reasons, belonging and loyalty to one’s Vampyre Clan-Family or Vampyre House are valued highly in Vampyre Culture. Vampyre Houses, or other equivalent traditional groups, form the backbone of Vampyre Culture, and are typically, but not necessarily, headed by one or several influential matriarchal or patriarchal figures, with a close inner circle of Family members and retainers, attracting an outer circle of prospective members and hang-arounds as well as various supporters and sympathizers. While a certain level of stratification is traditionally upheld, it mainly fulfils a need for stability and security, which is ceremonially reproduced by hierarchy and ritual. In reality, there is often a striking difference between the formal stratified structure and the informal familial nature of this type of group – even in the most traditional of Vampyre Houses. Apart from providing their members with a family-like network of support, mutual loyalty and trust, Vampyre Houses, or other equivalent traditional groups, serve Vampyre Society in various other ways. Depending on the group or organization in question, Vampyre Houses, or other equivalent traditional groups, may be actively involved in the preservation and furthering of knowledge, in structured education and teaching, as well as in organizing events and social functions for their local communities. While the vast majority of individual Vampyres does not belong to a group following a more traditional model, their ideas and values of Family are deeply embedded in Vampyre Culture in general. Without the bonds of Family, we are nothing: Loyalty to each other, to Vampyre Society, to Clan and House – honouring the Ancestors, in Life and Death. All this is part of Vampyre Culture.

IDEAL OF VAMPYRE CULTURE

In Black Rose Society we customary refer to the utopian ideal of a community envisioned by Vampyre Culture as Vampyre Society.

Vampyre Society is perhaps, above all, a community of shared values. Vampyres often believe themselves to be in some way different from other people within larger society. Many Vampyres have experienced or continue to experience alienation due to their unique experiences. Vampyre Society is a place where all are valued and embraced for who they are, and where to be different is celebrated and cherished. Vampyre Society is a place where all are largely free from judgement imposed by larger society, heeding only Vampyre-specific codes of behaviour, more appropriate to their way of living. Vampyre Society is a place of belonging, which – fostered by the personal relationships found in real community, strengthened through facing shared adversity together, and heightened by the very mystique of the vampire archetype – may engender genuine feelings of pride and awaken true solidarity with other members of Vampyre Society.

To make Vampyre Society a lived reality, whenever or wherever possible, at social gatherings, or in any interaction with other Vampyres and Black Swans – this is the meaning of Vampyre Culture.

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felidaefighter · 3 years

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Fears To Ease And Flesh To Mend

Ranboo and Tubbo find out that unzombifying a piglin is a bit different from unzombifying a villager, and they start off parenthood with quite a few complications and in a little over their heads. For the sake of their child, they may need to put awkwardness aside and ask for help.

[Sick fic, canon divergence, Phil and Techno meet Michael, lots and lots of piglin lore headcanons] ~20,000 words per chapter

Chapter Two of Four

“Hey Phil,” Ranboo said carefully as they were coming back from trading with the local villagers, who gave good deals since they were grateful they’d been cured after being zombified, “What’s the difference between curing a zombie villager and curing a zombie piglin? Aside from the obvious.” Phil looked curiously at Ranboo while they walked. “That’s an interesting question. It is a little bit different, yeah. Technically the process itself is the same but ahhh there’s always some difficulties. Usually not worth the trouble.” Ranboo pondered this for a moment. “Huh. How do you mean?”

“Well, because of where they’re from, piglins tend to have a bit of a resistance to magic. So the rotten flesh doesn’t really heal fully or automatically the way it does for villagers. The whole process is easier in the Nether, because the lack of moisture keeps the rot slow and less likely to spread after they’re healed.” Ranboo listened intently, opening his book and scribbling notes so he could keep track. “It’s just a rare thing to see happen, is all. Adult piglins especially, they’re such a warrior-based society that waking up hurting and confused just means they’re more likely to attack the person who healed them than be grateful. Not to mention they’re still going to have infections and rot. It’s just so uncommon because you’d never try and heal a piglin that you didn’t know beforehand. It requires so much aftercare and pre-established trust, like from before they were zombified, that without it it’s just bound to lead to the piglin dying anyways.”

“Oooh interesting, interesting. But the dosage ratio of potions and apple and stuff is the same, right?” Phil nodded. “Yeah, between piglins and villagers and the little rascals, too.” He cackled a little. “General consensus tends to be it’s better to overdose on magic than underdose, because worst case scenario for inhaling too much of the weakness potion is you feel a bit queasy, and worst case scenario for eating too much golden apple is that you get a stomachache, but if you underdose the worst case scenario is they aren’t healed at all and can never be properly healed.”

They were just about at their houses now, and Phil shot Ranboo a look with raised eyebrows. “You don’t know any piglins aside from Techno though right? You aren’t worried about Techno are you mate? You don’t need to be-- he’s already gone through that process. He doesn’t need to do it again.” Ranboo stopped short. This was news to him, but also, it made for an excellent cover. For now at least-- admittedly he was still a little lacking on information for how to treat the infections properly. “Wait, really? Techno was zombified?”

“Ah, yep.” Ranboo nearly jumped out of his skin, spooked at Techno’s voice. The piglin must’ve come out of his own house to greet them as they arrived, and overheard the last bit of conversation. “An interestin’ way to enter a conversation, but yeah, I was.” Techno shrugged. “Just for a few seconds though. Happens with any piglin that wants to be able to traverse the overworld. Phil and I planned it ahead of time, so there weren’t really a lot of sores to deal with or anything. Definitely not where most of my scars come from,” Techno said with a bragging smirk.

Ranboo laughed a bit. “Of course, yeah. That’s so cool though, ‘cause I didn’t know any of that. It does make sense though, I think, yes.” Ranboo was desperately trying to sound normal and not allude to anything else at all. He really hoped it was working. “Ranboo, you good mate?” Phil asked. It was, apparently, not working. He tried to stay steady and even with his voice. “Yeah, no, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Techno kind of squinted at him, and Ranboo nervously curled in on himself just a bit, despite being slightly taller than the piglin.

Techno looked like he was going to say something that surely would’ve made Ranboo explode with anxiety, but instead, he just shrugged. “Alright. We won’t pry. Will we, Phil?” Techno said, looking pointedly at the man, who very much looked like he did in fact want to pry, but conceded with a bit of a grumble and a small sigh. “Let us know if you’re curious about anything else though. Techno and I have gone around the bend with this one, we know the ins and outs.” Techno elbowed Phil (knowing this was his way of trying to subtly pry), who lightly smacked him back. Ranboo, in turn, nodded at them. “Mhm! I will, thank you.”

Ranboo pretended not to notice as the two of them exchanged a knowing glance with one another, instead giving a wave and heading off to his own house for the night. He let out a long, shaky exhale once inside. “Okay, could’ve gone better, could’ve gone worse. Should’ve kept Michael in the nether while healing him, but we did it as soon as he was safe at Snowchester in a baby-proofed room so… Overall… not... as bad as it could have been? I think we did okay, I think we did okay,” Ranboo muttered to himself, trying to calm himself down.

Unfortunately, he didn’t learn anything about how to heal an infection, but he supposed that was typical. He didn’t ask about infections. He asked about unzombifying piglins. He did have more resources at his house than Tubbo had, though, so he went to his basement and started rummaging around in his chests to see if he could find anything of value. A little difficult with how disorganized he tended to be, but that was okay. It gave Tubbo time to respond to him after he sent him a quick message.

Secretly, Ranboo wanted to involve Techno and Phil; he knew that they and Tubbo had a bit of a rough history, but the two really seemed to know what they were talking about. And Tubbo had changed and Phil and Techno had changed, and Ranboo didn’t think they would try to hurt Michael. If there was a chance they could help Michael, he was considering risking it. He’d do anything for his son. But he wouldn’t say anything unless Tubbo was okay with it; after hesitating, he sent Tubbo another message.

<Ranboo> techno and phil might know how to help with michael’s infection <Ranboo> but i don’t know how to ask without telling them about him <Ranboo> and i won’t tell them if you’re worried <Tubbo> i don’t trust techno <Tubbo> but he is a piglin also <Tubbo> and i trust you <Ranboo> i just worry that it’ll get worse if we don’t do it right <Tubbo> it’s your call big man

Ranboo stared anxiously at the messages, thinking of his next step. He was so focused on it that he almost didn’t hear the knock on his door from upstairs. Startled, he shouted up. “Coming! I’ll be there in a second!” Giving one last glance at the conversation, he tucked his communicator away and rushed up the ladder. He opened the door and stepped outside a bit, his house being a bit too cramped to have a decent conversation. “Phil!” He exclaimed, utterly confused. “What’s up? Everything okay?” Phil was standing at the door next to a very disgruntled Technoblade, who looked like he had tried everything in his power to stop whatever conversation was about to happen and, upon failing due to Phil’s Old Man Stubbornness, decided to tag along.

“So, hypothetically,” Phil started, and Techno groaned. Phil sent one of his typical jokingly exasperated glances at Techno in response, and started again. “Hypothetically, if you were curing a zombie piglin, you’d probably want someone around who’s done it before to make sure everything went okay.” Ranboo stared at him for a moment, processing. “That’s true! Hypothetically, if I’d already cured a zombie piglin, I’d also want help with it to make sure nothing went wrong.” Phil now wore a knowing smirk, triumphant in the fact that his suspicions were confirmed. Techno sighed. “See, Phil, what you’ve done now is you’ve made a lot more work for us. Ranboo could’ve got it all done on his own and probably would’ve been fine, but now we gotta go help.” Phil turned to him as he spoke.

“Techno, you don’t have to help mate, I’ve done this on my own before--” Techno interrupted him. “Nahhhh nah nah, you can do it on your own sure, but you see I am a certified actual piglin, so you’re gonna want my help regardless. It’ll be easier with me there. I’m comin’ with you.” Ranboo just stood there, baffled, trying to gather his thoughts. They were both asking way more than he initially thought and also way less. Was this a good thing? Regardless, they had offered to help and apparently nothing could convince them not to. “Th-- Thank you…?” Ranboo said, then corrected himself, “Thank you. I uh. Hoo boy. It’s a bit of a story,” he admitted nervously.

Phil placed a hand on Ranboo’s upper arm, given his shoulder was a bit too high up for comfort. “Let’s walk and talk, then. I’m assuming this piglin you know is elsewheres, at least.” Ranboo nodded. “Yeah. Let me just, uh--” he sent a quick message to Tubbo saying they were on their way as they started walking-- “Yeah. But first uh, we already healed him. Sort of. We cured him, but he’s not healed. He’s got some really bad infections and we’re worried that some of the issues are internal. It doesn’t seem like it, but we want to be safe.” Phil’s face shifted to a look of deep concern, and mentally started making note of what they would need, as Techno looked rather thoughtfully at Ranboo, having picked up more than just the medical details that Phil was so focused on. “‘We’’? Who’s ‘we’?” Techno asked.

Ranboo stiffened, and then took a deep breath. Well, here went nothing. “So you know Tubbo? --Please don’t get mad at me,” Ranboo started, and Techno held his tongue. “When I first joined and Tubbo was giving me a tour of New L’Manberg, we found a. Uh. We found a baby piglin who had been zombified.” Something seemed to click for both Techno and Phil as a look of realization passed over their faces, and Ranboo prayed that it didn’t turn to anger or aggression. They had no reason to feel that way, he tried to reassure himself, but he knew their history with Tubbo.

“We… made him a little shelter in the Nether to protect him from ghasts and wandering off. Until we’d made a baby-proofed room for him at least in Tubbo’s house. And last night we brought him to the overworld, to Tubbo’s house, and cured him.” Ranboo waited for the backlash, and while Techno looked like he had something he wanted to say, Phil spoke first. “Keeping him in the Nether in a shelter was one of the best things you could’ve done. Most of the area around the main portal, which is what I’m assuming you used, is wasteland, so it’s really dry and that would’ve protected him as well as anything can from decaying. Techno?”

Techno, after having been given the go-ahead, was finally free to speak his mind. “Ranboo-- Ranboo I’m not really so sure about Tubbo, I mean he is one of the big government guys that hunted me down-- are you doin’ this as like, a favor to him? What’s the relationship there?” Ah. Ranboo had been prepared to talk about Michael, but this, now this was a little awkward. Instead, he decided to first pipe up to correct Techno and defend Tubbo. “Actually, that was Quackity’s idea. He kind of talked everyone else into that. I’m pretty sure at least. I think I wrote it down. He was definitely the one who organized it though. I think he was gonna do it whether we agreed or not?” Techno was very clearly making mental notes. “Interesting,” he said. Ranboo continued in his answer. “And relationship, well uh, it’s not a favor per se, it’s more like… we adopted him? Together. We adopted him together, like, as our son? And we’re married.”

“What?” Phil squawked. Techno just blinked at Ranboo, and chose his words carefully, trying to hide his shock. Actually, if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking, it would’ve been hilarious. “Well. I won’t say anything as to your choice in spouse, but this is definitely new information.” Phil, despite his ruffled feathers in both a physical and metaphorical sense, gathered himself and decided to push the other two to do the same. Quite literally-- he put a firm hand on Techno and Ranboo both and started urging them towards the portal. Ranboo let out a startled noise that was intermingled with a confused, small laugh. “Right, well, infection’s not gonna get better on its own, we can deal with this situation later. I will talk to you and Tubbo about this,” Phil nearly scolded, and Ranboo could only nod under Phil’s determination. Techno, of course, deferred his judgement to Phil.

#ranboo #philza #technoblade #dreamsmp #mcyt fanfic #they write #don't worry i'm only tagging the people who show up in the chapter!#posting it all at once hopefully that's okay #r #p #t #family bee

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olivieblake · 4 years

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Sorry I haven't detailed my Friendship breakup ask earlier, managing life is taking too much time these days!

It's a bit hard to summarise but I have been soulmate-type friends with this girl, K, for three and a half years and really good friend with this guy, R, for two and a half. We all work together and our triangle friendship worked well. K and R fooled around a few times after parties, K developed feelings, R didn't and thought it was a friends with benefits thing while K hoped it would become more but it never did. Big problem was the lack of communication between them, both thought the other knew what they wanted but we know that things don't work this way.

I've been there for all of it, particularly for K who had been hurt by the lack of emotional intelligence R indeed displayed along the way. But I also felt, and I think R knew it herself, that she had been getting her hopes up almost all along and was setting herself for heartbreak, but life needs to be lived and sometimes we make mistakes just so that we can learn from them and K and I talked a lot about that, as I was myself getting entangled with another colleague.

Fast forward to last November, where, after months of horrible things piling up 2020 style, R and I spent an evening together watching movies, eating pizzas, drinking English cider and talking about how fucking sad we all were and fuck 2020 and family members dying of cancer way too fast, both in his and my family, and work being hell because the government is doing shit for making schools safe and everything going wrong all the time. At some point during the night there was a moment when I felt that R was offering more than just sleeping together in the same bed and I had a moment of hesitation but decided to not give in to it and to the the confort it might bring us both, mainly because I was sure it would hurt K if she ever heard about it. So we just slept, read books in the morning while drinking tea and there was no awkwardness because we both knew that it came from the fact that we trust each other enough to ask for comfort and even if it would have been a possibly stupid way to get it, it might have made us feel better in the moment. (even though we both think we'd have burst into tears 30 seconds in and not done it in the end)

I wondered whether I should tell K or not and decided to do it because nothing had happened, really, and if I didn't tell her when we told each other most things, that's when it'd have become suspicious and dishonest. So I told her that there had been a weird moment between R and I, that nothing had happened in the end, not in the best way in retrospect because it felt too casual to her, confirmed that had it happened it would have been weird for her and thought that was that since the next few days went fine. But at the end of that week she sent me an audio, saying that if I had feelings for R, I had a lot of time to tell her, that she needed people she could trust and who respected her in her life and that we weren't friends anymore. And that was it. Since then, she has refused to have a conversation to clear things up and has avoided me several weeks but has kept talking to R as usual.

I should have told her in a different way and I understand why she felt hurt imagining that R and I had spent a night of passion together but I told her, and then explained more clearly, that nothing had actually happened, that I wasn't into R and he wasn't into me, we were just both very sad and a bit too drunk.

The thing is, he's not hers, they haven't been in a relationship, he's not her ex either. Even if we had slept together, it wouldn't have had anything to do with her; people don't belong to people. But what's really hard is that we've been really good friends for several years and she was so quick to assume I would be cruel to her on purpose and that her feelings didn't matter to me when we've been there for each other a lot. And that putting an end to our friendship via WhatsApp was apparently so easy to do. (I don't really think it was, but it sure feels like it.)

And I've been asking other friends' opinions to see how in the wrong I was really, since maybe I couldn't see the situation clearly enough from my position, and the general consensus is that since I didn't do anything with him and was honest with her right after the nothing happened, she's being a bit extreme when the only actual thing she could reasonably resent me for is the way I told her. We're adults, we should be able to at least talk about it but I've offered several times and she says she doesn't need to or want to. But we're in the same friend group, we're supposed to spend time all together at some point and us not talking has an effect on the whole group dynamics, not just on us, and my awful need to make sure everything is balanced for everyone is going crazy.

It's been a long few months and my already sad and stressed out brain is having a hard time dealing with it and I hate that we're in this situation for something as futile as boy problems. I think there are issues of jealousy and self-confidence that stem from something else and that she's projecting it all onto this but it still sucks a lot, especially since she's refusing to talk about anything, even if we're at least back to saying hello and she has stopped fleeing every room I am in.

Anyways, friendship breakups suck, they can be as stupid as romantic breakups, and 2021 has better be nicer too everyone than 2020! Sorry for the novel-lenghth ask/story, my life is a succession of ridiculous plot points.

I hope you and Baby and Mr. Blake are doing well in these weird, weird times and I've started your book and I have loved your last video, especially the part on jealousy/possesiveness which was really well-put, as usual! Oh and thank you so, so much for your book recs on my last ask, I've added them to my To read-list <3

Okay, Love you, bye!

I feel like my last ask was a little bit too detailed to give a general answer/launch a large topic so I'm guessing it's mainly about how to deal with a lack of closure when people end things without the possibility to talk and get/give explanations. And I guess it goes for romantic relationships as well as friendships.

Love your big sistering, love you !

WELL I actually did not get this ask until a few hours after I had filmed this week’s video so not to worry lol I wasn’t able to address this specifically. but I think that’s the thing about the generality of grief over losing a friend—we don’t necessarily have to know the specifics of your story to understand it’s something we probably all relate to. and in this case I most certainly relate! I think this is one of those things where your friend had some personal things to work on and it put you in a difficult position, wherein you made the most logical choice. that’s the problem: you are looking logically at what is for her an emotionally fraught situation about her self-worth and your loyalty, which is why the math on your end isn’t adding up. (for the record I am much more likely to be in your position than hers; she sounds like a water sign but WHO’S TO SAy)

anyway, I don’t think you’re in this position over boy problems. a boy appears to be the subject yes but in fact he is the object; the subject is your friend’s feelings about herself and your—forgive me, but your compulsion to force her to get over it. I may not be completely right about that, but it does appear to me that you could have said nothing about the “nothing” that happened but chose not to because, ultimately, part of you wanted her to know. I don’t think this is sinister of you; I have a lot of friends who really need to just get over it as a general rule and sometimes it does feel like shocking them into it with new information might do the trick. but I think most likely she feels or intuits that in some way, and I suspect the root of her anger isn’t really about him but the “betrayal” she feels from you: that in that moment, you weren’t thinking about her* despite the fact that you would probably have known she would hurt if you had been (I’m sure you did know this to be true, and in my opinion are rationalizing your part in it; which is fine because you’re the main character in your life and not hers, but it is what it is) and of course she’s thinking about her, so what seems like a lot of pain on her end that she has no healthy method of dealing with is straining your relationship. I hope she can bring herself to deal with it, but she has a lot of work to do on herself before she can reach the pinnacle of what’s really bothering her. until then, it’s easier to blame you.

* edited to add: I know you said that you decided not to move forward sexually because of her, but I think what actually hurts her is not the possibility of sex, but the intimacy you had with him in that moment, which even you know is something she craved; perhaps delusionally. you don’t have to acknowledge whether this is a reasonable thing to be upset by, but I think the entirety of the situation is probably hitting her much differently than it hits you.

anyway my answer was not about this situation specifically but about why friendship breakups hurt so much, and I don’t think knowing the situation changes my answer. I hope it does help, because I think there is some part of this that is always true: one person needs to do something on their own before the friendship can be repaired, and it may not have been a problem at all if not for an issue of very specific timing. but trust me, whether this specific thing had happened or not this would still be true about the two of you, and about the ways your personal dogmas differ, and perhaps it’s better to see if she can take this leap now. maybe she will grow from it; maybe she won’t. either way, this is the part-grief, part-guilt formula I’m talking about, where sometimes you have to admit the breaking point happened, whether it could have gone differently or not, and now it’s out of your control

but I hope it helps to talk about!

#big sistering #olivie blake is not writing #persecate

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tvntae · 6 years

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heartbreak hotel 4

pairing: reader x ceo!jeon jungkook

plot: was sleeping with your boss really such a great idea?

Genre: smut (eventual), angst, fluff

word count: 3.7k ish

A/n: THANK YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO DAMN PATIENT!! I NEVER TAKE THIS LONG WITH UPDATES BUT IVE BEEN BUSSSSSY LATELY. I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS CHAPTER!! <3

You shut your eyes tight when you feel Jungkook’s body slightly shift next to yours. Either he was a wild sleeper, or both him and yourself couldn’t sleep. But neither one of you says anything to each other. If you were honest with yourself, you hated that you had sex with Jungkook. Yes, it was arguably the best sex you had ever had, but it didn’t deter you from the fact that it was morally wrong. You chew on your bottom lip as your brain races, nothing making sense, you want to get up from the bed and ran away. Run as fast as you can but what difference would that make really? What’s done is done. It was consensual, something you both had wanted, and now that it’s over you feel sick. You can’t help but wonder if Jungkook feels the same way you do. You know he wouldn’t leave his fiance for you, and besides, that isn’t something that had ever crossed your mind. So, you could bet your life that he didn’t want that either. Jungkook snuggles up closer to you and begins to snore softly; you figure he’s probably comfortable now. This isn’t a bed Jungkook is used to sleeping in. One can assume he rests in a much more expensive, much larger bed than your own. Jungkook’s lips trace the crevice between your neck and collar bone, ticking you. You try your best to move further closer to the edge of the bed but, Jungkook who is most likely not fully asleep just yet groans, loud, might you add and the sound rings in your ears. So used to it being silent for the past hour, expect for Jungkook’s occasional snore. Jungkook smacks his lips to together, gathering saliva to wet his dry mouth. You try to slow your breathing to try tricking him into thinking you’re sleeping.

You don't understand why you’re acting this way if you were uncomfortable you could kick him out. Indeed this is your home. But apart of you likes that Junkook is still here, still holding you, strong arms snaked around you as if he was the one afraid you’d leave him. You hadn’t had a man touch you this way in so long, Jungkook’s affection blinded you and even when you caught wind of how treacherous the situation was becoming you welcomed said danger with opened arms. You could have said no. You had several opportunities to do so and yet you did the complete opposite. Situations like this only end in despair. Moreover, in your case, it could end in losing your job, being homeless or even having to move back home and move in with your parents. You grimace at the fact.

“Please, for the love of God stop moving y/n.” You hear behind you, and your eyes shoot open. You couldn’t possibly be making that many movements for Jungkook to pick up on that fast. You close your eyes again and pray he lets it go.

Jungkook shifts and this time you can tell he got up from the bed. You hear him stretch and yawn, extremely obnoxiously, and for a second you wonder to yourself if he did it to be annoying or because he’s just that much of an ass in the wee hours of the morning. Jungkook is still butt ass naked and for some reason that annoys you more. You don’t even walk around your place naked.

“Want something from the kitchen?” Jungkook ask you, and you’re so damn tempted to turn around to look at him, but you resist, still wanting him to think you are asleep. He huffs and you know he still doesn’t quite believe you're sleeping but, for the time being, it would do. You breathe a sigh of relief once you hear his footsteps tracking down the hallway towards your tiny kitchen, and now you kind of really regret not asking him to grab you a bottle of water from your fridge. With Jungkook now being out of the room, you move your duvet aside and get out if bed, slowly tip-toeing as not to alert Jungkook that you are awake as he had previously suspected. You reach your dresser and pull out a nightie, something you don't usually wear, but you'd rather not have Jungkook see you in your regular sleepwear; which are old dingy sweatpants and a way too big tee.

It's quite dark in your room, only light from the hallway slowly seeping through the crack in your door. You couldn't see much but can quickly dress and promptly crawl back into bed. By the time you've secured your duvet in walks Jungkook. You close your eyes tight again and relax your shoulders when he too gets back into bed. He doesn't say another word, and soon you hear his breathing even out.

Your alarm is loud as fuck. You nearly fall out of bed when you finally notice that it isn't apart of your dream, or should you say nightmare, but it is indeed time for you to adult today. You had gotten no sleep last night, and you feel shitty. Your head ached, and your muscles were tense. You turn to your side and see Jungkook is no longer in bed and his clothes are gone as well. You don't know how to feel about him being gone so soon, and you can't help but wonder what time he could have gotten up. You would have heard him leave, right? He wouldn't just up and go without saying anything. He's the type to at least leave a note on a girls nightstand after a one night stand. At least you think he is. But your judgment shouldn't be trusted seeing as you also thought Jungkook wasn't the type to hook up with an employee.

Groaning you step out of bed and turn off your alarm. It's 9:00 am, which means you need to get ready and be out of your door within the next hour. The last few days that Jungkook had been staying with you he advised you to stay home since you would have no use in the office without him. He said he was going to take a few days off from work, which fucking surprised you because The Jeon Jungkook doesn't do work breaks. Staying home was boring as fuck, the occasional flirty conversation with Jeon was fun but, Jungkook mostly stayed on his phone and rarely left your apartment.

The plus side was he did cook and did the dishes and cleaned up after himself like the gentleman that you knew was in him all along. Jungkook wasn't a bad guy, but sometimes he just wasn't the best guy. He had a short fuse, and in the small amount of time he crashed on your couch, and an even shorter time on your bed, you saw just how angry he could get, small or big, and yet you were more than fine putting up with it. You weren't sure if it was because he was your boss and you were afraid of being fired if you got to loose-lipped or if you were growing a soft spot for the guy, you prayed it wasn't the latter.

Finally deciding what to wear today you get dressed and call a cab. You usually take the bus to work in the early mornings but because the weather forecast says it's none stop rain with a possibility of thunderstorms it's best to play it safe today. Besides, you spent a significant amount of time on your hair and makeup today. Just because you feel like hell doesn't mean you want to look it as well.

You walk into your office feeling like a nervous klutz, your palms sweaty, pits itch, the whole nine. You'd been here for 20 minutes waiting for Jungkook to call or at least walk in to tell you his next 'order' and he hasn't. Typically, he at least has some task waiting for you at your desk. Hell, sometimes he's waiting for you inside of your office before you even get there for a quick briefing. So him not making his appearance known is... unsettling. You pace around, your hands covering your face. Your stomach grumbles from the lack of food this morning. You thought having a cup of black coffee for breakfast was a great idea at the time. You were running low on cash so you couldn't stop to get anything on your way here. Ugh, the day was looking to be more and more frustrating.

Two hours pass and Jungkook still hasn't shown up to your office. You scroll on your Twitter and Instagram feed for the 100th time, sighing when you notice your mutuals aren't as active during the morning as they are in the late afternoon and early evenings. You wanted to bang your head on your desk from the anger that has started to boil inside you, Where the fuck could he be? What an asshole. You stand up from your desk chair and decide to make the first move, and that move is heading straight to Jungkook's office. The only time you've been in his office is if he calls you in, which has been less than ten times since you've started this position. You hadn't minded that much about it. A man's office is his personal space, you guess. Jungkook's office isn't too far from yours; it's just a few steps away from your very own much smaller one.

Standing in front of his office door has your heart thumping loud. You're nervous, again for the second time today and it does nothing more than to annoy you further. All you needed to see was if Jungkook was in his office or not and if not then you'd be taking your merry ass on your way. You open the door to Jungkook's office and step inside and what you see makes the blood in your veins completely freeze, actually maybe you freeze altogether.

There's a woman in Jungkook's office; actually, it isn't just any woman. You recognize her as the one from those pictures, his fiance, and he's kissing her. They haven't noticed that you were behind them and you sure as hell don't want to make your presence known. You want to turn around and exit, to pretend like you never came into his office in the first place. You'd been standing there for 30 seconds too long, and when you belatedly decide to leave, Jungkook turns around to face you. Your eyes bulge out if you head and you can tell he looks slightly mortified that you'd 'caught' him but soon that look of shame leaves his face altogether and anger replaces it.

Jungkook doesn't even give you enough time to let you explain yourself before he's excusing himself from his finance and dragging you somewhat roughly out of his room. He's pissed but rightfully, so are you. You've been here for almost 3 hours already, and he still hasn't given you anything to do. If you knew he was in his office this entire time sucking face with his fiance, then you would have just called in sick or some shit. You feel like the absolute worse human on the planet, when did you become a whore? Okay, whore is a harsh word, but still, you had sex with your boss, your taken boss, your soon to be married with 3 and a half kids boss; alright, that last part you're not so sure about, but your point still stands. You're as much of dick as Jungkook is. Maybe you're an even bigger one.

"What the fuck were you doing in my office?" Jungkook is seething, and the grip on your arm has only gotten tighter. He makes you feel like a child again. Like he didn't just fuck your brains out less than 24 hours ago. The thought only makes you feel guilty. You are silent for a moment, and Jungkook's eyes only get wider as he awaits your answer. You stumble over words in your head, trying to piece things together but your brain is ultimately failing you when you need it the most. "Are you fucking dense? You can't just walk into my office whenever you feel like it." If this were anyone else you'd have kicked their ass by now, but this is Jungkook, your boss and you've learned to bite your tongue when he gets this way.

"So what, you're gonna stay silent the whole time?" You open your mouth to say something finally, but he cuts you off. "Fine then. Get your shit and go home." He deadpans. Wait, for what? "But I haven't even worked half a shift today I-," "Don't care. Out. Now." You wanted to cry, and you never cry. Okay, so maybe you always cry, but this was so uncalled for. You look up at Jungkook, silently pleading for him to let you stay. He was so vague with you, and you weren't sure if he was firing you or just making you leave for the day. Either way, it was enough for you to drop your head in embarrassment. You mumble an okay, and Jungkook releases your arm. He doesn't say another word and so your spin on your heels and walk to your office to gather your purse and coat. You were sure that if he fired you, he'd outright say so. But you being dismissed early kind of feels worse honestly. It feels like the walk of shame, and you had nothing to be ashamed about. You hate being unproductive at work and you thought going into Jungkook's office was a great idea. You guessed it would show initiative. That'd you cared deeply about your work. But it didn't seem to appease him; it was the absolute opposite. He's annoyed and specifically with you.

The ride home takes forever. The traffic is terrible around this time. Honestly, you thought the rain would slow the commuters today, but it seems not to hinder them from their daily lives and duties. The rain has eased somewhat but you know soon it will pick up again. At least you can get some more much-needed sleep when you get home or order some takeout since you had little to no food to eat. The rain does distract you from Jungkook for awhile and that you are appreciative for.

You immediately kick off your heels when you enter your apartment and throw your coat on your couch. You know you need a shower, but for now, you want to lounge around. You step into your room and flip your light switch, quickly changing into something less constricting like this pencil skirt that's a size too small for you. You jump into bed after you've put your work clothes in your hamper. Something isn't right because as soon as you land on the side Jungkook was previously laying on the night before a sharp object pierces your ribs. Wincing, you roll over closer toward the edge and pull your duvet back reviling a very shiny, expensive looking Rolex. You pick it up to inspect and roll on your back. Holding it into the air so the light can hit it correctly and you watch as it shines. It's beautiful, and you think it might be custom made. How the fuck can someone afford a gold encrusted watch? Well, that rich bastard Jungkook could. You wonder if Jungkook has noticed that he left it here. Hopefully, you pray he doesn't think you stole it from him. You set the watch on your nightstand and decide to worry about what to do with it later. Shit, you might even toss it in the bin. Serves the bastard right.

You awaken from a nap a few hours later. Going by the time displayed on the digital clock on your nightstand you slept for a good five hours.

You order yourself lunch on your laptop from your favorite takeout place. The restaurant wasn't too far from you so it won't take very long for the delivery driver to show up. You head into your living room to go searching for your cellphone. You usually take it everywhere with you but, because you were so bummed about the Jungkook situation you decided to leave it in your bag.

You had a few unread messages, some from your mom. She frequently texts you during your work hours because of the time difference. It must be nighttime where she is right now. You miss being home, a lot, if you were truthful with yourself. Things were so much different back there, and you were still trying to get accustomed to the life you have here. You would probably be in an excellent relationship by this time if you never left. The guys from your city weren't all bad. There's going to be a few bad apples everywhere you go. You sigh and quickly text your mother back and tell her how your day went, albeit leaving the part where you were sent home early out.

The next few notifications you scrolled through were emails from your Gmail app, as dull as ever. You managed a lot of Jungkook's events and meetings through Gmail, so most of your notifications were mostly work related. You put your phone aside and flop on your couch and start up Netflix.

The takeout you had wasn't as good as it usually is. Today was the perfect day to cry and crawl under your cover for the rest of your days. No one would even notice you were gone besides your parents, but after a while, they'd give up looking for you and go on with their lives. You figure now is the best time to take another nap before you something else uneventful happens. And you're sure your heart couldn't take anymore before it completely stops functioning altogether.

You jolt from your sleep when you hear it. Banging. And it's close, almost like it's coming from right outside of your door. It's loud a fuck and its dark as fuck in your living room, and you can't help but think this is how it ends. You still, too afraid to get up from your couch to check it out. You've watched enough scary movies to know that if you open that door, then you'll be walking into your ultimate demise. This is exactly what your father warned you about when you told him you were moving to South Korea.

"Y/n, open the door I know you're in there," huh? The killer knows your name. "Y/n, come on it's me." Is that... Jungkook? You wipe the saliva from your face and rub the sleep from your dry eyes. What the hell is he doing here? It's 9 in the evening. You turn the lights on so you can see better and unlock the door to see what it is he wants.

"I left my watch here," he says offhandedly and pushes past you heading for your bedroom. "Excuse the fuck outta me." You whisper under your breath. You fold your arms over your chest and follow Jungkook into your bedroom.

He's searching every nook of your room and muttering. You're confident he won't find it at the rate he's going because he hasn't even turned the light on yet. To make this more comfortable for the both of you, he could just ask you if you've seen it. But honestly, you like seeing him struggle, fuck him.

You switch the light on since you're standing right next to it. You just want Jungkook out of your place as soon as possible. You notice he's wearing a completely different suit than the one he had on earlier at the office. As he spins to turn towards you, you see a Chanel brooch on his jacket. How funny, Jeon Jungkook looking for his gold-encrusted custom Rolex in your home while wearing a Dior suit and a diamond Chanel brooch. Your broke ass could never.

Jungkook's hair is slightly parted, and you don't think he's ever looked this good before. Well, he always looks good but right now it's a different type of good. He looks like money and power and you know he probably smells so pure. His beauty always has you at a loss for words.

He notices your staring and scoffs to himself, almost like he's disgusted either at you or himself. And you're more than confident it's directed towards you. Jungkook has everything any man could ever ask for, and he had sex with you, the bottom of the barrel trash. You lower your head in humiliation, and you've never felt this bad about yourself before. You can't help but feel so inferior to him. You're only a few years apart in age, but he's got his whole life together, while you still ask your parents for money from time-to-time when you're afraid you won't make ends meet. You did something so heinous, and now Jungkook can't even stand to look at you correctly.

"Have you seen my watch or what? Don't just fucking stand there, help." He addresses you with such anger and disgust you almost burst out into tears. You point to where you had left the watch, which was on your nightstand and you hear Jungkook walk over and damn near snatch it. He mumbles some more as he wrestles with putting it on and you can tell he's having a hard time. This is the first time you've ever seen him, so ansty and he looks nervous as well. He must have a big meeting or something because why else would he be dressed like this. You walk over to help him, and you're not sure why but you can tell he needs it, and he lets you. You see him visibly relax, and that soothes you somewhat. You're still scared out of your wits, but it isn't like he's about to murder you. At least you hope he isn't.

"I'm sorry about everything, I wish circumstances were different." You look up at Jungkook, and he gives you a sad smile. What does he mean by that? His engagement or your employment. Maybe both? You stare up at him for a while. Pleading with your eyes to get an explanation from him.

You aren't sure who makes the moves first, but in a matter of seconds, his lips are on yours.

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chille-tid-universe · 5 years

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Bridges, Taverns, and Caves

Later that morning, after at least some amount of rest, the party reconvened to discuss the next leg of their journey. To catch up those who had other errands to run the previous day, they recited the lore Elminster had gleaned from Brienne’s armor:

“Deep within a mountain spine

Where fire and stone become entwined

Dwelled a skilled but vengeful smith

Who made armor to mete justice with.

And for that act, who must atone?

The Hidden Forge, left all alone.

Find Xanderos and search his lair.

Your journey will begin there.”

Over breakfast, they argued about the significance of the lore. They were able to easily glean that their path must take them to the Spine of the World, far to the north but not impossibly out of the way. Presumably, they were searching for the location the armor had been created, some “Hidden Forge,” where they could discover some further clues. The location of the forge seemed tied to this Xanderos, of whom Elmister had admitted to having no knowledge.

The name sounded draconic, though it was short for a dragon. Elminster had explained that, as dragons grew and their renown increased, they would affix syllables to their names; the longer a dragon’s name, the more pride and history they would have. For such a short name, they might be looking for a particularly young dragon (or, as Elminster cautioned, a particularly secretive dragon who preferred anonymity to haughtiness - a foreboding sign, if it were the case).

Now, they debated over what kind of dragon it could be. Unable to come to a consensus, they asked Durnan for directions to the nearest library. As they left the Yawning Portal, there was a rumbling from the pit, and cries of “TROLL!” could be heard as the door shut. In the library, they spent an hour or two researching. They were unable to find any mention of Xanderos, but gathered what information on dragons they could find.

If it was a young dragon, it was possible it could be any kind - its short life would explain the length of its name. If it were a fully grown adult, then it was likely it could be a green or copper dragon, as they were cunning and placed more emphasis on intelligence than their brethren. It was possible a copper or green dragon might forgo adding to their name to remain innocuous. Likewise, it was unlikely to be a red, white, or gold dragon, as those appeared to be the most proud or territorial, and would not fail to improve their name as a testament to their own prowess or to cement their hold on their corner of the world.

It wasn’t much, but some preparation was better than none, and the party decided to head north for the Spine. Leaving the city of Waterdeep behind, they began their journey up the Long Road. Along the way, they fought bandits, assisted small hamlets, rescued cats, but at this point in their heroic careers these deeds were commonplace. The first item of interest on their journey occurred at a bridge.

The party came upon a sturdy bridge spanning a crevasse. As they made to cross it, a booming voice rang out: “To cross bridge, must pay toll.” They glanced around, but could find no one. Nissa picked up a pebble from the ground and tossed it onto the bridge. “Try again,” the voice rumbled. Nissa shrugged.

She called out, “What’s the toll?”

A moment later, the voice replied, “Shinies - big shinies!”

The others began quietly discussing among themselves, but Nissa pulled one of her golden buttons from her pouch and tossed it next to the pebble. As it rolled to a stop, an enormous, hairy hand reached up from beneath the planks and slapped down on the button. It dragged it - and the pebble - over the side of the bridge. There was an appreciative “ooh!” followed by, “Good shiny, need more.”

“How many?” Nissa called out as Brienne and Ravain tried to shush her.

“Lotses!” the voice said. There was a pause, in which Ravain tilted his head, concentrating.

“There’s another voice,” he murmured, describing a light, high pitched voice whispering to the booming creature. As he finished, an open palm came up from the crevasse.

“This many bundreds!” There was a moment’s pause before the voice corrected itself, presumably at the quieter voice’s insistence. “Hundreds! Don’t be tricks-isy!”

“How ‘bout you talk to us face to face?” Nissa offered, trying to find a rock from which she could peer down into the crevasse safely.

“Face to face good. Come down under the bridge. It’s nice down here,” the voice said eagerly.

“Oh, do you have accommodations down there?” Melpomene asked, rolling her eyes.

“Many accolations,” the voice promised. The party glanced at each other exasperatedly. “Five hundred gold!” the voice demanded, proud of itself for stringing the words together properly.

“What if we don’t have gold?” Pock asked, hefting his hammer.

“Don’t have gold?” A smacking sound echoed from the crevasse as the beast presumably licked its lips.

“Hypothetically,” Pock clarified nervously.

Melpomene shook her head and wove a simple spell to create an auditory illusion of smacking lips back at the monster. At this, a crest of lichen began to rise from the depths of the crevasse atop a balding head, and the giant peeked up from behind the bridge. Melpomene responded by illusioning huge lips onto her face. The giant’s bush-like eyebrows rose as it cried, “Magic tricksies! Sneaky! I eat sneaky!”

Pock was ready. He held up his hammer, calling down a pillar of heavenly flame to collide with the creature’s wide head. It glanced off its brow, and the gnome darted forward, hefting his shield. Nissa had found her rock, and aimed around the edge of it to shoot at the huge form. Wun Way gestured at the large head and spoke a spell, creating a concussive blast at its temple.

The giant blinked away the debris that fell from its eyebrows and dropped its tree trunk of a club on Pock. The gnome jumped away at the last second, but the giant swept the tree into his body, knocking him down. It then reached out with its other hand and grasped Pock between its stubby fingers.

As it began to pull Pock towards itself, there was movement by its ear. A winged fairy fluttered into view and flew in circles as it squeaked a chant. A violet haze settled over Wun Way and Brienne, and their limbs grew slack, weapons falling to their sides. Stupefied gazes drifted over the battlefield. The fairy giggled and began to fly away.

Brienne’s glazed eyes began to focus, though it was a few seconds before she shook her head and gripped Mjolnir more tightly. In the meantime, Melpomene gathered her magic and shouted out, “Your lips look a bit chapped, love!” The words cut through the giant’s mind, and it raised its club-wielding hand to cover its mouth, clearly hurt. As it did so, Pock freed an arm and smashed his warhammer down on the giant’s thumb, drawing a grunt of pain from the giant as it swatted at Nissa’s bolts.

Wun Way shook off the haze of confusion almost immediately and focused her attention on the fleeing fairy. She drew power from her well of magic and spoke words of power in a singsong voice. Five bolts of magic curved out of her outstretched hand and honed in on the winged beast. As the first struck, though, the fairy fell from the sky, dead.

The giant was too preoccupied by the smashing treat in its hand to notice. Pock was still bashing on its thumb as the giant lifted him to its mouth, and the party let out a collective exclamation as it opened wide and popped the gnome between its teeth. As it tried to crunch down on the squirmy and tough shelled morsel, it leaned out from the crevasse to grab at Wun Way.

Unwilling to see another friend eaten, Brienne gripped her warhammer and dashed for the giant, pulling the thunderous might of Thor into her strike. A loud clap boomed and echoed in the crevasse as she hit the giant, but it stood its ground. As everyone regained their hearing, Melpomene called out to the giant again, this time with persuasive magic layered in her voice.

“That pixie mentioned a pile of golden buttons-” She pointed down along the length of the crevasse. “-down that-a-way! She said she was hiding it from you!” The giant became visibly angry and tried to talk with a mouth full of Pock. “But if you want to catch up to her, you’ll need to drop our friends! They’ll only slow you down.” The giant’s eyes were glazed over from the power of the suggestion spell, and he thought for a long moment before spitting the gnome onto his hand and dropping both people onto the ground. He spared the lost meals a final glance before turning and stomping off in the direction of Melpomene’s pointing finger.

Wun Way was a little bruised, but otherwise fine. Pock, however, was coated with giant spit and struggling not to retch. As they grabbed rags from their packs to help clean him off, Nissa grinned and came as close as her nose would allow. “What was it like in there?”

Pock stopped mid retch and calmly recalled, “Dark. And smelly.”

The next few days passed much as the days before had, though it was some time before the stench left Pock’s skin, and the first chance he got he bought a new set of clothing from a passing caravan.

One evening, the group was searching for a dry spot to camp (it had rained during the day) when they came upon a modest tavern. It touted itself as the Lusty Pixie, and seemed well funded and well visited, given how far it was from any major city or town. Within, a group of patrons ate and drank and relaxed after a long day of working the rocky soil of their farms. The largest concentration of people was in one corner, where some sort of a street performer had drawn the attention of a third of the patrons. The party ordered meals and drinks and settled in to watch.

The performer appeared to be playing a shell game with his audience. He would sweet talk one person into playing, then hide a pebble beneath one of three overturned cups. Some fancy sleight of hand later, the audience member would pick one of the cups, usually with much input from the rest of the audience. Occasionally one of the audience members would win, but the performer was definitely benefitting from the game.

As the most recent patron walked away, smiling and cupping a handful of coins, the man called out to the tavern, “Step up and play! Four gold maximum, and I’ll double your bet!” Melpomene glanced around, downed the last of her ale, and sauntered over to the gathered crowd. As she pressed her way to the front, the man caught her eye. “Would you like to play, sir? Er, ma’am?”

Melpomene grinned and prestidigitated a mustache. “Gladly. I’ll put down four gold.” The man graciously accepted her coin and, after showing her the pebble, began shifting the cups on his table. A few seconds later, he presented the trio in a new order and gestured for Melpomene to pick. She stared hard at each cup, then pointed at the middle one. The man shrugged apologetically and lifted each cup - the pebble was to the left. Melpomene groaned with the rest of the crowd.

“Chance to win back your gold?” he suggested, laying out a dozen coins to add to Melpomene’s lost bet. Melpomene grinned and nodded. As the man began shuffling the cups once more, Wun Way wandered over to the crowd. As Melpomene pointed to a cup, Wun Way smirked and muttered under her breath.

The man grimaced good-naturedly as he lifted the cup - only to reveal two pebbles. There was a moment of silence, in which Wun Way’s eyes grew wide as saucers, and then the crowd erupted with noise. Melpomene, looking just as surprised as the performer, prestidigitated a magnifying glass and bent to examine the pebbles. As she looked, she muttered under her breath to the performer, “This wasn’t me, but if you’d like I can help rope in a few from the crowd.” The man’s stunned face morphed into a smile and he gave a slight nod. Melpomene straightened up and raised her voice.

“That pebble wasn’t my doing! But you need to give me a chance to win back my gold!” She turned to the crowd. “Does anyone else want to get in on this? I can wager eight, no, twelve gold!” She managed to pull up an older man, who looked as surprised as the rest of the crowd as he slammed a dozen golden coins on the table. He could barely remember the last time he had this much wealth, and his nervous grin became a look of terror as the cups were shuffled. His relief was palpable as the cup was lifted, and a dozen pebbles spilled out onto the table.

As the lucky farmer walked away, fingers overflowing with coin, the street performer, shot Melpomene a worried look. She placated him with a wink and shouted, “It’s a sign! Who else wants to benefit from this?” At this point, nervous patrons began to avert their gazes and return to their suppers, but Melpomene was still able to bring up a handful of watchers who began digging in their purses, hoping to walk away rich. After a pile of coins was placed in front of the cups, the performer began shuffling. His hands were a blur over the table, and after a minute of furious motion, the cups sat still.

A hush passed over the crowd as Melpomene examined the cups with her magnifying glass. The dozen patrons whose money was on the line bunched up behind the aasimar, some of them clutching her coat in excited nervousness. As she pointed to a cup, Wun Way made a motion with her hand. The man braced himself as he lifted the cup, then saw that it was somehow empty. There was an exclamation from what remained of the crowd, followed by loud complaining from the people who had just lost their livelihood. The performer managed to sweep the contents of the table into a satchel, quick as a flash, hurriedly talking as he did so. “Oh, quite a shame, better luck next time, folks! A reminder that all purchases are indeed final. Tip your waiters! I’ll be back around these parts in the next, well, never. Good bye!”

With that, he was out the front door. Nissa was chuckling while Brienne frowned slightly at Wun Way. As they made their way back over, Pock tugged on Brienne’s sleeve. “Where’s the bag of holding?” Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat as she reached for the spot on her belt where the bag normally hung. The rope had been cut - the bag was gone. Nissa’s chuckling became an open laugh, until she realized her purse was also gone. Wun Way and Pock’s purses had disappeared as well, and they turned to the door to see a halfling running outside. The four jumped from their seats and darted for the door. Melpomene followed, laughing.

In the gathering dark, the group could make out the two figures running down the road. The party broke into a run. Wun Way tossed a spell ahead, and a series of hypnotic runes flashed around the pair. The halfling stumbled to a halt, seemingly enthralled by the patterns. The human continued to run, arm raised to cover his face. This slowed him down slightly, though, and Nissa pulled out her crossbow, crying “Give it back, you little shit!” Brienne had been sprinting after the two, and was only a few feet behind the man when the crossbow bolt whizzed past her head and thudded into the man’s back. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Brienne skidded to a halt over the man’s body, chest heaving as she caught her breath. A moment later, Melpomene arrived, preceded by her laughter. Brienne caught a devilish look in her eyes as the aasimar reached a hand out. A spectral shade tore itself from the corpse, flying out to Melpomene’s hand, where it washed over her body like a dark suit. Before Brienne’s eyes, the aasimar began to shift, and a few seconds later, the living body of the thief was standing before her. Melpomene smiled with the man’s lips and began walking to the stupefied halfling. Brienne shot her a dark look and followed her.

Nissa was gently removing the purses from the halfling’s limp grasp. She tossed the bag of holding to Brienne as she approached. “What should we do with him?” Pock asked as he accepted his purse from Nissa.

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted. “We have some fun,” Melpomene said, a hunger in the deeper voice.

Brienne looked disgusted, and merely shook her head. She turned to Pock, a question in her eyes, but the gnome shook his head. “Someone should stand witness to the retribution of his crimes.” Brienne looked strangely at the gnome, but then turned and began to walk back to the tavern. At the door, she glanced back. She couldn’t make out more than a handful of shadowy figures standing in the middle of the road. She heaved a heavy sigh and walked back into the light.

Wun Way walked around the halfling, concentrating on maintaining the spell. “So, what did you have in mind?” she asked.

The halfling came to and was very surprised to find he was bound to a tree. He struggled for a moment, but was unable to free himself. He glanced around nervously, heart rate rising. In the early dark, he made out a hunched over form against the tree in front of him. “Gibbs! Is that you? Wake up!” There was a grunt, and then his partner’s voice burst out, a hissing whisper.

“Chaff! What happened?”

Chaff shook his head, then realized Gibbs wouldn’t be able to see it. “We were running the grift, smooth as ever, then that angel lady started helping you. I was able to lift a bunch of purses, then we made it out.” He paused as his scrambled memories fell into place. “We were running… Then there were shouts from behind us.” He stopped. “Then I woke up here.” He glanced around the darkened forest uneasily. “Should we call for help?”

“Who would help us?” Gibbs snapped, and Chaff was taken aback by the coldness in his voice. “We just swindled the whole tavern!”

“How did we get here?” Chaff lamented, struggling uselessly against the restraints. “Could it have been that angel lady? I thought she seemed a little suspicious. What happened to the knife you keep on you?”

“They obviously took it, you idiot,” Gibbs said. “I have half a mind to punish you myself.”

Chaff strained to see his partner in the dark. “What?”

“You were supposed to get us away safe!” Gibbs’s voice was filled with venom.”

Chaff’s lower lip wobbled. “We were on the road! I lifted the purses and we got away clean!” He pulled against the knots again. “Well, not exactly clean…”

A dark laugh burst from the shadowy figure. “Not exactly clean indeed.” The figure stood, obviously not bound by anything. “Do you know what happened to the last guy who crossed me?” An unearthly light seemed to be coming from Gibbs’s body; Chaff could see him now, but he looked different, somehow. Maybe it was just the bloodthirsty glint in his eye.

Chaff tried to swallow in a dry throat. “Ah, you n-never told me,” he stuttered.

Gibbs walked right up to his bound partner and leaned down. When he spoke, barely a whisper, a trill of fear slithered down the halfling’s spine. “Would you like to find out?”

Chaff began hyperventilating. “You, you wouldn’t do, do that to me! We’ve been through so much together!”

Gibbs seemed to consider this, tilting his eerily glowing head to the side. “You’re right.” Chaff’s heart skipped a beat. “I wouldn’t get my hands dirty.”

It was too much for Chaff. “Help!” he cried, once, before he felt a strangling sensation in his throat. Against his will, a laughing fit took him, and his exclamations were buried in frantic laughter.

“What’s so funny, dearest?” Gibbs’s eyes glowed as he placed a hand against the tree beside the halfling’s head. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

There was the sound of a snapping twig, and then a gnome emerged from the nearby bushes, wielding a crossbow and glancing between the two thieves.

Gibbs jerked his head at the approaching woman. “Oh, look at the halfling girl. Would you like her to help you?”

Nissa bristled. “I’m a gnome, Melpomene!”

Gibbs wasn’t listening, however. He drew himself up to his full height - Chaff didn’t remember Gibbs being quite so tall - and then he began to change. His eyes sunk into his skull, and the eerie light around his body solidified into a shattered halo. Skeletal wings shimmered into view, piercing his horrific body. As he reached out with a clawed hand for the halfling, Chaff gave a mangled yelp, then his eyes rolled back into his head.

Wun Way dropped from the tree she had been watching from. She hurried over to the halfling as Melpomene shed the shadow like a snake’s skin. The aasimar looked pleased with herself. Wun Way felt the halfling’s neck to confirm what she assumed. “Dead,” she said, voice deadpan. “Heart attack, looks like.”

Nissa was frozen, crossbow pointed to the halfling’s head. She had been unable to fire, unable to stop the madness and end the poor thing’s misery. Melpomene was rifling through Chaff’s purse, and raised a small ring, examining it before tossing it to the gnome woman. “Catch. Looks like a ring of invisibility. Silly dear should have kept it a little handier.”

Nissa caught it on pure instinct, blinking at it for a few seconds before she wordlessly began walking back to the tavern. Wun Way, seeing herself left with Melpomene and Pock, cleared her throat. “You ok, Pock?”

The gnome glanced up, as if confused by the question. When the half-elf nodded to the dead halfling, realization reached the gnome’s eyes. “He had it coming,” he said simply.

In the tavern, Brienne was finishing the last of her drink - a strong wine in a tall pewter mug. She nodded to Nissa as the gnome hopped up onto the stool beside her. Nissa waved down the barkeep and pointed at Brienne’s mug. Brienne raised an eyebrow as a new mug was placed before the gnome. Nissa drank long and deep before she spoke. “That wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be,” she said finally, as the mug thudded to the polished bartop, half empty.

Suddenly, the door banged open, and Melpomene and Pock strutted into the tavern. Melpomene walked straight to the bar and laid down a handful of coins. “A round on me!” she called, to cheers from the remainder of the patrons at the bar. Nissa frowned at the coins, and Brienne excused herself and made arrangements for a room.

The energy about the group was slightly different in the morning.

As they set out from the tavern, Wun Way was saying, “...and maybe next time we’re shaking someone down, we don’t kill them?”

“Or we kill them quickly,” Nissa offered.

“They stole over three hundred gold,” Pock stated. “That’s several death sentences right there.” Nissa stepped to the other side of Brienne to place the fighter between her and the other gnome.

Melpomene yawned and rubbed at her eye. She had bought several rounds for the patrons of the Lusty Pixie last night - “Returning their gold to them,” she had explained to Pock. “That’s the last time I help a con artist,” she mumbled, squinting at the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds.

“Well, I’m glad someone learned something from this,” Brienne said, frowning at the aasimar.

In the following days, the party passed through the Evermoor and the Lurking Wood with little to no incidents - certainly no more interacting with performers at taverns. Before long, they reached the foothills of the Spine of the World.The atmosphere about the group slowly changed, if not back to normal, then at least to be less antagonistic.

One day, Ravain hastily led the group under a copse of trees and pointed skyward. They were able to make out the small figure of a black dragon flying amongst the clouds. “So tiny! Looks like it’s a youngling,” Pock said cheerfully. Ravain scowled at the gnome and shook his head.

“Looks to be a full grown adult. At least it seems likely we’re searching for a dragon’s lair.” When the dragon had passed beyond their sight, the ranger allowed them to continue up the road.

It had been many miles since they had passed any sort of settlements. Ravain explained that any people who lived this far north would likely be living underground. “I’ve heard there are dwarven communities in the Spine.”

They made their way to the base of the Spine without further sightings of the dragon. It was slow going, but Ravain was able to track their way to the dragon’s lair. Getting there was not quite so easy. Ascending mountainous terrain was never simple, and was even less so here. It was cold, wet, slippery, and monotonously uncomfortable, but it was in one piece that the group arrived at the mouth of the dragon’s lair. Ravain regarded the party and nodded appreciatively. “You’ve all gotten better at this.”

They stood before a large mountain cave. Wind howled across the entrance, filling the air with a foreboding whine. Although it was quite cold outside, they lingered at the entrance, peering inside. Within, the mouth of the cave appeared to have been formed by melting the rock around it; rivulets of molten rock were frozen in time as they had dribbled down to the cavern’s floor. Further along, the walls of the cave were pockmarked.

Deeper in, those of the party with darkvision could see a makeshift nest of hay bales, straw, down feathers, and blankets. Ravain explained that black dragons generally preferred swampy, humid climates; this one apparently had adopted to the frigid weather.

“Well,” Pock said, leaning into the cave, “the good news is, no one is home. Oh, look!” Pock directed their attention to the cave walls beyond the nest. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could make out carvings all along the wall. There were lines of runes and several murals that appeared to be dwarven in origin.

After a quick discussion, it was decided that Nissa would examine the cave and see what the writing on the wall said. So the gnome donned her newly acquired ring of invisibility and vanished from view. Nissa walked along slowly, checking for traps in the piles of hay and keeping an eye on the shadowy corners of the cavern. Finally, she arrived at an important looking segment of wall with a line of shimmering text. The runes were not in common, however.

The rest of the group watched nothing happen, until a scrap of paper and a pen appeared out of thin air. The pen scribbled on the paper for a minute before they both disappeared again. A few seconds later, Nissa reappeared in front of them and pocketed her ring. She held out the scrap of paper where she had transcribed the dwarvish runes. Her handwriting was not particularly well suited for dwarvish, but Brienne was able to translate:

“What can run but not walk

Has a mouth but never talks

Has a head but never weeps

Has a bed but never sleeps?”

“A shoelace?” Pock offered, receiving glares from Ciri and Nissa.

“A river,” the rest of the party said at once. Nissa nodded and added, “And what is ‘river’ in dwarvish?”

After they had taught her the dwarvish word for river, she slipped her ring back on (just to be safe) and made her way back to the gently pulsating riddle. The gnome spoke the word, causing those who spoke dwarvish to wince at her pronunciation and accent, but the words began to glow. A low pulse of energy filled the cavern, and the script shone more brightly in a harsh orange-red color. Nissa yelped in surprise as the murals to either side of her shifted and began to rise, revealing a space behind them.

“Those aren’t rivers,” Melpomene stated as the group ran in to defend the gnome.

#dnd stories

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restlessmuseum · 6 years

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nomen amen (or “paraphernalia”: back by popular demand)

(where books compete for space with pottery)

We were already halfway through interminability. Away all redundancy of deficiency from the page, the tear from the past to mend us about to rampage. This far we had not said anything good but perfection required, in tone and content, inexplicable. (1) I found the crux in the posture to device, like an impostor happens in his tender, (2) a damage done like the wrapping paper of a ducked present. (3) Under the stance of unison, the shallower I read between the lines the further I'm improved from the time of my oversight, (4) the unison becomes the sound she phews down to my very being, like but the rest I forgot about... Sorry, got it wrong. Actually, I wanted to continue this something started spreads ago, but the prose screeches and cackles around its ineliminable inexactitude. I really don't feel like resuming anymore, or should I say, I'm done boggedly running after the end of my premises. Yes something happened, something to investigate in a whole other direction. So, gonna take all, this will be the first part. I wish I could express revolutionary philosophisms, I thought I could be a poet because I'm unable to be an essayist and a novelist. I'm not good at public speaking. I entered Tumblr to be found by publishers and make money: I had a system of truths and truly nothing else to say. Besides, what did this idea of klein Lebensdarbietung mean? Is the text doing its characters or are these ones setting out their own words? Text's abolition of today, which is nothing but "the sentences already written, the sentences that people say, the sentences yet to write; verses, words, spacings, texts' dissemination, whatever you want, about the purely sign-linguistic-textual" (cit.) verbatim et literatim, and here is another example of my strugglings to go on properly. In any event it is clear that we are moved when required, except the exempts. (5) It is always the most unexpected time to undergo the aha entanglement. In constant foresight I guiltily prepare to hindsee the neglect and with confambulatory prowess I succumb to the development in this underpass of construes. How much do we match with our sounds? — asking myself. In this respect I'm afraid to surprise me onstage like the surrenedered one (and here onpage, ah foolishness, as playwright). But if I leaf compulsively through hundreds of pages, that's to find my words not belonging to me, and the others to fight (me) with. As I am nearing the open conversation, I make up my mind never to read me. Tons of notes, reproaches and scratchpads. Tons of work to do. And I have to get rid of the old adjustments once and for all. (6) Electra the yet-signed. You like the simple words, the ones you recognize already written, the crystalline syllabification that enoculates the wholeness of an order babbling sibyllinity downstream. You carry on with the work of literature: how the body absconds at the risk of space and time with them. Imperfect doubling, mirror images, and repetition in her practice. Topical scratches. Interceptors sought in everyday life — like unspeakables — that she then distorts to create the straight path in reverse. Poetry will not touch her, because poetry is just the unwritten complexity going wrong side along the process of self-becoming, a recent installation, midway between marble and corporal desires in an ascending scale of hardness. (7) Listening to the closest friends, the process of self-becoming could only linger primarily in the sight of aesthetic, then morality, then religious status quo. But friends come always as a closer, blind alley, at the end of tears: a misunderstanding at first, then never read enough. (8) It is often the case that the practice of consensually agreeing to one's own mental performance and self-image by means of meddled languages and lineages may become a genuine bondage of freedom. The restrained partner can derive any drift in the set of possibilities so that we use to say the doing is more important than the outcome. (9) The doing is in uncomfortable or painful positions, for example as a punishment: then, easily it tends to be forgotten, because unforgivable. That's why the effect is the same as a verbal collage, but 1) rips are often behind schedule or on borrowed time, "out of sync with the fade" (cit.) hearth of what seems to be the Pentecostal tongues of fire; and 2) metaphors like "the rope of telephone charades" or "the coils of something wound in the form of a revolution to come is the licking of sugar injury, met since the starting point" are not allowed. "Real me is way more concerned with" (cit.) the Transcaspian line that follows the pattern of a crosswording of the desert. (10) Rather than holding on to me tight I choose to distance myself from what I'm being forced to watch daily. Dies irae dies illa desirable. Without prejudice to this last inescapable point, the first issue represents the Derridean crux of the matter, about which I will be saying something bad in the wrongest moments, since my voice is as effective as my unsuccessful rewrites. I just want, by using the instruction books, the border of this drama, accelerated and hence trespassed in time into ridiculousness, to be experienced as the comedy it is. There is a hour of the wolf and there is a hour the wolf is afraid of. When the time is right I'd like you all to be safe to be spared in my turn from this construction beyond good and better. (11) Here you shine white with noise. "Sonorous cobweb" (cit.) made of only one thread, the unbent line of homeostasis at long last kept in crisis. (12) This narration should have had a different common thread. "And yet", imprint, "it moves" (cit.) as sensible prose. Prose of proses. The dispelled thing, spilled on Tumblr, disseminated. The seedbed: descendants, everspring off, family. The planting postdisposed. All going as planned. (13) When I know that I don't know where to start a carving, I start a list of synonyms or unyoke a fable from a series of rereadings. What excommunication if you can't subvert the strainer? (14) Once upon a time Electra, beloved only sign of her father, has a brother. Agamemnon possesses the actuality and practicality of the dead: he wants to see water circulate water in laminar rheumatology and freshness sculptures out of tempered air. [director's note: the Argolis' scene isn't even entitled to melt!]. She eats anise candies and unwarmed foods without a problem. She is so lovely when she urinates first thing in the morning, holding the head in her hands, graeaean ownership. Yes, I'm worthy of attending to the offertory on the altar of love. So many congratulations against my behalf that the opposite seems true. (15) "A woman with long hair is not a simple point of view" (cit.). She's got a prompt night's sleep and reasonable. We cling to angelic accidents. We are clung to our soundtrack. (16) Indeed love is not "the panic subsidence onto the body" (cit.) [director's note: can we let the body become finally soaked in real pornography and never mind, here?] but sheer faith for a symbolic subject who's shattered fully loyal. Intermediate sprint of a life midpoint crossroads that lead at the same destination to flee from. (17) Because, as it goes, her staple is such a volitive confidence meaning to me the wait of the powers that created us, the coincidence of both of us makes our skewness on my side of the derangement. Averted word, when addressed. I am a bad Greek at the time of Christianity and a bad Christian on such dysfunctional divertissements. Who knows how ethically important it is today? I retain it, ending up forgetting everything else, and am lookin' very bad. (18) Of course the movement is diminished in certain directions; the style more flattened upon my chosen sickness that we now have no use for, after the setting of the starting stances; I suffer from more severe erections. An acquired kurtosis distributes my monodimensional remarks as the fourth cumulants in order of precedence. Still a lot of exercise to get. Busy like the evermentioned forgettables I'm at that stage where it's difficult for me to even do difficult things. Wrongstaged, I can't compete. I only challenge. (19) Therefore coincident like the two norths of which one is sinking liminal in the perfectly unsaid of your perfect cues. In one fell swoop you pone the part and mastery. And in the next. And the apnea for the answer back. Teeth gouged by the opposite of words in formation for a smile. The winky face par excellence. Here's the real spectator of my vocalized character. I wedge the self with a puny malapropistic idioticon to spread now that I'm a simplex person. As long as I continue to improve in (furtive, it has to be) apprenticeship I'm losing abilities. Old mistakes reappear, no inspiration from mumpsimuses. (20) Where adults flutter, she, disemvowelled and free from frills, spoken by the plural to be inscribed in the Sophoclean, in the Euripidean, in the Hofmannsthalean, in the Yourcenarian script, lost in tv shows and blatant phone calls, is, for me, abused of notations but who am I to denounce such an effusive happiness? There's nothing she can't Netflix. (21) No banana peel on the slope of her singularity — reversible up to a point, interchangeable up to a point, genderbending up to a point from the same side of view. Slotting minims in the same tone as the main characters. That the same out-of-turness is imbricated. (22)

Virtuosity was painlessly flaying the secret from the kids. This is tragedy. We all know what everyone should have said, sorrows come only after. We see each other for sure and too well. Find your trace in the deep of your prompter's heart. Dimmable glow of ancient times. Under guillotine percentages, under curtain at half-mast, under the veils in the dance of the seven veils. What am I trying to say? (23)

In the floodlights' gloom, without changing the rules of the game, exit khorós. With whom would you listen to you speaking? (24) Woods of brightness wherever, it makes me want to expect your coming deaf-handed right therever, the braindomed untrodden order of phrases where roommouths around it are opening. (25) A substratum, but rather as two shadows they finally vest themselves without amendment, and just drag on this semi-detached ward where it just doesn't feel like our theater anymore. So that there may well be the laetum and lethean occurrence of a new polarization. (26) It is no coincidence that here you're always cold and pale. What a cutie! (27) But maybe that's just too much information. Now would be the time to shut up even more. Already being in the manner for that: being at one with the template versus falling back into the patient subjectivity to agency, to make war and to make love with the weapons of the unconditional surrender. The book is that inferring the timbre of each Klagesprache. (28) Like the current situation could return to equilibrium because of an indefinite vocabulary which is still fighting us pressurers. We come across the unilaterality of it every day. Its constitution. (29) But infinity alive doesn't exist. We can approximate it in the endless rummaging and musing. (30) Approximation is worth nothing. We get sick for the words that once beguiled us. The limits of infancy don't set. And now I just -ess the world in voluntary silence nonexperienced. (31) With plex I brux my certainty and centuries. Party time abounds. (32) Clause: applause. (33)

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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TITLE: CS 0155 Data Witchcraft, 1/1 (Ao3)

SUMMARY: All the books and movies seem keen on operating under the assumption that magic is supposed to make your life easier. But apparently it was all lies, because being in one’s 20s seems to suck no matter what kind of spells you’re prone to casting. Emma Swan and Killian Jones, while “blessed” with the gift of magic, are certified emotional disasters—it’s a relief to know that at least they’ve found each other. A Contemporary CS Witches AU.

CONTENT WARNING (RATED M): Contains brief mentions of childhood sexual abuse; swearing; casual, non-depressing drug use; implicit and consensual sexual content between adults. The sexual abuse is mentioned in passing and not described in explicit detail. If you need further details before reading, feel free to send me a message!

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This was a story that I planned on finishing with about 9k. It ended up being completed about 41 words under the 15k limit, and imo it should probably be longer, but since that’s not an option, this is what we’re left with! I’d like to thank a few ppl that made this possible: @the-reason-to-sail-home, @pritkins-little-witch, @initiala, and @wellhellotragic for all of their time and helpful thoughts. This fic ended up being far more challenging than I had anticipated and I couldn’t have done it without y’all. Especially Tessa and Kat, you are both my shining stars. Thank you for never letting me give up on myself. Literally incredible freaking artwork that I cannot stop staring at provided by @clockadile and @princesse-swan, both found here and here (respectively). If you’re interested in listening to the soundtrack I made to suit the particular vibe of this story, you can listen on 8tracks, here.

“Watch carefully that magic that occurs when you give a person enough comfort to just be themselves." — Atticus, Love Her Wild: Poems

i. ugly_duckling

Emma Swan learns about magic the same way that most children do—slipped in between the pages of a book. She is not granted the privilege of enjoying a conversation typical of most children; that of parents soothing the inevitable disappointment with the truth that magic is not real. The parents might, for the most part, keep the dream alive for a certain number of years. And so, for that certain number of years, the child will be allowed to live in a world where magic exists. That child will spend a few blissful years staring a little too hard at the creepy house at the end of their street; that child will throw a packet of salt over their shoulder, even at the risk of being yelled at by their parents after the fact. Most children will grow up feeling afraid, and not much can be done about it—but to be able to quell that fear, at least temporarily, with the suggestion that there’s a magical world at the heart of it all, waiting to be discovered? That kind of thinking might make the pain of all those unknown variables worth it, at least for most children.

Emma Swan was not most children. She was “most children,” in the sense that she wandered into a library and plucked a book off the shelf with a flying girl on the cover (she rode a broomstick and wore a black hat). She was “most children,” in the way she jumped off picnic tables and prayed that her feet would never touch the ground. But she was not “most children,” when she brought the book home and showed her new “mother” the particular book in question.

“Oh, you silly thing,�� Mrs. Swan had so gleefully informed her, a sharp smirk on her stiff, something not quite right about it face. “Hasn’t anyone told you? There’s no such thing as magic.”

In the Swan household there was no such thing as magic. There was a roof over Emma’s head, and a hot meal three times a day, but in all other matters of importance, it may as well have been another orphanage. To make matters worse there was Betsy Swan’s husband, Mitchell Swan—a man who, on his very best days, could hardly summon the courage to lift his ass from the couch, and on his very worst, slip into Emma’s room every other night when his wife was asleep.

As a child, Emma would disappear into her own head, creating elaborate escape attempts from her supposed home. Sometimes she would don her own pointy black hat, put a spell on her own boring broomstick, and turn Mr. Swan into some small, nasty insect she could crush beneath her shoe.

When Emma turns seven, the Swans buy their first computer. It’s a Power Macintosh G3, which matters little to Emma at the time. At first, when she overhears them talking about it, Betsy mentions something about a mouse, and she finds herself unnaturally excited at the prospect of there being an actual animal in the house. That is until she actually sees the thing, and becomes confused and disappointed at the sight of this small, oddly shaped piece of plastic attached to a length of cord. She stares curiously at the blackened screen for a few moments until Betsy returns, yelling at her to get her “behind” away from the most expensive thing in the house.

Like most major developments that might occur within the pages of any generic fantasy novel, Emma makes her first acquaintance with the digital universe in the dead of night. Closer to midnight, if we’re being specific. A clock chimes from the dining room, and the Swan house is blessedly silent as she sneaks down the hall, past the flickering light of the television, the soft sounds of Mitchell’s snores emitting from his armchair.

The machine sits quiet and imposing atop the desk in the office; the light from the moon casting an eerie glow about the room, the dark screen a seemingly infinite void staring back into her wide, curious eyes. She sneaks a glance back towards where she came, expecting to hear Mitchell’s heavy footsteps, or Betsy’s cruel laughter, but she’s only greeted with silence, the odd creak of an old house.

When she finally works up the nerve to power it on there’s a kind of yawning, high-pitched static that hits her ears in a not entirely unpleasant way. It’s just enough that she finds herself overcome with the urge to open and close her mouth comically wide, like when your ears pop inside the cabin of an airplane and you have to re-adjust all the loose air inside your head. There’s a sound afterwards, a low hum that would never really go away. In later years, she would come to understand that there’s always a vague humming associated with most electronics. What was different in Emma’s case was the sound beneath the hum, or rather, the sounds.

She would learn to ignore them after a time, picking and choosing the most relevant or useful voices. Sometimes they were people, other times they were… something else. The first night she boots up the Power Macintosh, it’s all white noise, and she assumes it’s a thing that everyone can hear. It’s a lot of excited whispers, so hushed and quickly spoken that she has a difficult time making out any one word or phrase.

“Hello?” she utters quietly, still silently praying for the Swans to remain asleep and unaware of her trespassing. “Is there anyone out there?”

The humming cacophony of distant voices and dissonant beeps are the only answer, as if her own voice has gotten lost in the din, and her eyes search the desktop until they land on an oddly familiar image of a piece of paper. It is unlike any other piece of paper she’s ever seen, this bold, flat image outlined in blocks of color—untouchable, and with no discernible smell or texture. She has stumbled upon a word processor, a blank document with a blinking, vertical line that waits and waits.

The moon grows a bit brighter in the wake of her excitement, but Emma is too eager to notice the way the darker corners of the room become less so; even the way in which the computer itself has begun to emit its own soft, illuminated ring of greenish light, as if the office has been submerged in water.

“Hello,” Emma writes slowly, one key at a time. With each selection of every letter beneath her fingertips sounds a satisfying clunk, and she grins as she continues, “My name is Emma Swan.”

The silence that follows in the wake of all those voices is nearly deafening, but there’s a clear answer that sounds from within the four walls of her newly christened safe haven; murky and quiet, getting comfortable from her place seated at the bottom of a pool, “Hello, Emma Swan. It is very nice to meet you.”

As it turns out, there is quite a lot about the Swans’ Power Macintosh G3 that they are not privy to. The Swans, in point of fact, seem to be ignorant of a great many things occurring out in the world and even in their own home about 99% of the time. They have never heard the hum of voices coming from the computer room, nor do they seem to receive the same kind of unsettling, predictive programming that Emma can suss out from within the apparent blankness of a darkened television screen. It’s a blessing and a curse. While it’s nice to know she’s not quite so alone as she used to be—while it seems as if she’s been able to lift a veil and spot the real world underneath, there’s still the reality of the Swans always hovering in another room, at her back, or in her bed.

Betsy catches Emma on the computer late one night about a month or so after her first midnight rendezvous, and the subsequent consequences are about as bad as she assumed they would be. There’s a harsh smack to the back of the head, even harsher words, and a rough tugging of her arm towards her bedroom door, tossing her inside and slamming it shut before Emma can say a word in her own defense. She cries and seethes, the tightness at the back of her throat a painful and vicious reminder of the fact that she is little more than a prisoner.

And while Emma stewed inside her room, her small feet pacing back and forth from door to window and back again, Betsy Swan had tried and failed to turn on her new computer after it had shut off quite unexpectedly. It’s screen remained stubbornly dark, and there was Betsy, angrily and futilely attempting to turn it back on, only to give up about 20 minutes later, returning to her own bedroom, mumbling to herself about how they would have to lug the fucking thing back to the store.

It’s all a bit of a different game after that. Emma has to be more careful about how and when she visits that place she’s found behind the curtain. She’s sure to cover her tracks online, deleting files or browsing data as if she had never been. She spends the next few years doing her best to become a ghost—in both of her lives. Within the walls of her “home,” in the hallways at school, and in the cold, impersonal well of the Internet. She studies everything as carefully as she can, but does her best to leave as little an impression as possible. She excels a little too well in her typing class at school, earning her some impressive marks from a teacher, so she fumbles a few weeks later and drops down a grade.

It goes on this way for two or three years, and it’s about when she starts yearning for more that she obtains a bus pass and starts regularly visiting the library. It is during these regular visitations that she meets Lily Page, and wonderfully, her life is never the same.

Emma is close to turning eleven when she gets a private message from a user called “spyro-huntr3ss” on a public message board. At first her instinct is to block the user—she’s been around long enough to know that people are scum wherever you go, even in this digital world where she had felt so safe at first, this place she had decided to call her own.

“I know what it is you’re trolling for,” her mysterious new contact, likely trying to get her age, number, or address had sent, followed by, “and I can help you find it.”

From what Emma has been able to discern thus far, most people using the Internet were just as oblivious as the Swans, which was disappointing. She had been hoping, in vain it would seem, that once she’d been able to locate more users that they might be able to help explain it. The humming, and the voices, and the stories in the static—the songs lost in the high-pitched chorus of a dial-up tone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. Most people thought she was being metaphorical, or just plain paranoid. Message boards were a breeding ground for those folks made of cracks and dark places; lost people looking for patterns and meaning where there were none to be found.

The unsettling shiver that shrieked down the length of her spine had her head swiveling atop her thin, spindly neck as if she were some kind of anxious, wide-eyed owl; her mouth going dry at the sight of her own name staring back at her in bold, black text. To her profound relief, the library appeared to be just as empty as it had been when she walked in that morning. Not many people would brave the snow-filled streets a few days before Christmas to hang out in a public library, but then again, not many people had the Swans waiting for them at home.

Emma felt her heart beat anxiously in time with the blinking cursor inside her text box, a taunting slowness that seemed to be daring her to refuse the offer. She glimpsed at the library entrance and observed the snow falling heavily atop the empty city streets, tried to ignore the sickeningly sweet melodies of holiday cheer emanating from the head librarian’s office. The truth had been all she ever wanted, wasn’t it? From the very first moment she’d realized that she had come from nothing, that no one had wanted her, and could that be true? From the feeling of Mitchell’s hands and eyes where they shouldn’t be—wondering if all fathers were like this. From the first time she’d booted up the Power Mac, the ghostly chorus ringing in her ears, always ringing, ringing, ringing—

Lily’s “truth” is every bit as exciting as Emma’s painfully beating heart had hoped it would be. That yes, Emma Swan, there is a world behind the world and you have been invited to be a part of it. The people who are “in charge?” Those people that have hurt you, that have convinced you that you don’t matter, that what you might want for your life doesn’t matter—those people are powerless here. But not you, Emma Swan, not us. We’re the powerful ones now.

It takes her some time to truly trust her new informant, “spyro-huntr3ss,” who, while forthcoming about the realities of this world, the potential for what they could do, of what was waiting for them a few years down the line, was quite tight-lipped concerning personal details of her own life. Which was understandable, if not a bit frustrating, especially since she had known Emma’s name without having asked for it.

According to her new source (Emma’s not certain “spyro-huntr3ss” will ever be a friend), there are ways to pick apart the cacophony of sound constantly washing over her in dizzying regularity. There are also, blessedly, ways to tune out the noise. “Invest in a good pair of headphones,” had been one of the first things she’d advised, and after Emma, not yet a teenager, trapped between the freedom of the web and the reign of her parents, had quite logically argued that she had no money for such things, Lily had “laughed,” a peaky mechanical noise echoing in Emma’s ears.

Despite the fact that she was still technically a child and living under the Swans’ supervision, Emma had never in her life felt so independent. If not for her inconvenient need to eat and drink every once in awhile, the Swans might have forgotten she was there at all. There was of course the unfortunate recurrence of Mr. Swan; still coerced by some dark, unspoken perversions that it was his God-given right to appear by Emma’s bedside every few nights. Until Lily had learned of it, of course. It had been a secret Emma had always kept to herself, except for that first night she had run to Betsy, hoping for a savior and finding a stern hand instead. A disgusted voice of disbelief, calling Emma the sick one, the wrong one. “Mr. Swan would never do that you wicked little thing,” she had hissed into Emma’s small, red face. “You’re lucky I don’t send you right back to the orphanage for this disgusting stunt.”

And of course, Mitchell had found out, because the dutiful wife informs her stalwart husband of every single thing going on in their house, and he had made damn sure that Emma never said a word of their “visits” to anyone, especially not Mrs. Swan.

They had been messaging one another back and forth for about two years before Lily discovered her dirty little secret, and Emma was quite happy to finally be able to think of her as a friend. Even still, she had never been tempted to reveal the truth—she was embarrassed and ashamed, and she assumed that Lily would never speak to her again should she ever slip-up. Ultimately, it had been Emma’s penchant for frequently keeping extremely late hours, coupled with her recent cell phone acquisition, which she had been keeping underneath her pillow.

Emma had only recently started cursing, and found that it was one of the few things she genuinely enjoyed. It made her feel like she was older than she was, and the older she was, the closer she was to being free of this fucking place.

When she wasn’t getting lost within the dark, less than reputable corners of the Internet, Emma learned that she loved to read. Lately, she seems to have gotten into the habit of reading the same kind of story—the same kind of journey, over and over again. She’s read these stories so many times, in point of fact, that she’s begun to seek out these same patterns as they might appear in her own life. Is this beginning? She might ask herself, stepping off the bus and colliding with a polite stranger. Is this the end? She would nervously wonder, thinking she had heard footsteps outside the door to the computer room.

Staring at Lily’s direct yet subtle offer on the screen, she knew that this must be one of those moments; the moment where the story is about to take a turn, and no amount of deus ex machina, or praying, or wishing will ever bring back the life you had once lived.

Mitchell Swan is stunned to find an ungodly (and almost certainly illegal) amount of money in his bank accounts the next day, and he arrives home from work in an alcohol-fueled panic. Emma watches the two of them, quiet and unbothered from the darkened hallway as they titter and yell at one another like a pair of screeching birds. Her phone feels warm in her pocket, and she smiles at the thought of what’s in store—all those atrocious, sickening pictures hidden away on his work computer. What will the world think of you, Mr. Swan?

ii. [email protected]

Killian Jones often feels trapped by the city—little more than a lifeless, concrete prison; he despises nearly everything about the place. And to make matters worse, he has the misfortune to have been cursed with the burden of having too reliable a memory. It is far too easy to be able to slip back, back, back—all the way back until he’s suddenly standing in the middle of his mother’s garden. Until he can hear her voice in his head, laughing, singing, scolding. In these brief yet harrowing moments of nostalgia he can almost always hear her tears as well; her cries of pain that he had been helpless to alleviate. Logically, he knows he had been little else but a boy when she had first fallen ill, but it matters little. He feels responsible for her illness, even more so for her eventual death, alone and searching for a son that was no longer there.

Killian and Cordelia Jones owned a farm about five hours north of the city. Mr. Jones is long gone, and Killian, while in possession of an exceptionally good memory, remembers little of the man who his mother assures him was his father. She maintained his innocence for many years, wanting her son to know that he was loved, but as he approached a certain stubborn, righteous age, she had been forced to admit that no, he was not the man that Cordelia had hoped he would be.

“But it has not a thing to do with you, my love,” she said quietly, allowing him the benefit of thinking she hadn’t noticed his tears. It was truly astonishing that she never once raised her voice to the boy, especially given his behavior in later years. It was almost always at a level tempo, calm and direct, with just a hint of an Irish brogue that her own mother had possessed, although Killian had never actually met the woman.

“She wouldn’t have put up with your nonsense for a single moment.” Shaking her head at the sight of a broken lamp, or a carton of milk left to spoil on the counter. “You are one lucky lad.”

His mother insisted that the Jones’ were a lucky family. But as an adult he would come to believe that they had never been anything other than cursed. It would always be unclear to him exactly why that was, but he assumed it had something to do with the magic. That was always the case, wasn’t it? “All magic comes with a price,” says every single fantasy novel he had ever read, every magically-inclined film he had ever seen. Their downfall, in later years, seemed to him inevitable. If his mother were still alive, he would have asked her, “Did our family make a deal with the wrong demon?”

His bitterness, however, would still take a few more years to develop. As a child, he was enthralled with the sight of the vines and the flowers crawling their way inside the house. The way his mother would reach her hands deep within the soil and a few moments later, up would sprout the stubborn seeds. Cordelia made their living with her magic, often receiving visitors from the surrounding towns looking for quick-fix solutions to their various troubles. They would often come late at night, or when he was out in the fields, trying to make things grow or flourish, or wilt, as the case may be. But when he would see them walking nervously down the drive, quietly knocking on their aged blue door, he would drop whatever it was he was working on and try to sneak a peek at their meetings.

“What do they ask you for?” he wondered one night as she tucked him into bed, his eyes wide and curious, bright with all kinds of vivid imaginings. “Love,” she answered happily, bringing the blanket up to rest beneath his chin.

“Love?” he asked with a grimace, as if he were about to become infected with a terrible disease at the mere mention of the word. “And sickness,” she continued, chuckling at his obvious disapproval. “And loneliness. Or success in their businesses.”

“Can I help?” he asked sleepily, feeling the effect of the chamomile tea his mother had made him drink every evening before bed.

“One day,�� she answered, kissing him on the forehead. “Soon.”

Ten years later and he’s not so sure how she would feel about the kind of man that he’s become. What he’s been using his “gifts” for. The harshest parts of him imagine telling her that heis helping them—helping them forget how terrible the world can be; the blissfulness of ignorance. And if he makes some extra money in the process? Well, then so bloody be it. He can almost imagine himself cruelly bragging of it even, taking pleasure in the heartbroken, disappointed look on her thin, pale face.

It hadn’t started this way, to be sure. Initially, the plan had been to go to the city temporarily, to make some extra money to afford the kind of medicine that would keep her alive for longer than just a few months. Of course she had been lying to his face when she had suggested it. Made him think that there was even the slightest chance that she would live another six months. Unbeknownst to him, she had apparently contracted an illness that even magic couldn’t cure (wasn’t supposed to cure, according to her).

“Then what good is it?” he had yelled despairingly, trying to ignore the pitying look on her face from where she was laid up in bed; small, weak, and complacent. No, not complacent.

“Accepting,” she had sternly tried to correct him. “Magic is not meant to prolong that which should end. You know this, Killian.”

But he had been too angry, too determined to seek out a cure, and Cordelia Jones, knowing her son, knowing his stubbornness, his inability to give up, to grapple with the helplessness of being human, had suggested that if he went to the city, used his abilities to make some extra money, perhaps they would be able to afford the medicine that could save her life.

“And take the cat, would you?” she had asked on his way out the door, shakily calling after him from where she dozed. “I want to make sure she’s well-looked after.”

Chammy was a calico with poor eyesight and an even poorer temperament. Most of the time. If you gave her some extra food or a good brushing she might deign to sit with you on the couch for a bit, but most of the time she was content to sit on a ratty armchair that he had pulled in off the street, her ears and tail flicking at the stray vines or weeds when they would grow too close.

The plan had always been to return. As soon as he had stepped foot off the bus, he had felt suffocated. By the polluted air, the distracting, flickering lights, the sounds and smells of too many human beings packed into one place like sardines in a tin. With Chammy’s crate in one hand and a packed duffle in another, he had wandered angrily through the streets until he’d found the shitty apartment he had managed to rent from a property owner who lived nearer to the farm.

“It’s not much,” he had warned Killian, clearly uncomfortable with the knowledge that Mrs. Jones was wasting away at the back of the house somewhere, “but it’ll do for a time.”

“I’m certain it will,” Killian had answered with a bitter grin, “Thanks for your help.”

Dealing in illicit substances hadn’t been the plan at first either. He had seen the kinds of services his mother provided; there wasn’t really a “modern” term for what she practiced other than “holistic medicine,” which wealthy business people in coastal cities seemed to love opening their wallets for. Unfortunately for Killian, he had never had much of a head for such things. The plants he had managed to cultivate back home, for himself and his friends, the kinds of things the local cops had busted him for on more than one occasion, those were the kinds of things he was good at. However, getting scolded by the cops back home was one thing, winding up in a city prison was quite another.

It had taken many frustrated evenings of trial and error, and even a few angry customers, before he was forced to admit to himself that the “healing” part of it was simply not where his true talents lay.

“This is good shit,” one of his recent acquaintances (the people you sell to should never really be considered anything more) had told him late one night from their perch on his fire escape, “You could make some good money with this.”

And that’s where it had all started; a steady stream of high quality product, and more than enough people willing to pay top dollar for it. He had been just about ready to afford the medicine, the whole reason he had moved to this awful city in the first place, to retrieve the cure and bring it back to his mother, when he had gotten a call from his landlord that Cordelia had passed in her sleep.

“I’m sorry for your loss, son,” he had said quietly in a grating tone of pitying condescension, “you should come back soon, collect her things. Figure out what to do with the place.”

“Yeah,” Killian had barked back, his vision going fuzzy and his throat tightening, “Thanks.”

And he had planned to return home for the burial. He knew that was what he was supposed to do. He had even gone so far as to get a babysitter for Chammy, had bought a bus ticket and packed a bag. Only he had smoked a little bit too much one morning (in preparation for the nightmarish journey home) and when he returned to himself a few hours later, found that he had missed his bus by several days. There were a few voicemail messages, mostly from people back home who had watched him grow up—some of them angry and scolding, others sympathetic and patient, reminding him that legally the farm was still his, that he could take as much time as he needed.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and suddenly it had felt too hard, and he was too much of a coward. So, ten years later and here he was—still trapped in his box like every other human-shaped sardine he would often glare at on the subway. He has managed to turn the apartment into something of a home, bringing in some potted plants that he had encouraged to grow a bit above their station. It’s something of an oasis in an otherwise barren hellscape, and while it is rare for him to not feel the occasional pang of regret and longing for what his life should have been, there’s still the nagging cowardice that has left him paralyzed in a life that feels unnervingly unfinished.

If he’s awake before sunrise, odds are whatever he thinks might be at his door at such an hour is more than likely a figment of his imagination. Especially if that figment is a grumpy, petite blonde who looks suspiciously like a Daria reject. Most of that blonde hair (imaginary as it is) would seem to be stuffed into an old, slouchy beanie in desperate need of stitching, but a few stray hairs have escaped to fall across her charmingly furrowed brow.

“Well, I must say this is a surprise,” managing to speak despite the dry mouth and still being half-asleep. “What do you say we continue this meeting at a more reasonable hour? Or preferably never? Never also works well for me.”

Normally he might not be so inclined to such rudeness, but a figment is a figment, and he needs his eight hours if he’s going to be remotely personable throughout the day. And drug dealers are famously nothing without their personalities.

One of the admittedly lovely, yet sadly fictional, woman’s eyebrows shoots quite delicately upwards, and he makes note of her especially twitchy fingers moving restlessly against her folded elbow. “Are you always this rude to potential customers?”

“Only when they interrupt my beauty sleep, darling, now if you’ll excuse me—”

He goes to close the door, only he’s found it blocked by a smallish, military-booted foot stuck between it and the frame, the ends of said boot all soft and scuffed; an experienced leather shoe on a tiny blonde female with impeccably groomed eyebrows. He should probably start laying off the more experimental strains. This was an unusually vivid hallucination.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very pretty,” she says hurriedly, her own tired eyes trying desperately to meet his, “but I haven’t slept in about three days, so, could you maybe help me out?”

“I’m not in the habit of selling to imaginary wom—ow! Bloody hell, what on earth was that for?”

Her fingernails are painted a formidable shade of black, which was an odd detail to have stuck in one’s mind when they’re in the midst of pinching your chest hair unexpectedly viciously. Her eyes were also a little less tired, a lot more manic, and a particularly vivid and enticing shade of green. It made him think of something—a specific memory, locked away somewhere at the back of his mind where it was supposed to stay .

“I can assure you, I am very real,” she says on a grin, her hand still twisted up in his flannel. “And like I said, I am also very tired. So, please?”

It was the sudden, gentle note of desperation in her voice, paired with the residual nipple pain at the very least, that had his circuits re-firing a little bit better than they had earlier. A familiar kind of exhaustion, an intriguing feeling of despair that he had often felt stirring painfully within his own heart. It was the fact that, while he had only known this woman to be real for a few seconds, he knew that the gentility of her voice, the sudden nervousness—that these were hard things for the slight girl with the pale hands and heavy boots.

“My apologies. Please,” smiling and opening the door wider to allow her entrance, he gestures a hand inwards as she walks into the living room. Staring at the stiff slowness of her movements, the way she filled the space around her—that was when he had suddenly remembered. The sight of the farm in the heat of late summer and the dramatic, end-of-day light that would cast the garden in a fiery glow. The smell of the dirt under his bare feet, the warm flesh of ripening tomatoes. And was that his mother’s voice, calling his name from the porch?

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” she answered, no doubt distracted by the unusually green and “lively” look of the place. Not to mention Chammy’s guttural chirps at her feet. “It’s Emma,” she said, extending a thin, still hand. “Emma Swan.”

“Emma Swan,” hoping his grin was a little less frenzied than it felt, “Killian Jones.”

iii. vwthi3f

From the outside looking in, most people would probably suspect that the soul-crushing heartbreak, betrayal, and subsequent imprisonment would have left Emma Swan yearning for the so-called “carefree days” of her youth—but those people would be wrong. It would be safe to assume that those same people had probably lived fairly standard, mediocre lives, and there’s nothing wrong with having lived such a life. Mundane lives such as these, they’re usually of the pain-free variety. Aside from the occasional missed birthday, disappointing grade, or sneaking liquor from the cabinet before they’re able, childhood tends to pass quickly and blissfully. It’s one of those things that adults often recall with fondness; they imagine that if they could go back in time to an age before bills, home ownership, and a number of regretful sexual encounters, that they might be truly happy again. Emma Swan had dreamed of the mundane life even before she had started living with the Swans, and certainly afterwards she had desired it moreso. She wished that her pain (and even now, the labeling of her past as “pain,” felt pitiful and tiresome) was the kind of story you didn’t mind sharing, instead of the harsh, ugly thing that she preferred most people not know. Even if they were your friends.

From her prison cell, she often tries to make a list in her head of all the good things that have happened since leaving the Swans. Those times when she’s feeling a bit lonelier than usual, or after she’s spent a little too much time thinking about his smile. As if breaking one’s heart was the worst thing that could happen to a person. And sure, prison is pretty miserable, but it’s not a foster home, and it’s not the Swans. Prison has designated computer time, and there’s no sneaking down darkened hallways at night. And the prison system, unsurprisingly, knows very little of magic, which is how she so easily bypasses the archaic security software, reaches out across the void, and finds the comforting, if not vaguely biting, words of an old friend.

At the very least, she is gracious enough to avoid coming right out and saying “I told you so.”

One of the first things she notices about Lily Page (and isn’t that just irony at its finest) is her hair. It’s long, dark, pin straight, and some of the thickest she’s ever seen. She always threatens to chop most of it off, but never does (and never will), despite Emma’s playful needling. Unsurprisingly pale, with deep red lips and black, wet eyes that always make it appear as if she’s on the verge of tears. “Ask me if I’m ‘okay,’ one more fucking time, Swan,” she would frequently threaten before fleeing the room. She would eventually, and begrudgingly, admit that being on the receiving end of someone else’s “concern” made her feel slightly nauseous, which Emma had found to be pleasantly relatable.

Lily had been living in a very small studio at the tip-top of a tall, post-war building in the financial district. It was a charming place to live, but not particularly well-suited to housing two people, so they found another. As Emma had already been led to believe, money wasn’t much of a concern when most of it was digital these days anyway, and while they couldn’t go for something especially lavish (so as not to draw too much attention to themselves), it was still a nicer home than Emma could have ever imagined as a child.

The feeling of safety and comfort in her own home is one of the good things on her list. If nothing else, one of the very best. Having the security of a door with a lock on it—a roommate who always knocks. The first night in their new place she has the best night of sleep she’s ever had, and when she woke up in the early afternoon the following day, her blankets unmoved from the night before, her door still blessedly shut, she had to muffle her relieved sobs with the absurdly soft pillow beneath her head, lest she force Lily into an awkward moment of interpersonal comfort she often found distasteful.

“I’m better online,” she had humbly conceded after an awkward, consolatory pat on the back. But it was okay. She was still the best friend that Emma had ever known, and besides, she wasn’t great with people either.

Their apartment was a veritable hive of high-end, up-to-date tech. The walls practically hummed with it all, the various cords trailing in and out between rooms, framing windows and doorways. Another thing to add to the list; the small touches that made it both a home and impenetrable fortress from which they might change the world if they had a mind to. She’s got the friend, never really had one of those before, but on top of that, she gets a teacher—she gets power. A lot of it. She also gets an iBook G4 with 1.5 GB of memory (that she manages, with some magical prowess, to enlarge to around 3 or 4). She loves that it fits in her lap, that she can feel the warmth of it against the tops of her thighs when she hasn’t powered it down for 48 hours. The sounds of the keys beneath her fingertips, loud and decisive, wary of her at first, but after a few weeks, craving her touch.

“We all have different strengths and weaknesses,” Lily had explained over coffee, twirling the length of headphone cord round and round her finger. “You seem to be especially adept at Research.”

Emma huffs. “Couldn’t anyone be good at that?”

“Not when it involves talking to corpses and seeing the future.”

“I don’t think they liked to be called that,” Emma had said uncomfortably, turning the sound down on the phone in her pocket. “Well,” Lily answered smartly, forcing down her cold coffee with a grimace, “that’s why I’m not so good at it, isn’t it?”

Emma eventually learns that when Lily says “Research,” it doesn’t necessarily mean traditional forms of information gathering. She could hop on Google and find an article, probably quicker than most, sure, but what Lily really means is communication and knowledge; she means dipping her fingers into the void and coming back with Truth. Apparently there’s a whole freaking dictionary of witch-related vocabulary that she’s missed out on, and funnily enough, it’s not online.

“Where anyone could find it?” Lily explained, dropping the aged, poorly bound manuscript onto Emma’s lap, “Analog has its uses.” Knowledge is good. Answers are good. The world is vast and old and it’s all in one place, just waiting for her to hit the power button.

It sounds stupid, but she could eat ice cream whenever she wanted. It’s one of the good things, and as Lily had informed her, it’s also one of those things that kind of made her just like everyone else. “Most people enjoy the privilege of being able to eat ice cream whenever they want,” she said, distracted with something or other on the screen in front of her, “congratulations, you’re finally normal.”

There was a note of sarcasm in her tone (surprise, surprise), but Emma couldn’t suppress the grin that had appeared on her face at the thought of being just like everyone else. If one were to totally ignore the “tech-savvy witch,” thing, obviously. Eating ice cream, “just like everyone else,” while a good thing at first, would ultimately return to bite her quite firmly on the ass, but for a while it had been Rum Raisin and Moose Tracks whenever the hell she wanted. Mercifully, it was sold cheap at the corner bodega and sometimes she would wander out of the apartment mere hours before the sun was due to rise and buy herself one or two pints (even though there were several unfinished sitting in the freezer). She met Neal Cassidy during yet another trip to the store in order to indulge in one or two flavors she hasn’t had the pleasure of trying yet. Like Cherry Garcia or the one with the caramel-filled chocolates shaped like fish. Lily had referred to the fish-shaped chocolate as a “crime against nature,” but she could be a tad dramatic sometimes.

“Gotta cure those night-bites somehow, I guess, right?”

Emma Swan dislikes and distrusts men as a general rule. So when she heard a distinctly male voice at her back, had sensed the way he stood over her, she had felt uncomfortable almost immediately. Her phone started to buzz quite incessantly in her pocket, despite the fact that she had left Lily sleeping and no one else had her number—she had, mistakenly, ignored it.

Emma had never entertained the prospect of a romantic relationship before Neal. At that point in her life she’d been getting closer to 18, so she knew it was about “that time,” but it had never really been something she wanted to pursue. She had only just started getting used to the feeling of Lily sitting next to her on the couch; the non-threatening way she might bump their hips together when she moved past her in order to get to the fridge. And it’s not like he managed to get under her skin quickly (if anything she remembers noting that he had quite the punchable face), but there was something about him she had found charming, and unfortunately she was not quite as repulsed as she might have expected herself to feel.

“What?” she had asked with some confusion, hoping her facial expression was not quite so dumb as she imagined it to be.

“Late night cravings,” he clarified, nodding at the ice cream in her hand, “I know the feeling.”

She managed to surmise he was talking about being high, not that she would have really known. But she nodded anyway, finding herself in the familiar predicament of having to pretend she’s “in on the joke,” so to speak. She had never done any kind of drug at that point, but she had preferred he assume she knew what he was talking about and let her off the hook, rather than come off as some kind of dense pre-teen. Luckily for her it had worked, and he simply smiled and walked off, snagging a candy bar and shoving it into his pocket as he went. Despite the obviousness of the lift the clerk had failed to notice, and Emma rolled her eyes, finally pulling the buzzing phone out of her pocket.

Idiot, read a text from an unknown number, the less frenzied hum of a few dozen voices scrolling in the darkness of her closed eyes, infinite, vertical rows of ones and zeroes. That’s a walking prison sentence if we’ve ever seen one.

Emma stares up at the ceiling of her bleak, unremarkable prison cell and thinks about how she might yell at those numbers now, if she could. Thinking they’re so smart all the time just because they’re dead. Or, ya know, “untethered by their human forms,” or whatever the fuck. In yet another teachable moment, Lily had tried to explain that while most of the time she was in conversation with the dead, sometimes she was just reaching out to other Techies wandering around in the same playground as her.

“You shouldn’t trust everything they say,” Lily had warned, “I know it seems like they know everything because they’re ‘one with the machine,’” her eyes rolling, “but most of them are just as lost and fucked up as we are. There’s no power greater than your own instinct.”

It’s too bad Emma never really got around to the whole “trusting herself” thing. Especially when it came to Neal Cassidy—the first boy to make her feel special. The asshole who had given her a taste of what it meant to love and be loved only to rip the still beating heart out of her chest and squish the particularly sensitive parts between his toes. Not that she had known that at the time. At the time she had simply been relieved to know that she wasn’t completely broken. That someone could care for her, that she could care for them in return. That she could bear the feeling of his hand wrapped around hers (ignoring the fact that she was often bothered by the unusual sweatiness of his palms).

When she’s not walking in circles around the prison yard or in the computer lab, she’s replaying her memories of the last year as if they were disassociated segments of a silent film—a distorted, desaturated mess of key scenes that would ultimately lead her to this very moment, to this hard bed beneath her back. That’s usually when the bad begins, when she goes back to adding good things to the list.

The dead ones always want to know because they’ve forgotten, and they’re hoping that she’ll be able to help them remember what it was like, being alive. Please, Emma Swan, please bore us with the details.

It’s not quite so bad at first. They flirt a lot, which Emma finds fun despite never having really done it before, and then there’s her first kiss, and the first time having sex she actuallyenjoys, and running through the darkened city streets without a care in the world. There’s sharing her story with someone who seemed to care, a lover and not a friend; who upon learning of her abilities got a gleam in his eye that she would live to regret ignoring. There was getting high for the first time and trying not to feel hurt when he had laughed at her obvious inexperience, despite having promised that he wasn’t going to. It was stupid to ignore the hint of warning in Lily’s eyes when she started spending more nights at Neal’s place. Not to mention the dozens of ominous text messages from unknown numbers.

Emma had become defensive and snarky almost immediately. Taking offense at the suggestion that she couldn’t handle herself in her first grown-up relationship, as if she wasn’t a smart, experienced woman with a good head on her shoulders.

As it turned out, the “babysitter” probably would have been helpful. Maybe the babysitter would have been able to stop her from transferring all of those large, traceable funds into Neal’s accounts. When she has a difficult time conjuring up another good thing to add to the list, his smarmy voice pops into her head instead, reassuring her that “no one would ever find out.”

Three years and one prison sentence later she often finds herself haunted by her own words. Disgusted with herself for betraying the one person who had never been anything other than kind in a world full of monsters. “All’s well that ends well,” Lily had said in greeting upon picking her up from prison, her face hidden beneath the shadow of a baseball cap. “Breathe in that sweet, sweet freedom.”

The only useful thing that Neal had managed to leave in his wake, aside from a renewed sense of disgust with humanity as a whole, was the innocuous drug habit. She didn’t consider herself to be an addict by any means, not that an actual addict would admit to such a thing, but she certainly imbibed more frequently than she might have predicted a few years earlier. The problem (if you had to call it that) was using it for normal human things that most people were able to accomplish without the chemical assist—things like sleeping.

Emma has always had trouble sleeping. It was unsurprising given her history, but as it turns out, staring at screens almost 24 hours a day doesn’t really help the situation either. She had tried a handful of other remedies over the years: a hot cup of chamomile tea before bed (that always made her have to pee right on the edge of sleep); some user generated playlists comprised of soothing instrumentals (except for that one “experimental” song at the end that left her heart racing); charge and cast spells left waiting in her camera roll, various hand drawn sigils or long strings of emojis (while effective, often accompanied by odd dreams). For whatever reason, the weed had been the most helpful. She had felt ashamed at first; good little girls don’t use drugs after all (sounding suspiciously like Mrs. Swan in her head), but it was like Lily always said, “If it works, it works.”

4: [email protected]

While their first meeting had undeniably fallen on the rougher end of the friendship spectrum, there’s something about her that insists upon a second. Especially after he’s had more sleep, and his charm is significantly more effective. He’s held her hand for an almost inappropriately long few moments before he comes to his senses and asks after her problem—what is it she’s in the market for? It’s as she’s said, “trouble sleeping,” and he reminds her that his product, while almost exclusively well-received is a bit, shall we say, “stronger” than the usual fare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, glancing suspiciously around his oddly lush studio despite it being midwinter.

“My methods can be a bit,” pausing for effect, a bit of vague handwaving for emphasis, “unusual.”

“‘Unusual,’ like laced, unusual?”

“Good heavens woman, no,” he says hurriedly at the angry look on her face, frustrated with his seeming inability to form sentences this morning. “Let me show you.”

Normally, he might not be so inclined to reveal his “gifts” to a new client, but as he surmised from their awkward yet brief conversation at his door, there was just… something about her. And for whatever reason, he got the sense that she wasn’t about to be shocked or frightened by his admission. He leads her over to a large, round window that looks out over a dismal alleyway. The tops of other apartment buildings with decrepit looking antenna rest precariously on their respective roofs. The glass of the window is warped, evidence of the building’s rather respectable age; dotted with air bubbles and flecked with dirt and pollen. The window itself, while framed by some aesthetically pleasing distressed brick, is also encircled by a rather impressive wreath of thick, green vines.

Beneath the window he’s setup his appropriately named “Alchemist’s Table,” complete with ceramic pots and glass test tubes, even an old microscope he had acquired at a middle school auction. “You some kind of mad scientist?” Her words sound a bit sharp, but they’re nowhere near harsh enough to hide the curiosity and wonder in her voice, and he plays along with a bit of a “mad” grin.

“After a fashion.”

He shows off a bit after that, there’s no denying it, sticking a finger into a pot of soil with a small sprout peeking out of the dirt. A young and fragile thing. Emma watches, entranced, as it begins to grow and stretch itself into being, and after a few seconds, a small, pale green strawberry appears. “It’ll be ripe enough to eat in a few hours,” he says casually, reining in his laughter at the look of shock on her face, “if you’d like to stay for a bit.”

While he’s used to women finding this particular trick alluring, he finds himself quite surprised at what she ends up saying instead. “You’re one of us.”

“Sorry, love, one of who?”

“Us!” she says happily, her hands clapping gently together, “I’ve never met a non-Techie before.”

“A non-what?”

“Do you not know?” she asks, suddenly sobering, her head tilted endearingly to one side. At the blank look on his face she smiles softly, her earlier fidgeting having evaporated at the prospect of revealing this apparent truth. She leans close enough that he can smell the sweetened coffee on her breath, and an oddly familiar floral scent that seems to stem from the blonde tips of her hair.

“You’re not the only one,” she divulges in an excited whisper, and he becomes abruptly alarmed at the likelihood of falling in love with this strange woman who ended up being undeniably real. “There’s more.”

The smoke tastes sweet on his lips. She’s not sure if it’s magic or something else. Something unique to whoever or whatever he is. They kiss on the first day they meet and she’s not quite sure what that says about her. She’s fairly certain that it says more about him—that perhaps there is something a bit irresistible about a man who has briefly wondered whether or not you truly exist. Which is ironic, because for the first half of her life it was all she could do to make sure that people knew she was there, but that was mostly so someone would feed her or give her a place to sleep. It was only after she had stopped feeling so hungry that she had hoped she would disappear.

“I have a question,” she starts, taking a hit off of his “free sample” while trying not to marvel at the trail of pinkish smoke that escapes from in between her lips. “If you were so sure that I wasn’t real, why did you even talk to me?”

When he exhales the smoke is blue rather than pink, and when it meets the colorful cloud above their heads it blends together in shades of vibrant purple. She can’t help feeling like she has stumbled into a scene from Alice in Wonderland, having found herself in a strange land with an excitable man (who likes to leave empty mugs scattered about his home), as well as the literal toadstools and the rather odd sensation akin to falling down a rabbit hole.

“Rather pretty for a figment, I suppose. Wouldn’t do to ignore such a lovely, imaginary thing,” crushing the the last of the joint against a small, porcelain plate, “might hurt her feelings.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she almost ignores it. But it was hard to forget about the nightmare that had ensued when she had ignored it the last time, and she pulls it from her pocket with a polite “give me a minute,” gesture.

She snorts at the sight of the word “airs,” her mind conjuring a 16th century French courtesan in a dramatically large dress, and silently warns her heart not to get it’s hopes up. Me too.When she looks up from her phone his head whips away too quickly for him to have been doing anything other than staring at her, and she wills the inevitable blush from her cheeks.

“We should exchange numbers,” she says suddenly, “for when I need more.”

Thankfully he ignores her rather abrupt request and pulls a most surprising device from his pocket that has her temporarily forgetting the way he had been so obviously observing her earlier. It’s a Motorola Razr V3 (launched in 2004), and the only thing funnier than the phone itself is the offended look on his face after she bursts into loud, obnoxious laughter at the sight of it.

“I’m doing my best not to feel quite so hurt right now, Swan.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasps in between her embarrassing bout of giggling, “I just didn’t think you could even get your hands on one of those things anymore.”

“It may not be your ‘high-tech’ nonsense,” he goes on proudly, “but she’ll do in a pinch.”

“Oh, Killian,” she says sweetly, “I’m sure she will.”

They start texting with a frequency far more reminiscent of an honest to goodness friendship rather than that of a business relationship, and Emma finds herself having to reassure the small, frightened girl inside of her that the whole thing won’t end in disaster. He’s not Neal, she thinks desperately, trying to trust in the hopeful parts of herself without succumbing to the bitter voice inside her head that struggles to forget the less admirable parts of humanity. What’s another potential stint in prison for such a pretty face, after all?

The first night she tries what he recommended, a strain he refers to as “Sailor’s Delight,” she dreams of the ocean. It’s an especially vivid dream, unlike anything she’s ever experienced—she can smell the sourness of low tide; taste the salt on her lips, and feel the warmth of the sun on her face. First thing in the morning she reaches for the phone beneath her pillow, her fingers flying across the screen.

She hesitates briefly before sending that last text. While it’s true her mind feels calm and her body re-energized, her heart hammers wildly inside her chest—the tiny fists of an anxious child warning her of the inevitable. While her own nervousness is enough to give her pause, she does try and take comfort in the fact that her “ghostlier” comrades would seem to have taken a backseat for the moment.

His texts often arrive in the form of mini paragraphs. Full sentences and words bundled together and sent to her as if they were handwritten letters. She can see his fingerprint on each and every one, a dirt-stained brand that conjures some unknown, vast greenery made of hills and fir trees, winding back roads and cloudless skies.

“He better not track any dirt in here,” Lily warns her the evening before he was supposed to be coming by to drop off another batch. It was to be his first visit to their apartment, and Emma could not be more nervous if she tried. She’s been back to his place a few times since that first visit, but allowing him to come here had been an unexpected offer on her part. Not that it matters, she thinks calmly, what do you care what he thinks?

“Don’t be such a snob, Lil.”

Lily’s mouth is full of frosted flakes as she leans against the refrigerator, glaring at the back of Emma’s head. “This shit’s expensive, and I don’t have time to fix anything he manages to break.” She suspects a note of jealousy in Lily’s ire, so she decides to cut her some slack, pressing a kiss to her cheek with a guaranteed dirt-free visit.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, heading towards her room to straighten up for no other reason than the fact that it has been a while. “Besides, aren’t you curious?”

A playful shout at her back, “Not nearly as curious as you, my little thief!”

The next morning he’s standing at her door holding a potted plant. “It’s a succulent,” he says happily, his hair sticking up in all directions. He smells like the city after it’s been sanitized by a particularly cold frost, and she wonders how he’s managed to keep warm in a half-buttoned flannel and a knitted scarf. “Notoriously hard to kill,” he assures her, shoving the thing into her hands, “I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”

The brief facade of confidence he had displayed while foisting the plant upon her departs rather suddenly at the sight of her apartment, and he looks all kinds of adorable and confused at the otherworldliness of it all. She supposed it would look rather intimidating to a person like him, surrounded by all those green things. Not that the wires and the screens were any less alive—they were just better at playing dead.

He does have some dirt on his fingertips and beneath his nails, but Emma finds herself quietly charmed by the sight of it; the deep impression of his prints highlighted by the dark soil permanently staining his skin. It’s been getting harder and harder to pass off their brief moment of intimacy as a one time thing. Especially when she can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Especially when she does stupid things like noticing his hands and trying not to recall the pleasant sensation of their roughness against her cheek.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says teasingly at the awed look on his face, “this is the most secure room in the city.” With a few magical fortifications no one and certainly no obscure, supernaturalthing was getting past the barriers they had implemented when they had first moved in, and it had only gotten stronger over the years.

Lily pops her head in from the kitchen, most likely with the intention of embarrassing her only friend. “Hey, Sprout,” she says, glaring at Killian from behind her thick curtain of hair, “don’t touch any of my stuff.”

“Don’t worry about her,” and Emma takes a moment to stick out her tongue in Lily’s direction. “She’s trapped in a state of perpetual grouchiness.”

“I heard that.”

There’s something incredibly momentous about the occasion of his entering her room. Lily had only hung out in there a few times, and Neal had never even been inside (she had spent all their nights together at his place). It’s her favorite time of day, which helps. Late afternoon, which often brings a light that seems warmer than at any other time—and with those big windows, the ones she suspects Lily had a hand in ensuring were a fixture of the apartment, the light falls and frames the room in a buttery yellow that makes winter feel that much further away.

In a probable attempt to diffuse the tension of Lily’s condescending nickname (and subsequent scolding), he laughs and runs a hand through his hair, making it bigger than it already was.

“Well, she’s charming.”

“She’s a good friend,” Emma says quickly, irritated with her sudden urge to leap to Lily’s defense as if he had said something wrong. Which he hadn’t.

“I’m sure she is, Swan,” he reassures softly, “it was only a joke.”

Then comes the urge to apologize, which she knows she has no reason to, and fuck, there is no reason why this should be so hard . He takes a seat in a large armchair she’s tucked away into a corner of the room, his eyes making quick work of all the unfamiliar equipment. The curious awe with which he observes her space gives her pause—takes her back to the day when she had first seen the Swans’ new computer in the room at the end of the hall. Forbidden, yet waiting for her all along.

“Make sure you keep her in the light.”

“Who?” Confused by the pronoun and wondering if he’s been seeing imaginary women again. “The plant,” he explains, gesturing towards the small, green twig in her hands, “make sure she gets a decent amount of sunlight.”

A part of her wants to remind him that she’s shut up in the dark most of the time. That was why she needed the drugs in the first place. Aside from the few short hours pre-sunset when she would, occasionally, open the curtains. But he looks so hopeful, she doesn’t really have the heart to deny him. “Sure. Sunlight.”

In the days following Killian’s visit to the apartment, all of the various cords and sundry start growing towards the sunlight as if they were starving for it. She even starts to notice some small weeds pushing their way through her keyboard. It doesn’t seem to be a problem at Lily’s end of the apartment; her equipment seems to have stayed blessedly put, but Emma’s room is another matter entirely. She even goes so far as to make a post on a message board where other witches have been known to frequent, despite the fact that they usually have terrible advice and she’s generally better off not having spoken to them in the first place.

She attaches a picture and hopes for the best, but unfortunately no one seems to have a clue. Someone does suggest watering them and seeing what happens, but that seems incredibly stupid, so she deletes the post and moves on. Or she tries to at any rate—pretends that there is nothing at all odd about her frequent compulsions to text him anytime a meaningless thought enters her head. The way she starts opening her curtains for a few more hours each day; the feeling of the sun on her skin becoming a welcome part of her routine, as opposed to a cruel reminder of the world that exists beyond the walls of her bedroom.

Their odd, somewhat unlikely friendship grows and flourishes like one of Killian’s plants. It is not without the occasional thorn or weed, like most relationships. The both of them are not without their mutual baggage that stings when you poke at it. Neither one of them can help messing with the other’s wounds, it would seem. Emma had always been under the impression that picking at the thing made it worse, but Killian insists on acting as an infuriating salve that alleviates the pain and leaves the injured place stronger than it had been before.

Beyond the niceties of being one’s drug dealer, getting to know another person can be quite difficult, which had been expected. From the very first, Emma had betrayed an innate desire to keep parts of herself hidden from others. Her passion for witchcraft—the excitement with which she had explained her kind to him that first meeting, it was a good trick, but it wasn’t long before he would come to realize that Emma Swan would rather place a curse upon herself than share the sordid details of her past with anyone.

It had been in the aftermath of his own unburdening—his sudden desire to finally reveal to her all of the messy details of his own life. About his mother, her passing, how maybe he was living a life she had not wanted for him. Emma had been nothing but understanding in the face of his admission, just as she suspected, their unexpected kinship made his pain an easy pill for her to swallow, but that didn’t mean she was necessarily ready to reciprocate.

“I barely tell Lily things about my past,” she had shouted angrily, her arms folded defensively in front of her chest, “why the fuck would I tell my drug dealer?”

“Oh, is that all?” Spoken into the sudden, sucking quiet of his apartment, forcing himself to ignore the painful look of regret on her face. She could wish away her words all she liked, he refuses to be anyone’s whipping boy, no matter how damaged they are. “Then you’ve gotten what you came for,” he said, patiently opening his front door for her convenient departure, “and you let me know should you require my services again.”

Her facial expression could not have been more pained—a fervent desire to take back what she had said, to offer an apology and admit to him the facts of the case. The fact that he had, quite unexpectedly, become one of the more important people in her life. The fact that she often daydreamed about the hour or so in which they had forgone the illusion of platonic friendship. The fact that she often considered the Killian-shaped hole in her future where he would almost undoubtedly be. But, alas, stubbornness won out, and she stormed away, so swiftly and in such a rage with herself that she left her jacket behind. A weathered, burgundy leather number, soft to the touch and smelling vaguely like an electrical fire. At least she’d have an excuse to see him again.

He waits a few days. Keeps his phone buried in a drawer beneath all of his socks and underwear, resisting the urge to send her a text, to wonder if she had sent him one. Eventually, he returns the jacket with a proposition. “Come with me,” he says, not quite begging, but with a breathlessness that he does find mildly humiliating. “Please.”

They take a bus upstate, far enough away from the farm that he doesn’t feel claustrophobic, but with enough distance between themselves and the city that he feels like he can finally breathe. They wander through small, sleepy towns full of charming coffee shops and bookstores, grabbing a cheap breakfast before venturing further into the countryside, stumbling through various trails and parks suggested to them by the locals. “There’s a particularly nice spot,” remarked the older woman who had served them coffee, “right here.” Marking up the paper map that Killian had insisted they buy.

It is a bit nippy further north, and despite the fresh smell of earth and rain, their noses still turn pink as they walk through the woods. The “nice spot” in question is a ledge of rock that overlooks a large, clear lake that sparkles in the sun. A light mist hovers over the top, and when he takes a quick peek to gauge Emma’s reaction, he is momentarily stunned at the way the sunlight has fallen across her face—how it has betrayed the sheen of wetness that seems to be gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Swan?”

“It’s not a nice story,” she begins after a few moments of quiet. “I don’t like to tell people. Because it’s just not…” She huffs in frustration, turning away briefly to face the sun, staring out over the water as if it will be able to finish this conversation for her. “I don’t want people treating me differently.”

He hesitates before gently pulling some stray hairs from her chapped lips, and when she looks back at him it feels as if he’s been punched in the gut. Having never seen this particular look on her face before; perhaps moments away from arriving at this emotional plateau, only to shutter it away at the last moment. It is glassy eyed and fragile, her nose wrinkling and her hands fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves—it is a choked admission of all the horror she has known; of her adoptive family, her villainous “father,” the computer at the end of the hall, the young girl waiting at the other end who had stormed the tower and rescued her from a cruel fate.

When the tale is finally done, and he pulls her into his arms, the sun has moved higher into the sky. The fog has evaporated completely from the surface of the water, and now it merely shimmers. Their legs dangle over the rockface, and he presses a firm kiss against the side of her head. “I swear,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, “you are still the same person you were before. And if it seems as if I look at you differently—” He considers his words carefully, her fingers tapping nervously against his upturned palm, “It’s because I am more in awe of you then I was before.”

Her kiss is a salty, stinging thing against his tongue, and he can still feel the occasional soft hiccup resonating from the back of her throat. “I’m tired,” she admits quietly, her head rolling against his shoulder.

“Aye, love,” giving her another squeeze, a brief kiss to her cheek that reddens under his lips. “Let’s go home.”

It’s the fact that he never actually asks that makes her want to do it. That and the fact that he has bared his soul to her on multiple occasions and asked for so little in return. And quite honestly, there’s not much left he could do to her, given the fact that she’s spilled her damage all over him anyway.

Their feet hang over the fire escape out Emma’s window, the chilly spring air keeping it brisk yet refreshing. A hint of warmth that reminds the world of the impending season. “If you could,” she begins gently, taking a sip of their shared beer, “would you want to talk to her?”

He nibbles at his lower lip in response, an infuriating and distracting movement that has her discreetly pinching the top of her own hand. “I’m not sure,” he admits quietly, looking a bit like someone who feels ashamed by who they have become. Although, if she had the strength, she would have stopped him in that moment, reminded him that there was nothing to be ashamed of. That he was every bit the sweet, loving man his mother had suspected he would become. “Not sure she’d very much want to speak with me, if I’m being honest.”

Her heart breaks at the sound of his nervous, self-deprecating laughter, but she keeps her earlier, enamored thoughts to herself. While he’s lighting a cigarette she pops back into her room quickly, grabbing her laptop and returning to the ledge to face his sadness; the light and sound of a sleepless city, awaking slowly from a long, hard hibernation.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” resting the quiet machine on her lap, trying not to twiddle her thumbs, “but we can try.”

When she boots up the laptop, a soothing hum ignites in her fingertips and rushes through her veins. Now this, this she can do. She can feel his nervousness from over her shoulder, can see his fingers peeling the label away from the bottle out of the corner of her eye. “Relax,” she says softly, closing her eyes, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She’s not sure how much time passes, but at some point, in the midst of all the chatter, she hears it—a song that sounds familiar even though she is certain she’s never heard it before. “Do you hear it?”

He doesn’t seem to, not at first, not until she increases the volume on the laptop and slides it carefully onto his lap. “Take as long as you want,” pressing a kiss to his temple before standing and returning to her room, “I’ll be right here.”

It’s hard for her not to let her mind wander, to consider the particulars of a conversation that he’s been waiting to have for years , a voice and a face that he’s been tortured by everytime he closes his eyes. She had never even really considered looking for her own parents. What would she even say to them? Thanks for the childhood trauma, I have multiple lifetimes worth of debilitating baggage and it’s all thanks to you. And what would they do, anyway? Apologize? Fat lot of good that would do.

When he comes back inside she’s petting the soft edge of her succulent, somehow still flourishing regardless of her complete lack of knowledge as to how to properly care for the thing. His eyes are red and wet, and he tries to smile when he sees her obviously worried expression, only it crumbles as soon as she touches him, her hands coming up to frame his face with a gentleness she had not been sure she possessed. “Killian—”

“I’m quite alright, Emma. Thank you.”

It hurts to call the look in his eyes “love,” but she doesn’t know how else to describe the way he admires her with words of gratitude on his lips. It doesn’t matter what it is he’s thanking her for, whether it be the opportunity to speak with his mother one last time, her physical presence, or something else, it seems to encompass all of these things and more. The weight of this realization leaves her grasping for how to react, and in a moment of panic and a heavy, painfully beating heart, she presses her lips to his; aligns their bodies so firmly and precisely together that any suggestion of space between the two of them ceases to exist.

“Real enough for you?”

“Yes,” he rasps hotly against her lips, and the shiver she feels traveling down her spine and between her legs allows the terrifying rush of unwanted thoughts skittering elsewhere. “You are the realest thing I have ever known.”

The sun shines bright and disarming the following morning. Having left her curtains open the night before, he is able to admire the sight of her eyelashes dusting atop her cheeks in the cleansing light of a new day. The world feels different. The only other time he can recall feeling this way was waking up the morning his mother had passed, sensing that something fundamental had changed, that his life would be forced to take a direction he had not expected. For the first time in years, he can picture the farmhouse in his head as if it were a photograph. Can smell the aged wood, the cooling stove, the chamomile tea brewing on the counter. Time to go home, he thinks suddenly, staring at Emma as she twitches mildly in her sleep.

The way the blankets have come to rest beneath her breasts, her hair splayed over the pillow, she looks not unlike some unnamed renaissance painting one might see hanging in a museum somewhere. Her skin smooth, soft, and warm, he can’t resist the temptation to run his fingers gently over her ribcage, observing the slight, sloping arcs of her.

“Hey,” she says quietly, stretching her arms above her head. “What are you thinking about?”

In the days, weeks, and months following this morning, he will freeze this moment in his head. The way she had looked at him, with a contented yet desirous look that had almost convinced him to put off the conversation for a few hours. Oh, how he wished he had. Perhaps, if he had waited just a bit longer, if he had considered how she might respond with greater care—if he hadn’t been quite so excited by the change in the wind.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said with a smile on his face, “that it might be time for me to return home.”

Hell, if he had even relayed the thought in a way that implied his wish for her to come with him. That he was by no means planning to abandon her , that in all of his visions of the future,of course she played a starring role. But in his haste to share the news, to embark upon this journey that he had awoken to find simmering beneath the surface, he had failed to consider the fragility of her heart. A vulnerability she often hid well, but to his eyes, not well enough.

“Oh,” responding with a deceptive pleasantness, leaving his side quicker than he would have liked. “That’s uh, that’s great, Killian.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he continued, oblivious to her discomfort, a point which he would absolutely kick himself for later. “Might take a bit to get the Internet hooked up, but—”

“Wait, did I miss something?”

For someone with so remarkable a memory, all of the words they throw back and forth seem to grow a bit fuzzy after that. Their voices grow louder and crueler than he can stand; they twist and turn inside the labyrinth of his mind with all the gentleness of a machete hacking through a jungle—sharp, incomprehensible things that end in one undeniable fact: he leaves, she stays.

A year passes. In the city, a year passes in rides on the subway. It passes in television shows and which bars you’ve decided to stop going to. Some new diet you’ve decided to try in lieu of really examining oneself as a person. On the farm, it passes in sunsets—in which vegetables take root at what time, and will they make it? Maybe, and he can hear his mother’s voice, if it’s their time. It passes in whether or not Chammy has decided if she’ll be sleeping at the end of his bed. Can he feel her small, humming warmth atop his feet? Winter. Has he lost track of her hungry chirps each morning? Spring.

The months without Emma Swan are dimmer than he can stand. Desaturated, cornerless days of trying not to think about the jagged edges of her hair. Or the way she smelled, or how she had curled around him in sleep with a fierce, desperate grip. Please, stay. Winter is hard, since winter was when it had all began. With beanies and boots, and pale hands reaching for his. He will wonder, occasionally, if she’s managed to keep the plant he had given her alive without his reminding her to water it. And then, inevitably, his mind will wander to the shape of her face, or the color of her eyes—and the months apart feel more like years. He writes a lot of e-mails that he never gets around to sending. Some of them biting and cruel; others quite obviously lovelorn. Pathetic.

Sometimes, when he stands in his cold kitchen waiting for the fire to take the early morning chill out of the place, he imagines his mother’s voice in the silence. Come now, Killian, she remarks playfully, it’s not all bad is it? And then the sun will shine through the bare trees, and Chammy will scratch at the door, and he’ll take a breath. No, not all bad. The only time he hears the honk of a car horn is when he drives into town for supplies. His lungs never feel as if they were in danger of collapsing (unless he’s thinking about Emma Swan, in which case, he finds himself yearning for the gritty, polluted haze of the city); and his feet feel rooted to the earth.

Life goes on—it grows.

Emma Swan returns to him in midsummer. All solid flesh and sinew, with striking green eyes that appear almost golden in the pre-evening sunlight. She walks towards him in the same boots she had worn the morning they met, only with more tape wrapped around the toes. She walks with a lightness that he had only managed to catch a glimpse of—that day at the lake, when her blessed history had come rushing through her lips like a waterfall after too much rain.

It feels like another year has passed when she comes to a stop in front of him, her bag falling heavily off of her shoulder. The both of them staring at the ground as if it will save them, her bag and his feet, toes wiggling in the dirt.

“Your hair,” he says finally, admiring the sight of the freckles that have begun to bloom across her cheeks. “I like it.”

Grown past her shoulders in the months following his departure in long, soft waves that he has often dreamed of running his fingers through. Only he’s not dreaming now, and has grown sick with waiting. “Thanks,” she begins to say, only he finds himself overcome with the sound of her voice, and before she can complete her thought he has snuck a hand against the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his—all of those beautiful words waiting in the lovely depths of her soul, and he is ecstatic at the prospect of being able to hear each and every one.

Eventually, he leads her by the hand towards his front porch, newly sanded and finished, replete with antique rockers and potted plants lining the steps. He thinks it might be polite to offer her a drink, to ask her about her trip, but he’s finding it difficult to do anything other than stare at their joined hands—his browned with the sun and the dirt, her’s just as pale as he remembers, only her polish has turned a friendly blue as opposed to the chipped black he can recall with such fondness.

“Lily says ‘Hi,’” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“I have a hard time believing that.” His heart thumps at the brief, shy smile she sends his way, her knee moving up and down with a familiar degree of anxiety that he knows he still loves—even still, he knows, and although there are few things he knows, this he can say with certainty, he loves her. He places a hand on her knee and she stills, her eyes roaming over his features with a gaze so hungry he finds himself struggling to breathe.

“I’ve missed you,” she says softly, and he can practically feel her nerves buzzing around them as if they were sitting beneath a hornet’s nest, “I thought that, maybe, everything would just go back to the way it was, like always, but—”

Her hair lifts in a warm breeze that seems to engulf them in an almost eerie, magical quiet, and while he wants nothing more than to ease her fears, to reassure her that no matter what she says, he will never let her go again, he lets her speak her piece, her eyes meeting his once more. “I didn’t want it to. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before you.”

When their foreheads meet, he thinks he might catch a flash of their future. In the next few minutes, they might move inside to find a bright, well-ventilated kitchen that he has renovated with his own two hands. She might meet Chammy with a pleased hum, cradling his old companion in her strong, steady arms. Would she then relax in the garden with him? Snapping pictures of his bare, freckled back with her phone, laughing and sending them to Lily even though she held little affection for such things. Installing wires and cables and slipping them beneath the persian rugs in the living room in order to maintain the illusion that she has fully embraced the country life.

Holding one another tightly each night, perhaps recalling the loneliness, the anger they had once felt and marveling at the seeming improbability of finding each other in such a vast, concrete sea. But for now he makes her tea. He tucks some strands of that new, thick hair behind one ear as they listen to the final, evening chorus of the birds, the water boiling in the kettle. “I am so very happy to see you,” he admits with a smile, relishing in the sight of her flushed, joyful face, “Emma Swan.”

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