#Handwriting™

[petermorwood]

I'm using Backblaze for in-cloud full backup, as well as a non-cloud external hard drive for the same purpose.

Active writing files, besides inclusion in the full backups, also save to Dropbox, to relevant folders on the PC's hard drive and to an offline USB thumb drive.

As for writing software, I have Scrivener, Fade In and Word 2010 (LibreOffice will replace it if / when need be) along with ProWritingAid, Dragon Naturally Speaking and a computer microphone or recorder.

And now a word from our sponsor.

*****

Voice-to-Text is associated with Handwriting™, one of the oldest and perhaps the best-known word-processing app.

Handwriting™ uses the most widely available OS on the planet.

Handwriting™ can be customised or upgraded with a range of input devices (not included), fonts, colours and even languages, and accepts all off-brand ink and paper consumables with no need for DRM compatibility.

Handwriting™ is environmentally green, has no unusual energy requirements, needs no battery or external power source, and is in most respects almost completely biodegradable.* This also applies to the default OS, a claim few word-processing apps can match.

* For longer-lasting or archive purposes, try Monument™ or Cuneiform™. Please note that input devices and consumables for these apps differ from Handwriting™ in some respects, and may require additional training prior to use.

Handwriting™ is virtually crash-proof apart from exceptional circumstances, and is impossible to modify, hack or censor without direct physical access.

Handwriting™ has not just years or decades but centuries of proven reliability, with millions of satisfied users.

Try Handwriting™, and rediscover how to write in dark places when all other Rights go out.

Amount of light required for successful operation in dark places varies with user, and may be augmented by a range of third-party devices (not included).

Clarity of input varies with user, and may improve.

Quality of output varies with user, and may improve.

Clarity and quality may go down as well as up.

Input language varies with user, and additional languages (not included) may be used at any time or added later, but refer to 4. for more details.

Keep product away from naked flame.

Keep user away from naked flame. Distance varies with ambient temperature, but do not exceed default OS limits.

Do not immerse product in water.

Do not immerse user in deep water. Depth varies with ambient temperature, but do not exceed default OS limits.

Conditions of excessive damp or humidity require modified input devices and consumables, available from specialised dealers.

Use of Handwriting™ implies understanding and acceptance of all terms and conditions.

Handwriting™ has no control over (and accepts no responsibility for the consequences of) views, opinions, comments, truths, lies, propaganda, fiction, myth, religion, controversy, entertainment, historical records, political complications, economic errors, romantic entanglements and / or warm fuzzies generated by use of the product.

dang LOOK its chuck tingle talkin to wired magazine about the danger of technology functioning as unchecked corporate utilities. was nice to give this little quote. good article

[heffrondriving]

found my very first big time rush doodles circa 2020 and felt like redrawing it idk :^]

also bonus doodle: my suffering existence rn (ദ്ദി ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ )☃️

[starfall-calamity]

Combining my interests & am finally starting to make my HMS Ace Attorney AU [feat. tfem mind because I can]

Whole is also in this au but I am hella tired atm & don't wanna draw him rn cos he'll take more effort for no reason whatsoever [ He's totally fine dw :} ]

[cherrymoonvol6]

.

[nadiajustbe]

One of my favorite parts about the writing of Howl's Moving Castle is how easy it is to write off all the things from our world at first as him just being a weird wizard™ (also thanks to bestie @jutenium for spotting this I wouldn't put it like that without you!!/pos). Sure, Sophie uses weird descriptions, but readers have every reason to believe them because of the way Howl is presented as a character. When Sophie says he wrote with a quill that doesn't need an ink, you wouldn't think it was actually a ballpoint pen, you would think Howl had just enchanted his quill so that it wouldn't need ink! When she adds that she can't make out a single word, you think he has matchingly terrible handwriting, but in fact Sophie has simply never seen a pen writing. When she sees the mysterious labels on his books, you think he's keeping a lot of obscure magical literature, but it's really just an encyclopedia and a guide like "Top 10 Rugby Tips." When Sophie notices the bottles in Howl's bathtub, you think they're some kind of magical jars where he keeps girl's hearts, but I'm almost certain that they're just 'Dove' and 'Head and Shoulders' that he's enhanced with his spells and put silly labels on. When you read Calicifer singing a song in a language Sophie doesn't understand, you think it's some kind of ancient cipher or code, but it's actually just a rugby song in Welsh that Howl sings when he's drunk. And finally, when you see the terrifying black door, which is completely shrouded in darkness, you imagine a passage to an eerie, mythical place, similar to what Miyazaki showed us - but it's just fucking Wales.

[kathaelipwse]

The barista who stole his heart | K. Mingyu

TROPE: Idol x Non-Fan | Barista AU | Mingyu Falls First | Found Family | Heavy Insecurity to Full Acceptance | Protective Love WARNINGS: Mentions of past toxic relationships | body shaming | Public scrutiny | | mild social media hate | Lots of fluffy affection | soft romance | Mingyu being the ultimate green flag™ | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE WORDCOUNT: 5051 words {Reading time: 18mins} SYNOPSIS: You never expected a regular customer at your café to be a famous idol—especially not one as kind and ridiculously handsome as Kim Mingyu. What started as casual interactions turned into lingering glances, playful flirting, and a slow, inevitable fall. But when your past insecurities resurface and public attention turns critical, Mingyu makes one thing clear: he’s not going anywhere. AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one-shot is for anyone who’s ever doubted their worth because of society’s beauty standards. You are enough. You are beautiful. And if Mingyu were for us girlies, he would absolutely worship you. Enjoy this soft love story!

The café, a cozy haven nestled amidst the urban sprawl near the broadcasting station, hummed with a quiet, almost reverent energy. Its walls, painted in warm, inviting hues of cream and ochre, absorbed the city's relentless clamor, replacing it with the gentle whir of the espresso machine and the comforting aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. You, a silent guardian of this tranquil space, moved with a practiced grace, your movements fluid and efficient as you prepared orders. The late shift was your sanctuary, a time when the world outside faded into a distant murmur, allowing you to immerse yourself in the simple rhythm of your work.

The evening was drawing to a close, the last few stragglers trickling out into the cool night air, when the bell above the door chimed, announcing a late arrival. A figure stepped into the café, impossibly tall, his silhouette framed against the streetlights outside. He moved with a quiet weariness, his shoulders slumped, his steps measured. Yet, despite his exhaustion, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, a quiet intensity that filled the space.

As he approached the counter, you looked up, your gaze meeting his. His eyes, dark and deep, held a hint of fatigue, yet they sparkled with an inner warmth that caught you off guard. His face, sculpted with sharp angles and softened by a gentle curve to his lips, was undeniably handsome, a fact you acknowledged with a professional detachment.

"Americano, please," he requested, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. It was a voice that held a quiet authority, yet it was laced with a gentle politeness that was almost disarming. The way he looked at you, a quiet searching look, made you pause just a moment longer.

You nodded, maintaining your professional demeanor, your gaze unwavering. "Name?"

"Mingyu."

The name was simple, ordinary, yet it lingered in the air, a quiet echo in the stillness of the café. You scribbled it on the cup, your mind already moving to the next task, the familiar routine of grinding beans and steaming milk. A moment later, you placed the cup before him, the name scrawled on the side in your hurried handwriting: Minkoo.

He stared at the cup, a flicker of surprise, almost disbelief, crossing his features. He blinked, then looked back at you, a subtle question in his eyes. "It’s Mingyu."

"Mingyo?" you repeated, your brow furrowed slightly, as you tried to match the spoken word to the written one.

His jaw dropped, ever so slightly, a subtle disbelief etching on his usually composed face. He looked around the empty cafe, then back to you. “…She really doesn’t know me?” The thought was almost spoken aloud, a quiet, incredulous murmur that hung in the air.

For the first time in a long time, Kim Mingyu, the idol known for his charisma and widespread recognition, was caught completely off guard. He was accustomed to the whispers, the gasps, the immediate recognition that followed him like a shadow. He was used to the way people’s eyes widened when they saw him, the way their voices rose in excitement. But here, in this quiet café, under the soft glow of the overhead lights, he was just another customer, another name to be misspelled, another face in the crowd.

The lack of recognition was a strange, almost liberating experience. It was a novel sensation, a breath of fresh air in the midst of his carefully constructed public persona. He watched as you moved about the café, your movements unhurried, your focus unwavering, and he found himself intrigued. There was a quiet confidence in your demeanor, a self-assuredness that was both captivating and disarming.

He took his coffee, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, a silent question hanging in the air. As he turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter, this simple misspelling, was the beginning of something unexpected, something that would disrupt the carefully orchestrated rhythm of his life.

The "Minkoo" incident, as Mingyu privately dubbed it, became a peculiar sort of lodestar, drawing him back to the café night after night. It wasn't just the coffee, though it was undeniably good; it was the quiet, almost surreal normalcy of the place, and most importantly, you. He found himself inexplicably drawn to your unpretentious demeanor, your calm efficiency, and the way you seemed utterly unfazed by his presence.

He started timing his visits, subtly adjusting his schedule to coincide with your shifts. He’d arrive just as the evening rush was dying down, the café bathed in the warm, golden glow of the setting sun. He'd sit at the counter, a quiet observer, watching you work your magic behind the espresso machine. He’d study the way your brow furrowed in concentration as you measured out coffee grounds, the gentle curve of your lips as you smiled at a customer, the soft sway of your hips as you moved around the small space.

His members, ever vigilant, noticed the pattern. "Look who it is, Mr. Americano," Seungkwan would tease, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Back for more of that… Minkoo special?"

"What? Their coffee is good!" Mingyu would protest, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He'd try to sound casual, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his growing infatuation.

"So is every other café, but you don’t go to those, do you?" Hoshi would chime in, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You only go when she’s working."

Mingyu would ignore them, his gaze drifting towards the counter, where you were engaged in a lively conversation with a customer. He was captivated by your laughter, a warm, melodic sound that filled the café. He was fascinated by the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the way your hand gestures punctuated your words, the way you seemed so effortlessly you.

He started trying to engage you in conversation, asking about the daily specials, commenting on the weather, even attempting a few clumsy jokes. He’d try to flirt, subtly, with lingering eye contact, playful touches on the counter as he paid, and compliments slipped into casual conversation. "You have really nice eyes," he'd say, his voice low and sincere.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware of his growing infatuation, attributing his attention to his naturally friendly demeanor. You’d laugh at his jokes, offer him a friendly smile, and engage in polite conversation, but you never seemed to see him as anything more than a regular customer.

The moment it truly hit him, the moment he realized he was falling, was a simple, unassuming exchange. He’d made a joke about his clumsiness, a self-deprecating remark about his tendency to trip over his own feet, a habit that often became a source of amusement for his members. "I swear, I’m a hazard to myself," he’d said, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

Without hesitation, you’d said, "Well, I think it’s kinda endearing."

The words were simple, but their impact was profound. For the first time, someone hadn’t teased him, hadn’t made light of his insecurities. They’d found it endearing, a quality to be cherished, a quirk that made him unique. The sincerity in your voice, the gentle warmth in your eyes, it was like a balm to his soul.

And in that moment, his heart wasn’t just beating; it was sprinting, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears. He felt a strange mix of exhilaration and vulnerability, a raw, unfiltered emotion that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to know more about you, to unravel the mystery of your quiet confidence, to understand the depth of your kindness.

He wanted to erase the distance between idol and regular customer, to bridge the gap and see if there was something more, something real, something that could withstand the scrutiny of his public life. He wanted to be seen by you, not as Kim Mingyu the idol, but as just Mingyu, the man who found your simple kindness utterly captivating.

The café, usually a haven of quietude, was buzzing with an unusual energy that evening. A small group of young women, their faces flushed with excitement, had gathered near the counter, their eyes darting between you and a certain tall, handsome customer. You paid them little mind, focusing on the intricate latte art you were creating, the delicate swirls and patterns a testament to your practiced skill.

The illusion of anonymity, the comfortable bubble of normalcy that had enveloped Mingyu during his visits, shattered when one of the young women, her voice trembling with excitement, recognized him. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered to her friends, "Oh my god, you’re Kim Mingyu!"

The name hung in the air, a sudden, sharp intrusion into the quiet atmosphere of the café. The other women gasped, their eyes widening, their whispers escalating into excited murmurs. You paused, your hand still hovering over the latte, your brow furrowed slightly. You looked up, your gaze shifting from the excited fans to Mingyu, who stood near the counter, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Wait… you’re Kim Mingyu? Like, the Mingyu?" you asked, your voice laced with a playful skepticism. You'd seen the name before, heard the excited chatter from some customers, but you'd never put two and two together. It was just another name to you.

Mingyu braced himself for the inevitable wave of excitement, the squeals, the requests for autographs, the sudden shift in your demeanor. He was accustomed to the instantaneous recognition, the way people’s eyes lit up when they realized who he was. He watched you, a silent observer, wondering how you would react.

Instead of the expected fanfare, you just smirked, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you assessed him. "Damn, if I knew you were famous, I would’ve charged you more."

The unexpected response caught him off guard. A breathy laugh escaped his lips, a mix of relief and amusement. He watched as you returned to your latte art, your movements unhurried, your focus unwavering. There was no starstruck awe, no fawning admiration, just a playful jab and a return to your work.

The fans, initially taken aback by your nonchalant reaction, erupted in a flurry of questions and requests for autographs. Mingyu, however, found himself drawn to your quiet composure, your lack of pretense. You treated him like any other customer, a regular who happened to be famous, and he found it strangely refreshing.

He lingered at the counter, watching as you interacted with the fans, your smile genuine, your demeanor polite but firm. You politely declined requests for photos, explaining that you were working, but you offered to sign a napkin for them.

As the fans finally departed, their excited chatter fading into the night, Mingyu turned to you, a curious smile playing on his lips. "You’re not… impressed?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You shrugged, your eyes focused on cleaning the espresso machine. "Impressed by what? You’re a customer. A regular customer, in fact. And one who gets his name spelled wrong, apparently." You gestured to a stray coffee cup, a faded "Minkoo" still visible on the rim.

Mingyu chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Right. Minkoo."

The air between them shifted, a subtle change in the dynamic. The anonymity was gone, the illusion shattered, but something new had taken its place. There was a spark of curiosity, a flicker of intrigue, a sense that this unexpected revelation was just the beginning of something more. He was no longer just a customer, and you were no longer just a barista. They were two people, their worlds colliding in the quiet intimacy of a late-night café, and the possibilities were endless.

As the days turned into weeks, a comfortable familiarity settled between you and Mingyu. The initial awkwardness of his revelation faded, replaced by a quiet intimacy that thrived in the late-night hours of the café. He’d linger after his orders, engaging in conversations that stretched into the quiet hours of closing, sharing stories and laughter that filled the empty space.

Yet, despite the growing closeness, Mingyu couldn’t ignore the subtle but persistent habit that lingered beneath your easygoing demeanor: the way you deflected every compliment, every word of praise, as if they were poisoned darts. It was a subtle flinch, a momentary tightening of your shoulders, a forced laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"You look beautiful tonight," he’d say, his voice soft, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your cheek, the way the soft light of the café illuminated your features.

"Pfft, yeah right," you’d reply, a dismissive wave of your hand, a self-deprecating chuckle that betrayed a deep-seated insecurity. "Don’t lie to me."

He watched you, his brow furrowed, a growing concern etching his features. He saw the way your smile faltered when he complimented your eyes, the way your gaze dropped when he praised your laugh. It was a subtle language, a silent conversation of self-doubt that whispered beneath the surface of your confident exterior.

One night, as he helped you close the café, the quiet intimacy of the empty space emboldening him, he decided to confront the unspoken pain that lingered between them. The last customer had left, the chairs were stacked, the counters wiped clean, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, his voice low and serious, his gaze unwavering.

You froze, your hands stilling on the cloth you were using to wipe down the counter. "Do what?"

"Act like I’m lying when I say you’re beautiful."

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the countertop. The silence stretched, a tense, fragile quiet that amplified the unspoken pain.

Finally, you sighed, a soft, resigned sound that spoke of years of ingrained self-doubt. "Because I don’t fit the standard, Mingyu. I never have. My exes made sure I knew that."

The words were barely a whisper, a fragile echo of past hurts, but their impact was profound. Mingyu’s heart clenched, a wave of protectiveness surging through him. He saw the vulnerability in your eyes, the raw honesty that trembled in your voice, and he wanted to erase the pain, to heal the wounds that had festered for so long.

His grip tightened on the counter, his knuckles white. "What did they say?"

"That I was too heavy. That I wasn’t what guys wanted. That I didn’t belong." Your voice was barely audible, a fragile confession that spoke of years of emotional scars. "They said I was too much, or not enough. That nobody would love me like this."

Mingyu’s expression darkened, a fierce protectiveness surging within him. If he could go back in time, he’d shake those men until they realized the magnitude of their foolishness, the precious gem they’d discarded. He’d make them see the beauty they’d overlooked, the strength they’d underestimated, the love they’d rejected.

Instead, he made a silent promise, a vow etched in his heart. He would rewrite your narrative, replacing the lies with truths, the pain with love. He would show you the beauty he saw, the strength he admired, the love he felt. He would make sure you never felt that way again.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, reverent. "They were wrong," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They were blind. You are beautiful, inside and out. You are strong, you are kind, you are worthy of love. And I… I see you. I see all of you, and I love every part of you."

His words hung in the air, a silent promise of unwavering support, a vow to heal the wounds that had been inflicted by others. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, that the years of ingrained self-doubt wouldn’t vanish overnight. But he was determined to be your anchor, your safe haven, your unwavering champion. He would show you, day by day, moment by moment, the truth of your worth.

From that night forward, Mingyu embarked on a quiet mission, a personal crusade to rewrite the narrative of your self-perception. He became your most ardent admirer, your fiercest champion, a constant source of unwavering affirmation. He showered you with compliments, not empty platitudes, but genuine expressions of the beauty he saw, both inside and out. He wanted to re-educate your heart.

He’d trace the gentle curves of your stomach, his touch light and reverent, whispering, "I love how soft your stomach is. It’s warm and inviting, perfect for cuddling." He’d kiss the soft skin of your inner thighs, his lips lingering, his voice husky as he murmured, "Your thighs drive me crazy, you know that? They’re strong and beautiful, and I could lose myself in them."

He’d hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "God, I could hold you all day and never get tired. You feel like home, like the safest place in the world."

And he did hold you, often. He’d lift you effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you, spinning you around just to hear your laughter, a melody that filled his soul with warmth. He’d pull you into his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist, his hands tracing the lines of your body, his touch a constant affirmation of your beauty.

"Mingyu! Put me down! I’m heavy!" you’d protest, a playful blush coloring your cheeks, a hint of lingering insecurity in your voice.

He’d just smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his grip tightening. "No, you’re perfect. Every curve, every inch, every part of you is perfect."

He worshipped every inch of you, finding beauty in the places others had found flaws. He’d kiss the small scar on your knee, tracing its delicate line with his fingertip, whispering, "This tells a story, a story of strength and resilience. It’s beautiful."

His favorite things:

Kissing your neck, shoulders, and collarbone when you’re tired, his lips leaving a trail of warmth, a gentle reassurance that you were safe and cherished. He'd whisper soft praises against your skin, telling you how hard you worked, how beautiful you were when relaxed.

Back hugs while you cleaned, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, murmuring soft praises into your ear, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering insecurities. He’d tell you how much he admired your work ethic, your dedication, your quiet strength.

Tracing his fingers over your stomach folds, his touch light and reverent, grinning as he whispers, "So soft, I love this," his adoration palpable. He’d kiss the soft skin, his lips lingering, his touch a silent declaration of his love.

Resting his head on your thighs, looking up at you with pure adoration, his eyes filled with a love that transcended words. He’d tell you how much he admired your strength, your intelligence, your kindness.

Holding your hand while you walk, his grip strong and reassuring, a silent promise of unwavering support. He’d intertwine his fingers with yours, his touch a constant reminder that you were never alone.

Pulling you into his lap when you're sad, whispering sweet nothings until your tears cease. He'd hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his touch a comforting presence.

Kissing the inside of your wrists, and the soft skin under your ears, his worshiping kisses a silent prayer of adoration. He’d linger over the delicate pulse points, his touch a reverent exploration of your skin.

Falling asleep with you in his arms, his hold tight but gentle, as if he's afraid you'll slip away. He'd hold you close, his breath warm against your hair, his presence a comforting weight.

Running his fingers through your hair, his touch soft and soothing, a silent lullaby that eased the tension from your shoulders.

Making you laugh until your sides hurt, his playful teasing a constant source of joy, a reminder that life was meant to be enjoyed.

Gaze at you while you work, his eyes filled with a soft adoration, a silent appreciation for your dedication and skill.

When he pulls you close, and kisses you deeply, a kiss that tells you how much he loves you, a passionate declaration of his unwavering devotion. He will sometimes pull back, and just stare at your lips, like he is memorizing every curve.

He wanted to rewrite the narrative of your self-perception, to replace the lies with truths, the pain with love. He wanted to show you the beauty he saw, the strength he admired, the love he felt. He wanted to create a safe haven within his arms, a place where you could finally believe in your own worth.

As your relationship with Mingyu deepened, the inevitable public scrutiny began to surface. Whispers turned into rumors, rumors into articles, and articles into a full-blown media frenzy. The internet, a double-edged sword, became a battleground of opinions, some supportive, many cruel.

When dating rumors surfaced, accompanied by candid photos of you and Mingyu sharing a quiet moment in the café, not all fans were kind. Some comments were venomous, laced with jealousy and prejudice, questioning why an idol, a figure of perfection in their eyes, would choose someone like you. They scrutinized your appearance, your background, your very existence, dissecting you with cruel precision.

The harsh words echoed the insecurities you’d carried for so long, a cruel reminder of past hurts. They whispered doubts you’d tried to bury, amplified the voices that had told you you weren’t enough. The online vitriol began to seep into your daily life, a constant barrage of negativity that threatened to erode the fragile confidence Mingyu had worked so hard to build.

Mingyu, however, didn’t stand for it. He was a force of nature, a shield against the storm of negativity. His response was swift, unwavering, a public declaration of love that sent shockwaves through the internet:

"If you can’t support the person I love, then you don’t support me either."

The statement was bold, a clear line drawn in the sand. He chose you, unequivocally, without hesitation. He chose love over the fickle adoration of those who couldn’t see beyond their own narrow perceptions. He made it clear, your happiness, and safety, were his priority.

Behind closed doors, in the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, he held you tighter than ever, his embrace a silent promise of protection. He ran his fingers through your hair, his touch soothing, his presence a comforting weight against the storm raging outside.

"Don’t listen to them, baby. They don’t know you," he’d whisper, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. "They don’t see what I see. They don’t see your kindness, your strength, your beauty. They don’t see the way you light up a room, the way you make me laugh, the way you make me feel like I’m home."

"You belong here, with me," he’d murmur, his lips pressed against your hair, his breath warm against your skin. "You belong in my arms, in my life, in my heart."

He’d hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his touch a constant reassurance that you weren’t alone. He’d kiss your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, his touch reverent, his lips a silent prayer.

He’d spend hours talking to you, reminding you of your worth, of your strength, of your beauty. He’d recount the moments that made him fall in love with you, the small gestures, the quiet kindnesses, the unwavering strength that shone through your vulnerability. He’d remind you of the way you laughed, of the way you smiled, of the way you made him feel like he was the only person in the world.

He’d cook for you, even though he was terrible at it, just to see the smile on your face. He’d play your favorite music, holding you close as you danced in the living room. He’d watch your favorite movies, even the cheesy ones, just to cuddle with you on the couch.

And slowly, little by little, the walls you’d built around your heart began to crumble. The doubts, the insecurities, the ingrained beliefs that you weren’t enough—they began to fade, replaced by the unwavering certainty of Mingyu’s love. He was your anchor, your safe haven, your unwavering champion, and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even the cruelest of online trolls, take that away from you. He made sure you knew, his love was a shield, and he would always protect you.

As the storm of public scrutiny subsided, a quiet peace settled between you and Mingyu. The initial intensity of his protective fervor mellowed into a gentle, unwavering love that permeated every aspect of your lives. You began to see yourself through his eyes, to embrace the beauty he saw, to believe in the worth he so tirelessly affirmed.

One day, Mingyu called you beautiful, his voice soft and sincere, his eyes filled with a quiet adoration. And for the first time, you didn’t deflect, didn’t dismiss, didn’t shrink away from the compliment. You simply smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up your entire face, a smile that reflected the newfound confidence blooming within you.

And in that moment, he knew—this was love. Real, unwavering, unshakable love. A love that transcended superficialities, a love that embraced every imperfection, every vulnerability. A love that was built on a foundation of acceptance, respect, and unwavering support.

Their relationship blossomed, a quiet intimacy that thrived in the small, everyday moments. Late-night conversations over steaming mugs of coffee, stolen kisses in the quiet corners of the café, hand-holding during long walks through the city streets, shared laughter during mundane tasks. They found comfort in each other’s presence, a sanctuary in each other’s arms.

Mingyu loved to trace the lines of your body, his touch a gentle exploration, his lips whispering praises against your skin. He loved the way your laughter filled the room, a melodic sound that chased away the shadows of past insecurities. He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you were happy, a reflection of the joy he’d helped to cultivate. He loved the way your hand fit perfectly in his, a silent affirmation of their connection.

He’d bring you flowers, not just roses, but wildflowers, sunflowers, and other unusual blooms, each one handpicked and chosen because it reminded him of you. He’d leave small notes around the apartment, tucked into books, slipped into pockets, reminding you of your beauty, your strength, your worth. He’d cook for you, even though he was terrible at it, the burnt edges and lopsided dishes a testament to his love.

You, in turn, learned to appreciate his quirks, his clumsiness, his infectious laughter. You learned to see the quiet strength beneath his playful exterior, the unwavering loyalty that anchored his heart. You learned to trust his love, to believe in his words, to embrace the woman he saw within you.

Their love story was a quiet revolution, a testament to the power of acceptance, the beauty of vulnerability, and the unwavering strength of a love that defied all odds. It was a love that found comfort in imperfections, strength in vulnerability, and a forever in the quiet moments shared between two souls destined to find each other.

It was late, the café bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights outside. The last customer had long since departed, leaving behind a quiet stillness that hung in the air. Mingyu sat on the counter, his eyes fixed on you as you wiped down the espresso machine, his gaze filled with a quiet adoration that spoke of a love that had deepened and matured over time.

Then, without thinking, without hesitation, you turned around and said it. "I love you."

The words were simple, yet their impact was seismic, a ripple that spread through the quiet space, altering the very fabric of their world. Mingyu froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy.

Then, his knees buckled, a sharp exhale leaving his lips as he gripped the counter, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Say it again," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, a plea that trembled in the stillness.

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest, your eyes filled with a love that mirrored his own. "Mingyu—"

His hands found your waist, gripping like he needed to ground himself, his touch both tender and desperate. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his body trembling with an emotion too profound for words. "Say it again, please."

So you did, your voice soft but unwavering. "I love you."

Mingyu laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound that echoed through the empty café. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his lips curved into a smile that radiated pure, unadulterated joy.

"God, you just—" He shook his head, unable to articulate the depth of his emotion, before crashing his lips to yours, a desperate, passionate kiss that spoke of a love long held in check, a love that had finally found its voice.

When he pulled away, he cupped your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks, his eyes filled with a love that transcended words. "I love you more. So much more. So much, it actually hurts."

He showered you with kisses, his lips tracing a path across your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, his touch reverent, worshipful. He kissed your eyelids, your nose, the soft skin beneath your ears, his touch a silent prayer of adoration.

He held you close, his arms wrapped around you, his body a warm, comforting presence. "I’m never letting you go," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re mine, forever."

And in that moment, in the quiet intimacy of the empty café, surrounded by the scent of coffee and the warmth of their love, they knew—their forever had begun.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

what will you do, when your boyfriend is absolute cringe? — jjk version

satoru gojo—cringe level: legendary

tries to ‘accidentally’ bump into innocent people while out with you and loudly says, “oh nooo, don’t mob me, i’m on a date with my beautiful girlfriend 😏.”

says, “babe let’s take a selfie,” then uses every filter on snapchat. he picks the dog ears one and pants like a puppy.

insists on calling you ‘his little infinity’ in public. says things like “you can’t touch her unless you break my domain 😘.” you just wanted sushi, not a battle declaration.

sends your photos to nanami with captions like, “look how hot she is, don’t be jealous, mr. accountant.”

kento nanami—cringe level: dry dad energy™

tries to make jokes and they never land. “i’m feeling very… cursed today. must be because i’m under your spell.” silence. dead silence.

wears matching couple shirts. not ironically. “if mine says ‘king of curses’ yours should say ‘queen of my heart.’”

refers to you as ‘my beloved’ in every sentence. people think you’re in a period drama.

sends you passive-aggressive weather reports. “the temperature today is 12°c. wear a scarf. i won’t be responsible for your cold.”

toji fushiguro—cringe level: dumb jock with zero shame

tries to sext you in emojis. it’s just the eggplant and three knives. you have no idea what that even means.

refuses to call anything by its real name. calls breakfast ‘protein-up time’. calls your lips ‘mouth pillows’.

when you wear anything cute, he flexes and says, “yeah, i did that. you’re welcome, world.”

will absolutely send gym thirst traps and caption them “so you don’t forget what’s yours 💦💪.” sends them to the group chat by accident.

megumi fushiguro—cringe level: reluctantly adorable

tries so hard to be cool around you but absolutely chokes. stares at you, then looks away too fast and walks into doors.

denies being jealous but mutters “i’ll kill him” under his breath when anyone flirts with you.

will text you “u up?” at 8:13 pm then panic and say “sorry wrong person” and ghost you for two hours.

his idea of flirting is saying, “i guess you’re alright.” then staring at the floor for 6 years.

yuji itadori—cringe level: golden retriever with no filter

tells random strangers that you’re dating. waitress: “what would you like?” yuji: “i’d like whatever she wants. she’s my girlfriend. isn’t she pretty??”

dances anywhere if he hears music. grocery store. dentist’s office. funeral (he swears it was just a reflex).

wears a ‘world’s luckiest boyfriend’ shirt on your anniversary. you didn’t even get him one.

gets teary-eyed when you kiss him and goes, “wow. that felt like love… do you think sukuna felt that too?”

yuuta okkotsu—cringe level: sweet boy but intense & fast™

brings you flowers every single day. like it’s a competition. you now own 13 vases.

gets so nervous around you he recites rika’s curse vow by accident instead of ‘have a nice day’. you just blinked.

once cried because you complimented his handwriting. “no one’s ever noticed that before… you’re so… so…” cue intense anime sobbing.

tries to talk dirty but his voice breaks and he immediately apologizes and bows. you just wanted to kiss. not a formal ceremony.

toge inumaki—cringe level: silent rizz but when it goes wrong, it goes wrong

texts you only in emoji code. it’s cute until you realize 🍙💥💀 might mean ‘i miss you.’ or ‘i blew up a building.’. unclear.

tried to dirty talk you using only ‘salmon’ and ‘bonito flakes’. it was confusing. but strangely hot.

you said “i love you” once and he panicked so hard he said “tuna mayo” and ran out the room.

will dramatically mouth full love speeches in slow motion like it’s a silent movie. background music plays from his phone. the secondhand embarrassment is in 4d.

suguru geto—cringe level: smooth-talking cult leader energy

flirts like a guy who read one too many romance novels. “every time you speak, the cursed spirits retreat. coincidence? i think not.”

performs unnecessary hair flips and stares into the distance as if someone is always filming a documentary about him being misunderstood.

calls you ‘my little curse queen’ in public. once said it at a bakery. the cashier blinked twice.

will 100% do a dramatic slow clap when you walk into a room. every single time.

choso kamo—cringe level: emotionally earnest but awkward emo boy

writes you love poems at 3am and reads them out loud with complete sincerity while you’re trying to sleep.

once made you a playlist called ‘songs that make me think about your blood’. you had to lie down after that.

tries to recreate romance movie scenes but keeps picking the wrong ones. tried the ‘titanic’ scene in a bathtub. nearly drowned.

hugs you in front of everyone for 30 seconds longer than socially acceptable and whispers, “you smell like safety and also my destiny.”

ryomen sukuna—cringe level: eldritch horror who thinks he’s hot on tiktok

tries to be ‘mysterious and sexy’ by saying things like “you’re lucky i don’t kill everyone you love just to have you to myself.” sir. therapy. now.

uses his domain expansion to make fireworks in the sky that spell out ‘mine’. you screamed. so did the neighborhood.

will take over yuji’s body mid-date just to flirt. “he’s too soft. let me show you how a real man treats you.” you were just trying to eat takoyaki.

posts shirtless mirror selfies captioned ‘god body. devil tongue. her problem.’ blocks comments so no one can call him out.

mahito—cringe level: feral theater kid with no social awareness

practices different personalities like a method actor to ‘see which one you like best’. one day he’s a victorian butler. next he’s a skater boy.

sends you cursed objects as gifts. you cried when a jar started whispering your name. he said, “it’s the thought that counts, baby 🥺🫶.”

made a scrapbook of your hair. not a lock. not a strand. like. all the hair you’ve ever shed in his presence. he calls it ‘the archive of her beauty’.

if someone flirts with you, he shapeshifts into them and says, “is this what you want?” you had to leave the restaurant.

[aroaceleovaldez]

my brother and i were talking about how in the series adhd is supposed to be "demigod BATTLE PROWESS" and how with actual adhd (and autism) it often messes with your gross & fine motor control, which is why it has such strong comorbidity with dyspraxia (and why some of the big physical tells for adhd are messy handwriting and being clumsy, and why a lot of adhd people are mistakenly presumed to be nearsighted)

anyways we jokingly decided the only actual "battle prowess" demigods get from adhd is that they dodge attacks by doing The ADHD Hip Thing™. you know the one.

[cleanfight]

lando having girl handwriting while oscar's is just Boy™

[spitefulsatanfics]

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

\ The Sniffle King ™ /

“You're gonna wipe my nose and everything, huh?”

— Dean Winchester, probably

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader (she/her)

Tone: Sick!Dean, Crybaby!Dean, Domestic Romance, Pure Fluff, Cuddles, Nurturing!Y/N, Carer x Sick, Established Relationship

Rating: M (Cursing, Sickness, Kissing/Cuddling, Mentions of Canon Supernatural Themes)

Based On: Supernatural – Seasons 11–12, non-episode-specific, canonical “Bunker Era” setting

Word Count: 6,800 words

Written By: Little Devil ♡

Synopsis

Dean Winchester could survive a Hellhound mauling, stare down Lucifer with only a flask of whiskey, and pull the trigger on a demon without blinking. But a head cold? That’s the real apocalypse.

When Dean catches a brutal cold, he folds like a lawn chair. With Sam away on a salt-and-burn run, the bunker becomes a battlefield of tissues and dramatic sighs—and Y/N, the only woman stubborn and tender enough to nurse him through it, becomes the general of this sniffling war. Between warm soup, quiet cuddles, and a few vulnerable confessions, even Dean has to admit: love might be the best medicine after all.

= Scene One =

—Men of Letters Bunker, Tuesday Morning—

The silence was eerie.

Not “monster-lurking” eerie, but eerily peaceful. Sam had left early that morning, muttering something about grave dirt and vengeful spirits. Dean had waved him off, face already pale, voice already hoarse.

Y/N wandered the stone halls now, sweater sleeves pulled over her hands. Her breath fogged lightly in the cold air—down here, winter didn’t care about central heating.

She paused outside Dean’s door. The sound that met her ear wasn’t gunfire or snarling demons. It was worse.

It was the loudest, most miserable groan this side of the veil.

She knocked gently. “Dean?”

Another groan. “Oh god… tell Sam he can have the car.”

She pushed the door open with a soft chuckle. The sight nearly broke her: Dean, sprawled sideways on the bed, buried in blankets like a Viking ship sinking into the sea of cotton. His hair looked like it’d had a fistfight with the pillow. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, blinked sluggishly under puffy lids.

Tissue graveyard. Cough drop wrappers. One sock.

“Dean,” she murmured again, stepping inside.

“I’ve got… whatever the Black Plague evolved into,” he croaked. “It’s the end, sweetheart.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You have a cold.”

He sniffled so hard it sounded like sandpaper on metal. “Don’t minimize this. I’m on death’s doorstep.”

She laughed softly and walked to his side, hand smoothing his hair. “Poor baby. Need anything?”

“Soup,” he whispered, pathetically. “But the good kind. The one with the stars.”

She blinked. “Chicken and stars?”

He nodded like a martyr. “They go down easy. I don’t think I have the strength to chew.”

“Okay, hero,” she teased, kissing his sweaty forehead. “Stay here. Try not to die in the next fifteen minutes.”

=°=°=°

= Scene Two =

—Kitchen, 30 Minutes Later—

The clatter of pots and the hum of the stove softened the bunker’s usual cathedral-like silence. Y/N moved with purpose: dicing garlic into the broth, brewing his favorite tea—green with honey and lemon, soothing and clean.

Dean could survive anything but being babied. Which meant, of course, she was going to do exactly that.

She assembled the tray like a rite: soup in a ceramic bowl, crackers stacked like soldiers, tea steaming beside the note she scribbled in loopy handwriting. One little heart drawn at the bottom.

When she returned, Dean looked like he hadn’t moved—except now, he’d added a dramatic arm flop over his face.

“You brought a tray?” he rasped, eyes peeking from under his arm.

“Yup. Napkin’s even folded.”

“Why’re you so nice to me?” he mumbled, trying to sit up. She helped him gently, fluffing pillows behind his back.

“Because you always take care of me,” she said simply. “Now let me spoil you.”

He blinked slowly at her, and she caught it—just the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. That wall he usually kept ten feet high? It cracked a little when he was like this.

“Okay,” he murmured. “But if I die, bury me with Baby.”

Y/N grinned and handed him the spoon. He took one sip, paused, then whispered reverently: “You added rosemary.”

“Dean,” she said, laughing, “you’re crying over soup.”

He sniffled again. “You don’t understand. This is medicinal.”

She settled beside him. He leaned into her side like muscle memory—his cheek warm against her ribs, fingers curled around her thigh like a lifeline.

“You ever get sick as a kid?” she asked softly.

He was quiet a moment. “Once. Bad flu. Dad was gone, Sam was little. I stayed in the car so he wouldn’t catch it.”

Her heart ached.

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” she whispered. “You’ve got me now.”

Dean turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to her side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Lucky me.”

=°=°=°

= Scene Three =

—Evening, Dean’s Room—

The bunker glowed with that strange, golden quiet that came only at the tail end of long days. Y/N lay stretched on the bed, Dean curled against her, blanket slung around them like a cocoon. His fever had dropped slightly, though his nose was still red and he snored like a congested bear.

He stirred with a grumble. “I’m leaking.”

She grabbed a tissue and dabbed his nose gently.

“Seriously?” he said, voice husky. “You’re gonna wipe my nose and everything, huh?”

“Shut up and blow.”

He obeyed, then groaned. “Dignity. Gone.”

“Dignity died somewhere between the second blanket burrito and the crying over soup,” she teased.

Dean smirked. “Sue me. You cook like a damn angel.”

He went quiet again, breath warming her skin where his face was pressed. She stroked his hair slowly, watching his lashes flutter.

“I’m sorry I’m such a baby,” he said finally, voice soft.

“You’re not a baby,” she replied. “You’re sick. You’re allowed to be taken care of.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

He looked up at her then, truly looked. “You’re the only thing in this whole damn bunker that makes me feel safe.”

Her heart cracked open like thunder.

“You are safe,” she said, threading her fingers with his.

Dean reached up and brushed her jaw with the back of his knuckles. His voice, rough as gravel but soft as rain:

“I love you.”

She smiled, leaned down, and kissed him. It was slow and sweet and tasted faintly of honey and menthol.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re snotty.”

Dean groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

They laughed together, low and sleepy. Then she pulled him close, wrapping him in arms and blankets and home.

And in that silence, with only the sound of their breathing, the world outside the bunker could’ve burned and neither would’ve noticed.

\ “My baby’s sick, so I guess the world stops.” /

=° Written by Little Devil ♡ =°=

[writinginatree]

This Wasn't Supposed to be About Horses

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & teen!sister!reader, Bodhi Durran & Garrick Tavis & teen!Riorson!reader

Summary: Finally being back home in Aretia is a lot lonelier than you thought it would be, but at least you have your horse.

Warnings: Swearing, loneliness, mentions of parental death, minor spoilers for Onyx Storm (Garrick's signet), reader is a total horse girl™. Set during Iron Flame.

Anonymous requested: I'd love to maybe see a Xaden X Sister Reader where, in a similar vein to him in 'Jealous Little Puppy' he doesn't spend time with her. Maybe he misses quite a few of her milestones where she really 'wanted' him there but he just wasn't, please?

For three days — the whole duration of the ride so far — you've been pestering the soldier babysitting you with questions, but there isn't much he will — or can — tell you.

The man had shown up at the estate where you've been fostered since the apostasy to spirit you away in the dead of night, scaring the hell out of you. The only reason you'd even trusted him enough to go with him was the letter in Xaden's handwriting he showed you, proving your brother had sent the man to collect you. But he either hadn't told him why, or given him instructions not to tell you. All he would say was that, apparently, Xaden was up to something that might anger leadership and wanted you out of their reach.

You're not even allowed to know where you're going until you get there, because knowing would endanger the whole revolution should you be captured on the way — whatever the hell that is supposed to mean.

It's on the tip of your tongue to ask What revolution? but you know you won't get an answer, so you simply add it to your mental pile of unanswered questions. A pile that is starting to get decidedly too big. Where are you going? Why are you going there? How angry will leadership be when they find out you disappeared? Won't this get the other marked kids in trouble? Or are they being taken to safety too? And why didn't Xaden come get you himself if having you out of Navarre's reach is so important?

So many questions, and so few answers.

It's not like being left out of the loop is new to you — during your father's rebellion, you'd been too young to be told much about any of what was happening, and since then, you had only twice been allowed to see your brother. You wrote letters back and forth, but since there was no knowing who might read those, Xaden diligently avoided telling you anything interesting in them. Never a single word about Navarre's lies, nothing about his goals or what he was doing beyond basic stuff about his experience at the war college. He couldn't even tell you more about those venin monster things. That those are apparently real is one of the few things you'd learned during the rebellion, thanks to eavesdropping on Xaden and Garrick.

Unfortunately, eavesdropping isn't currently an option. You hate not knowing where you're going. Aside from the prospect of getting to see your brother again, it feels a lot like you're being kidnapped.

It's only the hope to see Xaden, and the fact you're finally sitting your horse again that make this journey bearable. It's been way too long since you were allowed to simply take Gaoth for a ride, without having to worry about staying in sight of the estate, without worrying about being back in time for whatever nonsense curfew they gave you, without fear of being punished for the abundance of mud on your boots when you return. Finally, a small taste of the freedom you've longed for.

Just you, your loyal black steed, and the mountainous range of Tyrrendor.

Well — and the soldier babysitting you.

But if you look the other way, you can almost pretend he isn't there, that you're riding home after an adventurous day of playing in the woods with Xaden, like you'd done so often until Dad's rebellion threw your whole world into upheaval. Those had been good times. You had rarely been allowed to hang out with the bigger kids, but sometimes Xaden would ditch his friends to spend some time just with you. Sometimes Bodhi would tag along, too, but more often it was just the two of you and your horses, and thanks to Xaden being the big responsible brother, you had always been allowed to stay out long past sundown, bringing sandwiches or fruit for lunch and dinner and eating by a fresh mountain stream or in some cave you'd explored. He always knew the best places to go for anything; where the best trees for climbing were, which mountain lake was the best for swimming, or where some fallen trees made the perfect obstacle course to race with the horses.

You wonder if you'll ever get to go riding together again. Are dragon riders even allowed to ride horses in their off-time, or would that be insulting to his dragon? You grin when you realize you might actually get to ask him that yourself soon. Sure, your babysitter hasn't explicitly said that Xaden will be present wherever you're going, but since it was his idea to get you there, surely that means it's somewhere he has access to.

By the third day of traveling gods-know-where, the soldier is officially sick of your pestering, urging his horse into a canter to escape your questions every time you open your mouth.

"We'll be there soon," he deflects when you try to insist on being told where you're going. "Then you'll see for yourself."

But when you ask when exactly soon is, he refuses to answer again. Eventually, night falls, and you make camp under the shelter of a copse of trees. Clearly, soon does not mean today.

"When will we get there?" you ask for the thousandth time while scarfing down the stew your companion made from the provisions he carries in his saddlebags. He's decidedly better at cooking than at answering your questions. "You said soon, and yet we're still not there, so when is soon? Tomorrow? In a week? It can't be that far, right?"

Your babysitter heaves a sigh, like escorting you is the worst task he's ever been given and he's wishing he were outside the wards fighting monsters instead. You almost think that'll be the only answer you get, but he relents and gives you a tiny piece of information after all. "Tomorrow," he confirms. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

Sure enough, the area becomes more and more familiar with each hour you travel the next day. There, the river you used to swim in, and, there, Xaden's favorite hill. That tree, that's the one you climbed too high into and were too scared to come back down without Xaden's help.

Despite all the signs of nearing your home, it's not until late afternoon, when you actually see Riorson House in the distance, that you let yourself believe that's where you're going. Seeing Aretia before you — smaller than you remember, but bustling with life — has you so slack with shock you almost topple from Gaoth's back. It only lasts a second. Then you tighten your knees and adjust your grip on the reins, leaning low over your mare's neck to gallop straight for the fortress, leaving your babysitter in the dust, forgotten about. You don't care about him and his stupid secrecy anymore, don't care how what you're seeing is possible, that Aretia should be ash and rubble, nothing but scorched ruins. You're home.

People jump out of your path with startled yelps as you race straight through the town. Gaoth doesn't need any directions, as familiar with the way home as you are, so you give her free rein, merely urging her to go faster occasionally while you stare at the new houses flying past you. Some are still under construction, while others look like they might have been standing for a couple years already.

It's Aretia, and yet it's not. Some landmarks you remember from your childhood days are still there, but many are not, replaced by new buildings or simply vacant space. Gaoth finds her way through town all the same, straight toward Riorson House.

Your heart beats faster the closer you get to the fortress, pounding in time with Gaoth's hoofbeats. Only minutes later you're past the last of the houses. Almost there. The ground flies past as Riorson House grows bigger and bigger, until it's all you can see.

Gravel sprays under Gaoth's hooves as you skid into the courtyard. Coming to a halt in front of the stables, you leap to the ground and look around, feeling like you're in a dream. Home. You're actually home after all this time. It's almost too good to believe. And then you spot Xaden. You recognize him instantly, despite all the time that has passed since you last were allowed to see him. Descending the steps from the main entrance and striding across the courtyard toward you, he looks every bit the fearsome warrior. The years at Basgiath have hardened him, but you barely see the scar on his face or the swords strapped to his back. You only see your big brother.

You drop the reins — Gaoth will stay put, anyway, she's a good horse — and run at him, not slowing the slightest until you literally collide with your brother's strong frame.

He doesn't even waver under the impact, just looks down at you with a amused glint in his eyes as you wrap your arms around him. He hugs back for a moment, then pushes you back to look you over with his hands on your shoulders. Then he grins. "You still haven't learned how to live without being constantly covered in mud, huh?"

"I've been traveling for four days!" you defend yourself, though he isn't entirely wrong. You've gotten in trouble for trailing in dirt after sneaking into the stables countless times in the last month alone. As if it's your fault you're more cut out for the stables and the outdoors rather than the fancy parties the nobles who fostered you are so fond of.

"Speaking of, where'd you leave the guy who was supposed to bring you?"

"I kinda didn't wait for him when I saw Aretia. 'm sure he'll be here soon." You rub your neck, a little embarrassed of your own rashness. "His horse can't be that slow. Besides, if he'd just told me where we were headed, I could have prepared myself and maybe wouldn't have raced the rest of the way like that."

"No trouble on the way?"

"Nope."

Though you try to focus on the conversation, your eyes keep drifting. It's hard to decide what sight to focus on. Your brother, so much older and tougher and tired-looking, and actually here in front of you!; or the buildings all around you that you'd thought you'd never see again, somehow still here despite everything.

"You're staring as if you've never seen the place before," Xaden chuckles.

"I just can't believe it's still here. I thought there was nothing left of Aretia."

"There wasn't much left of the city itself," Xaden agrees. "Most of the houses are newly rebuilt. But as for Riorson House..." He shrugs. "Stone doesn't burn."

"I know that, smartass. But somehow I thought they just, you know, smashed everything they couldn't burn to rubble with their dragons."

"I guess they didn't think it worth the effort." Someone calls to him from the doorway, and Xaden nods in acknowledgement. Turning back to you he says, "Listen, I'm running late for a meeting. Your room is just as you left it. I take it you remember how to get there?"

"Duh."

"Good. Then we'll talk later, okay?"

He's already backing away, turning his back as soon as you nod.

Watching him disappear inside the house, you suddenly feel like crying. Finding out your home still exists, that Aretia has been rebuilt — or is in the process of it, anyway —, finally seeing your brother again and him just leaving you standing in the courtyard; it's all too much.

You take a deep breath and swallow the tears, turning back to Gaoth. As eager as you are to run into the house and see if everything is as you remember, to find out if Bodhi is here, too, to flop down on your bed and cry with relief — your horse comes first. It's not until she's in her stall, thoroughly groomed and happily munching on a huge portion of hay, that you give in to the wish to head inside.

When Xaden said your room was just as you had left it, you thought he simply meant your things were still there, but as it turns out, he meant it's literally as you'd left it — a fucking mess. In the hurry to evacuate before the Battle of Aretia, you'd left clothes, toys, and books strewn all over the floor, forced to take only the most essential things. The sheets hang down the side of the bed in a tangled mess, a single stuffed animal you'd left behind looking terribly lonely in it's place beside the crumpled pillow. The closet doors are open, its contents spilling out onto a drawer lying turned over on the floor. And on top of it all, a thick layer of dust.

Clearly, no one has entered the room since the rebellion.

You're not sure what you expected. Not for someone else to have cleaned up your mess, no, but you would have thought some preparations would have been made for your return at least.

You slide off your rucksack, letting it thump to the floor by the door. A cloud of dust flies up from the carpet and makes you sneeze.

Tidying all this up is going to be a pain in the ass, so you decide it will have to wait until you've had dinner. But before you head back downstairs to eat, you cross to the window, opening it in hopes the wind will take care of some of the dust in the meantime. Unlikely, but it's worth a try. A faint smell of smoke lingers in the curtains, so you make a mental note to take them down and wash them later.

You cross to your bathing chamber — kicking up more dust with every step — to at least wash your hands. The chaos isn't as bad in there, but the dust seems even thicker, and cobwebs hang from the bathtub's faucet.

Later. You'll deal with all of that later.

On the stairs, you run into Garrick and Bodhi, talking to some other riders. Garrick spots you first, and nudges your cousin. "Look who's here."

A smile lights up Bodhi's face at the sight of you. He pulls you into a hug, and you instantly feel a little more welcome. So what if Xaden barely had time to greet you and no one bothered to check what state your room is in? They can't think of everything.

While you bask in Bodhi's warmth, Garrick takes it upon himself to introduce you to their friends. "Everybody meet the little mud-monster, otherwise known as Y/N Riorson."

"I'm not little anymore," you grouse as you step back from Bodhi's hug, though standing between this bunch of black-clad, muscle-packed fighters sure makes it feel like you are.

"No?" Garrick taunts, and steps closer, propping his elbow up on your head to show off how much taller he is. "Should we start calling you the big mud-monster, then?"

"No! Fuck you!"

Garrick pretends he didn't hear, and Bodhi grins. "Want to come have dinner with us, little mud-monster?" he asks.

You sigh in defeat. There's no getting rid of that childhood nickname the boys had assigned you after a much younger and wilder Gaoth had thrown you off in a field and you'd returned home covered in mud from head to foot. "Yes. I'm starving."

Bodhi chuckles. "We can't have that. Come on, let's get some food into you."

Xaden is late for dinner, but eventually, he does come to sit beside you and joins Bodhi and Garrick in telling you about everything that's happened — though you suspect them of leaving out some details they deem too scary for you. Still, it's nice to just sit and talk with them again instead of only communicating through letters, in which they had to carefully weigh every word and could never tell you about anything that's actually happening in case the wrong person read them.

When you've all finished eating and they're about to leave to do whatever it is that riders spend their evenings doing, you remember you still need to do something about the state of your room.

"Soo, you guys have magic now, right? You, uh, couldn't maybe use it to help me clean my room? Please?"

Xaden looks torn between annoyance and amusement. "I wield shadows, Y/N, not brooms."

"Right..." You turn to Garrick. "But you control air, don't you?"

"Yeah. And?"

"And that means you could totally make some wind to blow the dust from my room."

"Seriously? You want me to use my signet to dust off your stuff?"

"Pleeease?"

"Fine," Garrick groans, "but only because I have nothing better to do right now."

"Thank you!"

When you get to your room, Garrick stops in the doorway and whistles. "Damn," he says. "What the hell happened in here?"

You shrug. "I had to pack up in a hurry the last time I was here."

"Ah, right. I forgot you haven't been back since the apostasy. I can see why you wanted help with all that dust."

You nod, glad he understands and doesn't think you're just lazy.

Garrick lifts his hands, and the air starts to move, lifting clouds of dust and blowing them out the already open window.

You stare in wide-eyed wonder, well aware how silly your fascination must seem to Garrick, but unable to hide it. It's one thing to know that the boys you grew up with are now dragon riders with magic abilities, and quite another to actually see one of them using that magic.

Done clearing the dust from the room, Garrick leans against the door frame with his arms crossed and smirks down at you. "Cool, huh?"

You can't even be annoyed by his bragging, because he's right — that was cool as fuck.

"Yeah," you say, because you know that's what he wants to hear. Then, "Can you do the bath too?"

"Sure."

He repeats the process in your bathing chamber, and just like that, not a speck of dust remains, gone in a fraction of the time it would have taken you to dust everything off by hand.

"Have fun picking your shit off the floor," Garrick says and pats you on the back as he leaves.

You grimace, wishing getting rid of the remaining chaos were as easy as clearing the dust was for Garrick. So much of it is stuff you don't need anymore — toys you're too old for, clothes you've long outgrown. For a second you imagine hurling it all out the window after the dust. It would probably feel very satisfying, but wouldn't solve the problem, so you resign to putting the things you want to keep back into their places and piling all the things you don't need anymore into a heap by the door. Surely there are some families with kids living in town. You'll go and see if any of them have use for your old things tomorrow.

The elation of being back home and reunited with what remains of your family wears off much faster than you would have ever expected.

The whole house is stuffed to the brim with riders and fliers, and as far as any of them are concerned, you're just an annoying kid constantly getting in everyone's way; nevermind that it's your damn home they've been allowed to take refuge in.

Worse, even Xaden doesn't seem to care for your presence. He has hardly spoken to you at all since you got here.

Left entirely to your own devices, you spend most of your time with the only being who is always happy to see you — Gaoth. When you're not riding, you're helping out in the stables. There aren't as many horses at Riorson House as there were in your childhood, but plenty enough that there's always something to do.

You don't know if a school is part of what's been rebuilt of Aretia, and you don't ask. No one says anything about the way you spend your days, either, so you suppose they agree there's no need to further your education.

Sometimes when you've led the horses to their pasture to graze, you sit on the fence, watching the cadets practice flight maneuvers up in the snow-heavy clouds, and think about the future. Now that the older marked ones have deserted Basgiath and are openly rebelling, you suppose you won't have to attend the war college after all when you come of age. You're not sure if you should be relieved or disappointed about that. As terrifying as the thought of riding a dragon is, it also holds a certain adventurous appeal. But when you lower your gaze from the dragons in the sky to Gaoth, grazing a few feet away, the relief definitely wins out. In the end, you'd much rather ride your horse than a dragon.

There are more pressing things to worry about than the distant possibility of whether or not you'll have to become a rider in a few years. The unusually high number of dragons in the area makes the horses nervous. Even inside the safety of the stable, most of them are jumpy, and outside, they're prone to shy and bolt.

Even Gaoth, calm and even-tempered as she normally tends to be, panics whenever she sees them, and outright refuses to go anywhere near the valley where they reside.

Maybe she senses your own unease about the scaly beasts. Because even though you don't like to admit it, it's not just the horses that are frightened by the proximity of so many dragons. The damn things are not just huge and terrifying, they also don't keep nearly as much distance to the fortress and surrounding pastures as you would like. You wouldn't mind seeing them fly far overhead, but when they're close enough to make out their sharp claws and gleaming teeth, that's when things get uncomfortable. The only time you've seen a dragon from that close before was the Calldyr executions, when Codagh set fire to your father and the other separatist officers, which is not something you like to be reminded of. Not that you could ever forget. The sight of the flames erupting from the dragon's maw and the stink of sulfur and burning flesh are etched forever into your memory, despite Xaden's best efforts to shield you from it.

Knowing that these dragons are not your enemies, that they probably won't kill you or anyone you care about, doesn't make having them around any less unsettling. And unlike you, the horses do not know that. All they know is that there are giant flying predators roaming the area, and that they do not wish to get eaten.

After a dragon sweeping down to devour a sheep right next to the horses' pasture frightens a chestnut colt so badly he ends up breaking a leg in his panic, you decide something needs to be done. You understand why the dragons are here, and that they need a lot of space, that it's not in their nature to care for the feelings of lesser creatures than themselves, but enough is enough.

Assembly meetings are open to whoever wants to attend, that's what Bodhi had told you when he explained the concept to you. Well, you do want to attend. Someone has to advocate for the poor horses, after all, and apparently, that someone will have to be you, so when the Assembly holds their next meeting, you square your shoulders and step into the chamber.

Seven heads turn to stare at you, all frowning.

You glare back, refusing to be made to feel like an intruder. You're allowed to be here.

"What do you want, girl?" asks an old man with an eye patch.

Not having had anything to do with the Assembly until now, you're not sure if they're aware of who you are. You don't care. You don't know their names, either, and intend to solve this matter so quickly you won't have to learn them.

"I have a complaint."

"A complaint," Mr. Eye-patch echoes.

"Yes. Your dragons are scaring the horses. You shouldn't let them so close to them."

One of the women scoffs at your audacity, someone else laughs.

Glancing at your brother, he gives you a disapproving look like you should have come straight to him with the problem. As if you hadn't wanted to do that! You'd meant to ask Xaden to do something about the dragons first, but every time you see him, he's too busy to talk. Bringing the issue before the Assembly seemed like the best way to get something done about it quickly.

"Let me get this straight. You're wasting our time," the older of the women says slowly, like she finds it hard to believe, "because a few horses are scared of the dragons?"

"Yes. Something needs to be done about it, preferably before one of them hurts someone in their panic."

"If it's such a big deal to you, why don't you do something about it?"

"This is me doing something about it. They're your dragons, so it's your job to make them behave."

The woman gives you an indignant look and starts to say something that will probably be along the lines of Listen here you little shit, but the other, dark-skinned old man interrupts her.

"We can't help that the horse pasture is so close to the nearest flock of sheep," he says, not unkindly. "The dragons have to eat."

"They don't have to it so close to the horses, though."

Xaden sighs. "We'll ask them to be more considerate of the horses. But it'll be up to them whether or not they listen. Dragons don't take orders from humans."

"Yes, and when they hear about this complaint they might just decide to eat one of your precious horses out of spite," the hostile woman says, a mean glint in her eyes like she's hoping for that to happen.

Your heart speeds up. Did you really make everything worse, or is she just making empty threats to be mean?

"No, they won't," Xaden interjects, leveling a murderous glare on the woman. "Stop scaring my sister."

She huffs, muttering something about kids these days under her breath, but doesn't interrupt when you dare to suggest, "Maybe you could make some kind of schedule so they only take sheep from near the horses when none are outside? And when the horses are there they get sheep from further up the mountain?"

Judging by the looks the Assembly members give each other, that's too much to ask.

"We'll consider it," the slightly younger man says. "But I'm not sure the dragons will be agreeable. They like to do what they want, when they want, where they want."

"Right. It's just—"

"Maybe," Xaden interrupts, "you could train with the horses to be less scared when they see a dragon, hm? Might come in handy, not just because of the pasture situation but in general."

The look he gives you makes clear what remains unsaid: unlike them, you have nothing better to do anyway.

You nod. You'd thought about that yourself already, but the truth is, the horses' fear of the dragons is a convenient excuse to hide your own fear behind. Looks like you'll have to work on that along with the horses.

"Sure."

"This meeting was not supposed to be about horses," Mr. Eye-patch snaps before you can say anything else. "So if that was all, we have real problems to discuss here."

You leave, taking with you the impression that most riders are just as unpleasant as their dragons.

Waking up on the morning of your birthday, a smile spreads over your face at the sight of your room. Home. For the first time in six years, you are home and will get to spend this day with your family. Okay, maybe not the whole day. Bodhi can't just ditch classes just because it's your birthday, and Xaden always has lots of stuff to do, too, but getting to see them at all is gift enough.

You jump out of bed, so eager to start the day you only throw a jacket over your pajamas and slip into your boots. Getting changed can wait until after you've feed Gaoth. Then you'll have breakfast with the guys, and—

Your smile falls when you open the door and see the plate of cake waiting for you, a piece of paper folded into a card beside it. You open it and read.

Happy Birthday, little mud-monster! I'm sorry I can't be there — something came up, and I have to leave without delay. I'll be back soon. In the meantime, there's a surprise for you in the stables. Love, X.

The paper crumples in your fist, its edges digging into your skin, but you barely feel it, too focused on keeping the tears at bay. You refuse to let them fall. This will not become the sixth time in a row you spend your birthday crying your eyes out. Every year since the apostasy the sadness had won and turned what was supposed to be a happy day into one spent in misery. Year after year you'd hidden in Gaoth's box and cried, missing your father, your brother, your cousin, even the mother you could barely remember. No matter how hard you tried to have a good day in spite of that, or to simply ignore what day it was altogether, you'd succumbed to the tears every time. But not again. You refuse. There will be no tears today, no matter what the day brings.

And really, what does it matter that Xaden can't spend the day with you? You're home; that alone should be reason enough to be happy.

But it does matter. Coming home was supposed to put an end to your loneliness; instead, it has only made it more noticeable. Before, being alone equated being safe. It was your best option, surrounded by enemies as you were at all times. But now you're back with your family. Xaden and Bodhi are right there, you get to see them every day, and yet, you still spend the majority of your time as alone as you had in your foster home. It isn't fair.

Taking a step back, you shut the door, telling yourself you should be glad Xaden remembered your birthday at all, that he took the time to write you a note and leave cake, presumably in the middle of the night, despite being in a hurry to get to wherever it was he'd had to go.

It doesn't make you feel better.

You set the plate on your desk and try a bite of the cake. It's your favorite. You haven't had cake like this in years, made just the way you remember from childhood. If you weren't so disappointed by Xaden's absence, you would devour the slice and run to the kitchen to see if there is more of it. But the enthusiasm you'd woken up with has left you, drained away as quickly as it came. You decide you should get dressed before leaving your room after all — you're too old to run around in your pajamas, really, no matter how early it is.

You dress slow and listlessly, in between bites of cake. Disappointed or not, you savor the taste of it nonetheless. Maybe you really can get another slice later. There has to be more of it, right?

As you head out to the stable to feed Gaoth and muck her box, you keep thinking about the note your brother wrote you. He's always coming and going, trying to be everywhere at once, but as far as you're aware, it's rarely this sudden when he gets called somewhere. You wonder what happened, if maybe Tyrrendor is being attacked by Venin or the riders loyal to Navarre. Xaden's note isn't very informative. Something came up. Could he be any more vague?

Gaoth stops you from overthinking by being especially affectionate. She greets you by nosing at your hair and keeps abandoning her breakfast to rub her head against your shoulder while you go about changing the straw in her box. She always knows when you're sad, no matter how well you hide it from everyone else.

Outside her stall lays Xaden's surprise for you: A new pair of riding pants, with extra warm lining for the winter. Your favorite color, too, matching Gaoth's saddle pad. They're lying on top of a small crate. When you open it, you see that it contains a set of new grooming tools — brushes and combs and a hoof pick, everything you need for Gaoth. You'd had to leave your old set behind, and have been using those of an old horse who'd died recently. Part of you is surprised Xaden paid enough attention to know that, considering he's not exactly present in your day to day life.

You'll try them out later, after both Gaoth and you are fed.

Back inside the house, Bodhi waves you over to sit with him at breakfast. He's already halfway done — you've spent longer in the stable than you'd thought.

"Good morning, birthday girl," your cousin cheerfully greets as you slide into the seat next to him, and you find your mood improving a little, as it usually does around him. He doesn't even need to try; somehow his presence alone has a soothing effect already.

"Hi, Bodhi."

He reaches into his bag, which sits by his feet, and produces a book he hands to you. "Sorry, I didn't have time to wrap it."

"That's fine," you assure him, thumbing through the book. "Thank you."

It's a collection of short stories — all centered around horses, naturally. Bodhi knows exactly what a book needs to make you like it, and he even got a pocket-sized edition that you can comfortably take with you to read in the stable or when taking a break during a ride. Gaoth will love it, too. She might not understand the words when you read to her, but you always get the impression she enjoys it nonetheless.

"Do you know where Xaden is?" you ask, putting the book aside to start on your breakfast. "He wrote a note that he had to leave, but it didn't say why."

"They need him at the border, I think. Don't worry. He'll be back in a few days." Bodhi sounds like he's reassuring himself more than you, and adds, "Garrick is with him, too."

You nod, forcing a smile. Truth be told, it hadn't even occurred to you to worry about Xaden until now. He's so powerful, his dragon so big and scary, that it seems impossible anything could happen to him. A stupid way to think, naive. He is strong, but not undefeatable. No one is; your father's death taught you that. He, too, had always seemed invincible to you, until he lost the fight against Navarre and your world went up in flames.

A moment ago, you were merely disappointed that Xaden isn't there to spend your birthday with you, but now that Bodhi unwittingly put the idea into your head, you're scared something might happen to him, too.

Your cousin seems the sense the shift in your mood, because he throws his arm around your shoulder and brings up the one topic that always cheers you up. "Did Gaoth wish you a happy birthday yet?"

You snort. "So far I haven't had any luck teaching her how to talk, but I went out to feed her before getting my own breakfast, if that's what you mean."

Bodhi smiles, shaking his head. "Really? Even on your birthday?"

"Of course! Gaoth always comes first. Besides, to her it's a day like any other. If I fed her later than usual, she'd just think I forgot her."

You don't add that you know exactly how much feeling forgotten hurts, because it is something you've become very familiar with as of late. Bodhi would only feel guilty if he knew, and that's the last thing you want. It's not his fault. Not really Xaden's, either, though he is the one who most makes you feel so left behind. There's no one you can blame for your loneliness, except maybe the gods. It's the circumstances causing it, you know, and not malice or uncaringness. Your brother and cousin are grownups with grown-up responsibilities that demand their time, while you're just a teenager dedicating your days to your horse. There's not much the both of them have in common with you anymore. A depressing thought. You used to be pretty close when you were younger, despite the big age difference, bonded by your shared love for horses and adventure. Looking at Xaden nowadays, it's strange to think he used to be just as crazy about horses as you are. Did he really outgrow that love, or has he merely shoved it aside out of necessity? When you're as old as he is now, will you be such different a person from who you are now, too?

You shake your head. Pondering nonsense like that isn't how you want to spend your birthday.

Chatting with Bodhi about this and that is a good diversion, but after a while he checks his pocket watch and gives you an apologetic smile. "I really have to go now. See you later, yeah?"

"Sure." You already knew he can't just skip classes, so why are you so disappointed? "I was going to take Gaoth for a ride anyway. I'll try to be back for dinner, but don't count on it."

"Alright," Bodhi laughs, and ruffles your hair. "Enjoy your day."

Left alone once again, you take the rest of your breakfast out to the stable to finish it in Gaoth's company. When you're done, you stuff your new book and some food for later into a saddlebag and get to work with your new brushes, grooming Gaoth until her black fur is so clean it gleams in the bright morning light. Then you saddle up, and leave all your worries behind as you ride out into the snow dusted landscape.

It's late at night when Bodhi finds you sitting in front of the wall with family portraits.

You rode far up into the mountains with Gaoth, and only returned a few moments ago, long after the moon had risen. After a long day of riding and fresh mountain air, you should have fallen into bed and slept like a baby, but restlessness and a deep longing for the way things used to be keep you awake. You know you should at least try to get some sleep. You'll have to be up as early as always tomorrow, or Gaoth will be very unhappy. You just can't bring yourself to get up.

You're not even sure why it was that your feet had carried you here, of all places. Staring at your father's face on a portrait isn't going to bring him back. Still, you don't have it in you to look away, even when you hear footsteps and notice Bodhi in your peripherals.

He wordlessly sits down beside you, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at the same painting you're fixating.

It shows a much younger version of him sitting beside a much younger Xaden, who holds a tiny toddler you on his lap. Your dad and Bodhi's mom stand behind the plush armchair the three of you are squeezed into, and everyone is smiling. There are other pictures; just your dad, just your aunt, two more of the whole family — one from before you were born, another from when you were seven or eight, your mother notably absent in all of them. But you like this one the best.

After a few minutes of looking at the painting in companionable silence, you finally make yourself look away, and lean your head against Bodhi's shoulder.

Wrapping his arm around you, he scrunches his nose. "You smell like horse."

"I was out riding. Just got back like half an hour ago," you answer in the same quiet tone Bodhi used. You glance up at him from the corner of your eye without moving your head. "You smell like dragon."

The corner of his mouth twitches up. "I was out riding, too."

"Aren't your flight lessons in the afternoon? You could have showered."

Bodhi shrugs, chuckling softly. "I guess I could have. I saved you some cake from dinner, by the way."

"Yeah?"

You totally forgot about the cake. It makes sense they offered it at dinner, since you hadn't shown up for more, but you're glad Bodhi saved you another piece. He just is the best.

"Yeah. Want to go have a midnight snack?"

"Fuck yeah."

Today is the day. After weeks of practicing with Gaoth to be less scared of the dragons, you want to try riding right past them, closer than ever before. Not so close as to anger them, of course. You're no fool. You don't like getting too close to them, and they don't like it either, which is just fine by you. You'll get only close enough to comfortably ignore each other.

At least that's the theory. While Gaoth has gotten pretty good at ignoring them while you gradually reduced the distance you kept to the dragons, a risk will always remain. It isn't easy for a horse to fight the instinct telling it to flee from predators.

But you believe in her.

Setting out along the path that leads from the fortress up into the mountains, you make sure not to look at the two dragons standing somewhere to the left with their riders, doing gods know what. Even without looking it is a conscious effort to keep your posture relaxed. But you have to. If Gaoth feels you tensing up, she'll mirror you and you'll make each other more and more nervous until one of you spirals into full-blown panic. You can't have that.

From your peripherals, you note one of the dragons stretching its wings, getting ready to fly. Gaoth's ears twitch at the sound of its wingbeats when it takes off, but she doesn't balk. Pride flares in your chest. Weeks ago, she would have reared and fled. Now she just keeps walking, despite the other dragon looming a little to the side of the path further up ahead.

You really wish Xaden were there to see your success, but he's stuck in some meeting or other, and had impatiently waved you away when you'd tried to ask if he had time to show him the progress you made in getting over Gaoth's fear of dragons.

You do tell him about it later, though. He nods along and tells you "Good job", but it sounds halfhearted.

"Challenges are about to start. Why don't you go watch?" he suggests as soon as you finish talking. "I'm sure you could learn a thing or two."

He's been making comments like this for weeks now, ever since you accidentally reminded him that you were among those of the marked kids who hadn't received any combat training by the families who fostered them. It doesn't matter to him that you don't want to be a fighter, that you're perfectly happy just working in the stables. No, just because he likes to fight, he thinks you would too, if you only gave it a try.

You pull a face and stare down at your boots. They could really use some cleaning. "I dunno what's supposed to be so interesting about people beating the shit out of each other."

Xaden heaves a sigh. "There's more to it than that. You could learn a lot about the techniques behind it by watching."

"I don't care about fighting techniques."

That was the wrong thing to say. His face darkens. "You should."

"What's the point?" you argue, just like you do every time you have this conversation. Usually, he doesn't have the time to listen to you list the reasons why you don't feel the need to learn about combat, but this time, he lets you go on. "It's not like I'll have to attend Basgiath, now that you guys are doing your own thing. And even if that wasn't the case, I have years—"

"You need to able to defend yourself, even if you don't end up becoming a rider. We're at war, and nowhere is truly safe. Knowing how to dodge a blade could make the difference between being killed or getting away in case Aretia gets attacked." He folds his arms over his chest, a hard look on his face that tells you he's made up his mind even before he continues. "You are going to train, Y/N. I tried to be nice and convince you to learn willingly, but since you won't, you can consider this a fucking order. Be in the gym at six tomorrow morning."

Out of all the protests that come to mind, the one that comes out of your mouth is, "But that's the time I usually feed Gaoth!"

"She'll survive it if you feed her a little earlier."

With that, he walks away. It would be no use to run after him to argue further. Once Xaden has made a decision about something, it's practically impossible to change his mind, so you might as well accept that starting tomorrow, you'll have a new hobby.

The next morning, you make sure to be in the gym five minutes early to avoid giving Xaden a reason to scold you before the training even starts, but he is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it's Garrick who walks in. Watching him approach, it dawns on you that Xaden hadn't specified who would be instructing you. Foolishly, you had assumed he would do it himself. It stings a little that he won't, even though you know how many other, more important things he has to do.

Garrick beckons you to an unoccupied mat in the corner. The gym is still relatively empty at this time, which is fortunate — you're sure you'll be making a fool of yourself in no time. You're not normally clumsy, have good balance and strong muscles from riding and tending to the horses, but you're not sure how much good that'll do you. This is all completely new. Even the mat beneath your feet feels foreign. You have no clue how to hit someone, or stop them from hitting you, and knowing Garrick, he won't take it easy on you. He'll expect you to learn fast, to double your efforts for every mistake you make, which there will certainly be a lot of.

Sure enough, he throws you right in the deep end. "Alright, punch me. Come on."

You eye him with a healthy dose of trepidation. "You're not going to punch back when I do, right?"

"Nope. For now I'm just taking the role of the punching bag we're lacking."

That would have been a lot more reassuring if it wasn't for the two little words for now. He can't really expect you to handle yourself in a fight against him in the very first lesson, can he?

"Come on," he urges again. "Just try it."

"Shouldn't you show me how to do it first?"

You can tell you're already getting on his nerves by being so hesitant. It's beyond you why Xaden picked Garrick for this. You love the guy like another brother, you really do, but in your humble opinion he's not a good choice for teaching anyone anything. Maybe you're a little biased. You remember all too well being five or six years old and struggling to learn how to tie your shoes on your own. Xaden and Garrick had made it their mission to teach you, but all their well-meant tips had only confused you more. When you'd misunderstood their instructions for the umpteenth time, one of them — you're almost certain it was Garrick — had started yelling, you had started crying, which led to more yelling from both of them, this time at each other, which made you cry even more. You had run off to hide in your father's office for the rest of the day, and in the end, Bodhi's mom had been the one to teach you to tie your shoes.

So while you might not know anything about combat, you do know that it takes patience to teach someone something, no matter what it is. And though you have no doubt that Garrick is a brilliant fighter, patience is something he has always lacked.

"You telling me you don't know how to make a fist?" he challenges now.

"Of course I know how to make a fist, but—"

"Great, then do it and hit me. Today, if you don't mind."

Okay, fine. You're starting to want to hit him, even if you know damn well it will probably hurt you more than him. You ball your hand into a fist, draw back your arm, and punch him right into the middle of his broad chest.

Garrick doesn't even blink. You punched him as hard as you could, and he fucking stands there like he didn't feel anything.

You shake your hand, glaring up at him. This is bullshit.

"You held your hand at the wrong angle," Garrick explains. "Try again, but this time make sure your middle knuckles take the brunt of the impact. And don't bend your wrist."

He holds his fist against the palm of his other hand to demonstrate it, then gives you an expectant look.

You obey, and it continues like that for a while. Garrick tells you to do something, you do it wrong, he shows you the proper way to do it and makes you do it again and again until you get it right.

Only you keep getting everything wrong, and Garrick's meager patience is quickly exhausted.

"Whoa, no!" He stops you from completing the move he just demonstrated for the third time. "Not like that you fucking idiot! You'll hurt yourself that way. Do it like I showed you."

"I'm trying!" you yell back, fighting tears of frustration. Idiot is far from the worst insult anyone ever called you, and you know Garrick doesn't even mean it, that he's just annoyed because you're not catching on as fast as he would like, but that doesn't make the words hurt any less.

"Really?" he scoffs. "This is really the best you can do?"

"Yes!"

"Gods, you really know nothing about hand-to-hand combat, do you?" he groans.

"Yeah, no shit," you snap. "That's exactly what I've been telling you for the past hour!"

You're not sure if it really has been an hour already, but that's how long this session was supposed to go on for, and you're fucking done.

"No need to be a brat about it," Garrick growls back, just as frustrated by how badly the lesson went as you are. "I didn't think that just because you've never fought before you'd be this fucking clueless. Did you never at least watch a fight?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?!" Garrick asks, completely exasperated. It seems the idea that anyone could not be interested in fights is too absurd for him to believe.

"Because I don't like it."

"I'm getting the feeling you don't like anything besides Gaoth." When you don't contradict him, he shakes his head, saying "There's more to life than horses, you know."

"To you, maybe. Are we done now?"

To your relief, Garrick nods.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and storm from the gym and then the house. You'll probably get sick, going out into the cold without a jacket and soaked in sweat like this, but you don't care. Quickly bridling Gaoth, you swing yourself onto her bare back and urge her outside, too desperate to get away to bother with a saddle.

You're never doing that again, you think as you gallop away from Riorson House, the wind driving the tears you've been fighting from your eyes. Not in a thousand years. You don't care what Xaden says, if knowing self-defense is important. You're not a fighter, and you never will be. He can't change that. Garrick definitely can't. Deep down you know you're overreacting, but you don't care. You hadn't wanted to learn how to fight in the first place, and your failure to follow Garrick's instructions only solidified that. Fuck hand-to-hand combat. If you ever need to defend yourself, you can always let Gaoth kick the foe in the head.

When you return — shivering and numb from the cold, but calmer inside — Bodhi is waiting for you in the stable with your jacket. Shouldn't he be in class?

"I take it your lesson with Garrick didn't go well?" he asks, holding it up for you to slip into.

"He can shove his stupid fighting lessons up his ass."

"Who?" Bodhi asks, buttoning the jacket for you, since your own fingers are practically frozen stiff. "Garrick? Or Xaden?"

"Both of them."

Bodhi sighs. "I could have told him Garrick isn't a good choice as your instructor. I think he wanted to teach you himself at first, and when he realized he doesn't have the time he just picked the first person who came to mind. It's not your fault. Garrick just doesn't have the patience for this kind of thing."

"I don't care. I don't want to learn how to fight."

"Which certainly didn't help matters."

"I tried!"

"Of course. I'm not doubting that. I'm just saying you probably weren't in a good mood to begin with, so it's no wonder you and Garrick clashed. You know that just because you're not good at it right from the start doesn't mean you can't learn, right? You just have to keep trying."

You grab a carrot from the grain room, taking two angry bites before giving the rest of it to Gaoth. "I don't want to."

"It's for your own good—"

"Not you too!"

"I know you don't want to hear it, but Xaden is right. Just imagine if Aretia gets invaded!"

"That won't happen. And if it did, I'd just get on Gaoth and hide somewhere until one of you comes to tell me it's safe."

"And if the enemy blocks the way to the stable before you can get there? What then, huh?"

"Then... Then I would... Uhh..."

"Then it'd be very helpful if you knew how to fight, don't you think?"

"I guess..."

"So how about you give it another try with that in mind, hm?"

Bodhi says it so gently, the way you would talk to a skittish horse. You don't like that thought, but it's true you're still agitated, even now that the worst of your frustration is gone. You understand his point, but that doesn't change the way you feel.

"No."

"Y/N—"

"No! I don't want to fight!"

"I don't want you to have to fight, either. And you'll hopefully never have to do so for real. But, as we just established, you need to know how to do it just in case. Sparring can actually be pretty fun once you get the hang of it, you know." He rubs his hand over his face, sighing when you don't reply. "What if I train with you? Will you give another try then?"

You're about to say no, that you won't try again no matter with whom, but then it occurs to you that letting Bodhi give you fighting lessons would mean you'd get to spend more time with him. And he would definitely be more patient with you than Garrick was, kinder about all the mistakes you're bound to continue making.

Realizing something else, it's your turn to sigh. "I don't really get a say anyway, do I? I'll have to try again, whether I want to or not."

Xaden is so set on making you learn how to fight, there's no way he'll let you off the hook just because the first lesson didn't go well. But if Bodhi could convince him to let him teach you, maybe it would be bearable.

Bodhi nods, smiling apologetically. "It's for your own good."

"Fine. You can try if you can teach me how to fight. But only you. And only if there's cake after lessons."

"Deal."

You just got back from practicing with the throwing knives Xaden had gotten you upon Violet's suggestion. As sceptical as you had been of the idea at first, you find yourself enjoying it, much more so than the hand-to-hand fighting moves you begrudgingly practice with Bodhi thrice a week now. You can even do it on horseback! Well — theoretically. Your aim is not yet good enough to hit the target even with both feet on the ground, nevermind while riding. Nonetheless, it's fun to try.

You've almost reached your room when Xaden's door opens, and he and Violet come out, dressed for flying and strapped with weapons.

"Are you going to one of the outposts again?" you ask. If he's taking Violet with him, he must be expecting to stay away longer than usual this time.

But he shakes his head. "We're flying for Basgiath."

Oh. Right. You've heard about Melgren's prediction of the Navarrian outposts being overrun by Venin, and Violet's theory that the real battle has to happen at Basgiath. It hadn't sounded like the Assembly wanted to do anything about it, though.

"I thought the vote went against helping them?"

"Yeah, but we're going to do it anyway. Some of us, at least. Stay out of the Assembly's hair while I'm gone, yeah?"

"Sure." You push down the fear of knowing he's headed for battle; there's no way he'll listen if you ask him not to go. "Be careful."

"Always am."

That doesn't seem likely, but you've never seen him fight except for practice, so you can't argue.

With a last look at his and Violet's retreating forms, you slip into your room and send a prayer to Dunne that they'll make it back in one piece.

[twstunes]

hello and welcome to the Rollo Torment Nexus, designed to impart the absolute worst academic experience to everyone's favorite deranged church boy.

rationale:

1. Rollo has to be surrounded. There is no easy way out short of vaulting over the desk, and we all know he's not gonna do that while class is in session.

2. Floyd "Malicious Noncompliance" Leech has to be sitting directly next to Rollo. This should be self-explanatory. Whether he's actively doing something annoying or just taking notes in sloppy handwriting while wrinkling tf out of his notebook pages, his presence will be enough to test Rollo's patience.

3. Someone Floyd loves to annoy and/or talk to needs to be sitting on Rollo's other side. I've chosen Ace for this example, but Jade, Kalim, Grim, and Lilia would also work. Jamil would also be a good choice, as he would likely find a way to redirect Floyd's attention onto Rollo.

Riddle and Azul also have potential, but there's a solid chance they would take their lessons too seriously & ignore Floyd to the point he stops trying to get their attention. This would result in him being less annoying to Rollo, which is antithetical to the point of the Rollo Torment Nexus.

4. Malleus, naturally, has to be present. Though having him sit directly next to Rollo would be funny enough on its own, having him sit behind Rollo is the advanced play here. After all, if Malleus is within view, Rollo can keep an eye on him, thus keeping his own paranoia at bay. If Malleus is looming ominously behind (& above) him, Rollo has no way of staying watchful without blatantly ignoring the lesson/letting Malleus know he's wary. This would vex Rollo to no end, AND Malleus would find it funny.

5. Now, I know what you're thinking. Why Ruggie? Why not Idia or Azul, since Rollo would be more cautious of them?

Like Jamil & everyone else present for the Glorious Masquerade misadventure, Ruggie doesn't like Rollo. He's also one of the wilier students at NRC, meaning he wouldn't think twice about getting a little revenge at no cost to him.

Ruggie and Floyd are chill, but not overly involved with each other; further, Ruggie's physical presence in the classroom isn't particularly unusual, unlike how Idia's would be. Both of these points minimize the chance of Floyd abandoning his "talk across Rollo" endeavors to chat with Ruggie instead, meaning Floyd will spend longer maximally annoying Rollo.

Ruggie and Malleus get along pretty well! Even with Malleus' lack of Normal Person Social Skills™, it wouldn't be hard for the two of them to strike up a conversation – which would result in Rollo having to hear and be acutely aware of Malleus' presence behind him the whole time.

Ruggie would 100% start talking quietly to Malleus, just loud enough for Rollo to kinda-sorta hear, JUST to get on Rollo's nerves. Like–

Ruggie: "Hey, Malleus, how're you doing today?" Malleus: "I'm doing well. Why do you ask?" Ruggie: "No reason, really. Just, y'know...it'd be funny if Rollo thought we were plotting something right behind him." Malleus: "Oh that's brilliant. Let us continue, then."

[evilminji]

You know what would be HILARIOUS?

For everyone NOT involved in the situation?

If the Uzumaki, mad lads that they were, seal master's who routinely moon the Shinigami for funsies that they are, got SUUUUUPER drunk? And were like?

"F-! *hic!* FUCK your fancy ass Summons contract Himiko! I got one TOO, you know. A..An' it's TOTALLY better then yours! It's got BLACKJACK! And hookers!" *falls on their face unconscious*

Needless to say? Not their proudest moment. Actually, their kinda deeply embarrassed. But like FUCK ARE THE BACKING DOWN! Their mouths wrote a check their ass can't currently cash... so the only REASONABLE solution? Apologize and tell the truth? Psh! NO.

Break Reality Until It's TRUE.

THEN they weren't technically lying!

They're a GENIUS~☆! :D

And yes, yes this IS normal behavior for them. It's both cultural AND genetic. There was a REASON people were terrified of those insane mother fuckers.

Because? They just? MADE UP a A Summons Contract. With Who? Dunno! We're gonna find out! But it looks right Seals wise! *signs name before anyone with sense can stop them, does the signs, draws blood aaaand?*

POOF!

Nani THE FUCK!? Says local dead Japanese 16th century fisherman who was flying by to visit the Lair of his buddy the 14th century monk. Behold! A FUCKING ZONE GHOST! He is unsummoned before he can react.

The Uzumaki have A Ghost Contract™.

.........th....they may have fucked up.

YOU THINK?

Roars basicly the ENTIRE Elders council. Who FUCKING FELT THAT. Because EVERYONE Felt that. They're SENSOR. That was a HOLE in REALITY that somehow GLOWED like a BEACON of both absolute Nothingness and Death! You TRAUMATIZED THE KIDS, YOU ASSHOLE!

Still....they ARE ninja. And Curious mother fuckers to the last.

So basically EVERYONE and their dog signs it. They somehow get WEIRDER. Bigger Chakra reserves. Obsessive tendencies. Meh, you win some, you lose some.

But? Then they fuckin DIE. (And their WHOLE ASS VILLAGE SHOWS UP IN THE ZONE. OH GOD, WHAT-!?)

And some grave robbing fuck tries to use the Contract. SUPRISE MOTHERFUCKER!

Ghost Uzumaki!

Your literal worst nightmare!

They DO NOT try using it again. It gets sealed DEEP. Until the Hokage gets wind of it. And, of course, Danzo. The Hokage sends Hound. And Team Kakashi on a completely unrelated but nearby "help a farmer" mission. Danzo sends assassins. Because he's fucking awful.

Kakashi gets the scroll.

Yep. Creepy rambling and shit handwriting, def Uzumaki. Time to go.

He gets attacked on the way back to camp. GDI Root. Well, its you or me. Sucks for you, I guess. They fight. They get a lucky shot. He bleeds on the scroll, doesn't notice. But SURELY... SURELY it isn't CROWDED enough with names that the Uzumaki just added a "and anyone who bleeds on THIS part at the bottom _______ plus does the handsigns" towards the end.... RIGHT??

RIGHT?! Look him in the EYES Uzumaki Clan, RIGHT??!

They would prefer not to answer that. The Vibez here are getting REALLY aggressive, you know? >.> It made sense at THE TIME...

So... he goes to summon his Dogs.

And he SURE DOES GET UM.... plus One(1!!!).

Who the FUCK is this glowing green dog? A puppy? Kakashi seeing the dimwitted looking little thing about to get STABBED tries to rescue it. It takes one look look at him (worried for it), the other dogs (growling at his enemies, fighting) and... turns around, shifting as it does, to HUNDREDS of times it's previous size.

Like an Akimichi transformation.

A sudden, hulking, green WOLF with red glowing eyes and killing intent that would Rival a demon's. The howl is unearthly. It joins the fray like a meat thresher.

Then pops back to a floating, tongue lolling, dimwitted pup the second everything is done.

G...God boy?

Far be it for KAKASHI to fear a dog, no MATTER how dangerous. So he carries it back to camp. Where it seems to instant fall in LOVE with Naruto. They become the BEST of friends.

There's frolicking.

Looking down at the pocket with the scroll he reclaimed? Yeah. Yeah that tracks. According to Pakkun, the pup has a "weird, echo-y" accent and is incredibly scatter brained. Training to be a gaurd dog? WAS Training. IS currently... what.

Okay. IS currently the gaurd dog/pet of an Emperor. Because THATS not alarming. Did the Royal family all... wait... he examines the pup again. Transparent. Was it KILLING intent he felt... or a Deathy pressure? Didn't the Uzumaki have Forbidden soul and death seals? It would stand to REASON...

Oh god damn it.

Pakkun. Pakkun please tell me that pup is ALIVE.

(He can not.) (Hilariously? Dispite being TERRIFIED of Ghosts? Naruto is TOTALLY COOL with Zone Ghosts? Don't be MEAN, Sensei! They're just PEOPLE! It's not THEIR fault They're dead! Now GHOSTS? Spooky and EVIL! Totally different.)

@hdgnj @babbling-babull @hypewinter @legitimatesatanspawn @mayfay

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Tentative Timeline (Pt2c) - Unreliable Narrators, Armand & the Trial

Thanks for the response to Pt2b, @usuallydeepalpaca-blog! I really want people to talk to me about the IWTV timelines, cuz this show is SO confusing! 😩😭

"I think if you create the timeline with info the show doesn't provide, i.e. Armand was involved from the start, then you're bound to get it wrong."

Absolutely. I fully expect that I got some stuff wrong, which is why I said it's a TENTATIVE Timeline.

I've in no way said it's THEE CORRECT™ timeline, cuz chile IDKWTF is going on. 😅 I openly say what confuses me, questions I have, and how I come to the conclusions that I draw. I'm being as transparent as possible to let y'all know that I DON'T know. 🤷 The show doesn't provide EVERYthing, so I'm just piecing things together in a way that makes an iota of sense to me, following the logic of what the show HAS provided. The only solid details we have are diehard IRL dates, that gave us a time range when certain events can/can't happen. AFAIK I'm working with the same set of details everyone else has, until AMC gives us more info in S3+. And unfortunately, the 2 biggest unknown variables are Lestat & Armand, and to what extent they were/weren't involved in the Trial that got Claudia killed & Louis buried alive.

"saying Armand messed with Louis' memories re: the trial is also something not supported by the show."

The show obvs. wants us to assume that Armand made Louis hallucinate Sam guarding him in the theatre box (thus painting Armand as a "captive" along with Louis & Claudeleine).

Even if Armand didn't use the Mind Gift on Louis, he lied at least twice:

lies by omission: letting Louis think a hallucination of Sam was real

lies to Louis' (& Daniel's) face: going along with the premise that he was Sam's "captive" & Armand sat there the whole time thinking of a way to rescue Louis

And we KNOW this is a lie, cuz Daniel calls it out explicitly, asking how Sam can be "in two places at once," allegedly "guarding" Armand, but ALSO helping to torture Louis in the Wet Room.

Armand never denied or contradicted Louis saying Sam was in either place. Maybe Louis really did misremember Sam being in the wet room--the ONLY one who can corroborate all this is SAM--whom Armand ALSO lies on, throwing Sam, Daniel & the Talamasca all under the bus by saying the script with his handwriting all over it was forged! No honor amongst thieves I guess! 🤣

(Eff Lestat's POV in S3--when is SAM gonna give HIS POV of the Trial?!)

So I'm operating on patterns of behavior, and the logic that if he's deliberately lying about one thing (a VERY BIG THING, actually), then what else is he lying about? How are you "atoning" for anything, when you're just heaping lies on top of gaslighting on top of manipulation?

Armand has used Louis' obvious confusion to his advantage, just going along with whatever will make him look better & more sympathetic. Which ofc, is the exact same thing he does with the "Banishment" lie. "They gave me a choice...I could not prevent it" is the truth and a lie all rolled into one incredibly manipulative cocktail, cuz if it was just a simple matter of Armand selling Claudia out to save Louis, that would be one thing--but Armand KNEW the script planned LOUIS' death the whole time. The "seismic lie" about "Banishment" effs up Armand's whole defense.

Cuz Sam already wrote the script in April 1949 (and I said this is confusing, cuz if it's the WHOLE script, then this implies Lestat's half was written by then, too, and NOT in September after the Eiffel Tower crime--which means he was ALREADY in Paris & working with the coven; inc. Armand (which would also explain WHY Armand took Louis to the library so much--perhaps anticipating that Loustat would feel e/o's presence if Louis was around the theatre too much? But that doesn't explain Claudia)--omfg I'm confused). Wtvr--we KNOW that at some point b/t April & September 1949, Armand made his edits & directed the entire production--from Santiago to Lestat to Tuan's projections--ALL of it. And we know Tuan's projections started being made in June/July 1949.

Armand KNEW Daniel had been given the OLD script from the archives, WITHOUT Armand's edits & directions, and LET Daniel AND Louis think that was the truth--

--same way he went behind Louis' back and removed extra pages from Claudia's diaries that would reveal MORE of his shenanigans--

--and the same way he lied about Nicki (& Gabrielle) in 2x3.

The show ALSO provides us with quotes like this:

And this:

And this:

Which in retrospect make Armand look even more insidious, esp. when we wonder to what extend Louis' been "driven to form new conclusions about myself" when he doesn't even KNOW himself; let alone WHAT memories he has that are real or false.

It's so effed up, and it makes me side-eye all the insistence that LOUIS is the one mostly at fault, when he's got literal double-hypnosis Brain Scramblies from WWDITS. 😭🤦

Ofc there are unknown-unknowns when dealing with unreliable narration. But there are also known-unknowns, too, that also make Armand sus.

Sure, Loumand was away at the library in July (IF that memory's even real, Mr. "I Had A Hunch")--but how on earth would Armand have NOT known that the coven was working on the Trial right under his nose for MONTHS prior & after July--Luchenbaum sewing new barrister costumes & wigs; Tuan painting projections & testing new lens/film tech; and Sam writing a new script (when we already KNOW Sam can't multitask when his "head's in a hat")?

July is only ONE month in over HALF A YEAR of Trial prep. Louis was never around the coven to know what was going on--but ARMAND was; it's where HE lives.

Whose POV was it that showed the whole coven passing around Claudia's diaries? Whose POV was it that revealed Santiago being called Maitre in every scene that ARMAND was also in?

Armand was in the park with Tuan when Tuan called Santiago Maitre; and Armand was in the theatre with Sam when Sam called Santiago Maitre--so this is clearly either Armand's POV telling on himself; or it's AMC screwing with us.

It's TRUE that Turning Madeleine was the straw that broke the camel's back, as Armand was like I can't keep THAT a secret from the coven, too (and ofc he couldn't--they're VAMPIRES; they'd FEEL a new vamp in their territory). But Loumand's problems PREDATE Madeleine; the same way Loustat's problems predate Claudia. I blame Les for not dealing with Lou's BS, just like I blame Armand, cuz THEY are the Coven Masters, NOT Lou--esp. cuz Armand had 14 other vamps in his coven he SHOULD be prioritizing over Lou. The same way Loustat's guilty of being bad fathers (which they BOTH admitted to), Armand's guilty of being a bad coven leader (which HE admitted to).

IMO, all this makes any & all discussion about Armand's trustworthiness difficult, when his "seismic lie" throws EVERYTHING else he's done into question. Esp. since the show ALSO provides us with the FACT that Armand knew from DAY ONE that Claudia lied about "Bruce"/Lestat; and that Louis was a terrible liar & terrible with the Mind Gift; and that he'd ALREADY planned on killing Louis in 2x3! Armand knew from the get-go that he couldn't do EFF ALL to keep Louis & Claudia out of danger, and TOLD Louis so.

"It also ignores that Louis softens his participation in certain things because he can't live with the guilt of his full participation, e.g. Claudia's turning, which he continued to lie to Claudia about even during the trial and only accepted the extent of his involvement in Dubai"

The Trial Timeline's purpose is to pinpoint when the preparations took place, NOT to hash out how bad of a father Louis was to Claudia. 🤨

And it certainly isn't meant to provide a timeline for the events in S1 wrt Claudia's Turning--we already know the dates for all of that, that she was made in 1917. I focus on the 1940s in S2, and the European dates, NOT the NOLA dates. LOUIS did not participate in the Trial's preparations, ARMAND & LESTAT did. My timeline has ZERO bearings on Louis' guilt for not warning her, etc.

But on the subject of Louis & Claudia, I've cussed Louis out for not telling Claudia about Armand b4 (x x), I don't ignore it at all. I fully understand & even agree with Armand being fed up with dealing with Louis' BS. But HE CHOSE not to kill Louis when he had the chance, and it's obvs that whatever arrangement they made when they had sex in 2x3/2x4 allowed Louis to TRUST that Armand would keep "the secret" & keep Louis & Claudia SAFE from the coven. (Which is a BOGUS claim for him to make, when Santiago'd ALREADY peeped that they were lying about Lestat & being from NOLA, but wtvr). I've called Louis a naive idiot 1000x for overestimating Armand, putting his life in Armand's incapable hands--just like he would AGAIN by trusting him about "Banishment;" and AGAIN by asking Armand to wipe his memories in SanFran (and LIE by omission about Les saying "I love you, Louis").

"Louis remembers the trial, he remembers what was said and what Lestat showed him."

HOW can Lestat have showed Louis ANY memories during the Trial (inc. the Ep4 revisit), when Makers/Fledglings CANNOT read each other's minds???????

I love this show so much, but I effing hate this show--they don't even give us an answer, Daniel just moves right past it, like wtf are we supposed to do with that, AMC? There's plot threads, vs plot HOLES. Louis' TOO unreliable, Armand's a shysty liar, white savior Lestat to the rescue~~~! "BANishMEnT~!" As if Lestat's any less impartial?

Esp. when at least SOME parts of the Ep4 Revisit were OBVIOUSLY Scripted lines written by the coven to implicate Louis in breaking the Great Laws that Lestat allegedly taught him AND Claudia to follow?

Like, Louis HATES himself, and is quick to blame himself for things beyond his control (a la Paul, a la the Ordinances; "Can we be forgiven if we do not forgive others ourselves?"); so if one is determined to see him bad faith then of course one can easily pounce on him Florence DPDL style / Santiago style, and blame him.

(Esp. since in 1x4 we literally SEE Louis admit to begging & emotionally baby-trapping Lestat into turning Claudia--the revisit in 2x7 is more (melo)dramatic & extended, sure, but it does NOT contradict Louis' account in S1. So I get REAL confused when people say he lied about 1x4 or wtvr.)

Louis invalidates his perspective cuz he KNOWS he's an unreliable narrator--he spends 2x1 sobbing about wanting to remember & "get every detail right"--and ARMAND is there constantly tryna STOP the interview; having directly contributed to his already deteriorated (& inherited?) mental illness, by bending Lou's trauma into "a Lestat shaped-effigy" with all that "I will not harm you" bullcrap.

TL;DR: We won't know for sure what the Trial timeline actually looks like, unless S3+ revisits it with more context.

But as things stand at the end of S2, NO, I don't trust Armand as far as I can throw him, cuz there are waaaay too many instances where he's deliberately lied & obfuscated & omitted in ways to deliberately confuse the narrative surrounding the Trial--that go beyond Louis' already confirmed trauma, PTSD, mental illness, repressed/faulty memory, and guilty conscious.

If y'all want a timeline of S1 events, those have already been made by other people in the fandom (this one is goated).

I wanted to know what was going on in S2; so I used every single date and IRL reference possible, and put them in chronological order in a way that makes sense based on how I TENTATIVELY understand things currently; NOT how AMC has confirmed yet--if they ever will.

If anyone has more relevant in-show references & IRL sources we can cite, to help make better sense of S2 than I did, let us all know!

[up-the-anti]

mm bros hcs because i dont wanna do my homework

donnie the typa kid to hear someone sneeze/cough in class and whip his head around to stare at them for 5 seconds before returning to his work

>> like that one "people dont even say bless you anymore they just stare at you like this" thats him.

leo never kills spiders but is terrified of them, he'll be screaming the whole time while getting a piece of paper and a cup to safely and gently relocate it outside

donnie hates flies (semi canon because according to his va it was an outtake from the movie)

mikey is the least scared of bugs out of all of them he can straight up pick up and throw a millipede out the window with his bare fingers no sweat.

leo is really good at skiing when they first try it but cannot ice skate for his life

>> speaking of winter sports leo and donnie are the skiers and raph and mikey are the snowboarders in their group i dont make the rules

mikey can recreate fonts really well with his handwriting

raph gets a job in customer service because mikey bet him $20 that he wouldn't be able to land one; then donnie bets him $20 that he wouldn't be able to hold his job for a week

>> subsequently raph develops an uncharacteristically sweet, fake, slightly dead Customer Service Voice™ and he uses it to deeply disturb his brothers

>>>> donnie gets his $20

leo writes LONG ASS yearbook messages when people ask him to sign im talking 2 full pages small handwriting long

mikey can shuffle playing cards like a god

raph is weirdly good at basic mental math, autism be damned that boy can long divide

>> "bro whats 232 x 4" "928" "how the fuck did you know that" "idk"

donnie religiously plays nyt games, he and april go head to head in wordle and strands on the daily

mikey is double jointed on everything and flaunts it to gross donnie and leo out

where raph playfully hits/punches while goofing around, donnie pinches and it hurts

mikey always has weird ass vivid dreams and donnie is always the first to hear about them. its routine because he has somehow never forgotten a single dream he has had

they are the last 4 standing in eastman's senior assassin and the whole school (even non-players) get insanely invested because who doesnt wanna find out which of the 4 NINJA who LIVE with each other come out on top

>> donnie is the first out because the safeties get too ridiculous and he doesnt gaf anymore, raph snipes him in his room from behind during a gaming twitch stream

>>>> leo gets eliminated next because mikey knew he'd hide out at aprils house the whole time

>>>>>> mikey ultimately crowned the winner because he pays casey $10 to reveal raphs location

leo was the tallest brother by far until raph had a growth spurt at around 12

raph eats straight up heads of lettuce over the sink like an apple sometimes and no one knows why

>> hes a turtle after all (?)

leo hates shit talking/gossiping because he feels bad about it but accidentally ends up doing it anyway and hes so unintentionally good at it just because of how honest he is

>> hes genuinely talking about someone else from the bottom of his heart like "omg i hope she gets the help she needs ☹️" and everyones like "LMAOOO"

based on my animation they did so many fuckass prank calls before the events of the movie while they were still confined to the sewer

>> mikey has the most creative diabolical call ideas but cracks up during execution

>>>> surprisingly, its leo that has the widest range of insane accents and control over his laughter so they always end up handing the phone to him whenever they want to pull one off successfully

they dressed up as each other for halloween once by just switching their masks, weapons, and belts

mikey is a crazy history nerd. can tell you all about how the han-xiongnu wars influenced the balance of power in the eastern hemisphere but not what he ate for dinner yesterday

leo is involved in at least ten secret santas/gift exchanges every christmas

raph shouts wrong kahoot answers in class

>> guesses but somehow always makes it in the top 5

donnie and raph can do a shit ton of pen spinning tricks because their weapons translate kinda well, heavy on raph

mikey does that one thing in jenga where you take a single block from the very bottom really fast so the whole tower shifts down but stays standing, everyone thinks it'll fall but every single game he somehow pulls through

they are all super polite to customer service workers but you will not catch them tipping

>> donnie at the register staring the cashier in the eyes as he presses no tip while saying "thank you so much"

[waywardmillennial]

yes, yes the Lore™ at the end of the episode but let's not overlook this!

also, do we think that that's Ryan's handwriting and he forgot writing it down? or is someone else trying to warn Beef Boy (maybe Dorothy Ruth?)