#I’m not making any sense perhaps but I do make enough sense to myself so that is that

[mrwavellswaps]

Swap, Hypno, TF

Henry Cavill, Ryan Gosling, Jake Gyllenhaal

Another great set of options here! But I think I already know who I’m swapping with.

Jake Gyllenhall. Like come on it’s gotta be. That man is just so fucking gorgeous. I’ll be honest though it’s a very close call between him and Ryan Gosling. I adore both of them and if Jake hadn’t been there I absolutely would’ve swapped with Ryan no question. It’s one of those that’s so close that my mind could change depending on the day but right now I’m dead set on Jake and his incredibly sexy looks.

That said I think I’ve just gotta go with another technology based swap for this. A special pair of headsets perhaps. How I’d get Jake to put it on is the tough part. I’d need to find a way to get close to him first. Maybe I use this device to switch bodies with multiple other people who are close to Jake. Every switch getting me closer to him until finally I’m in the body of someone he trusts deeply. Enough that can convince him to put the device on for a laugh when the two of us are alone. Slipping one headset onto him before slipping the other onto myself and without a second thought, activating the device.

Both my face and Jake’s going slack as the swapping device does its thing. Transferring everything that made us who we were through the currents flowing between the two helmets. Slowly flooding my consciousness into Jake’s mind and vice versa. And of course both of us getting massive erections in the process which seemed to be a common side effect when switching bodies with men.

It would’ve been a long and tiring process to finally get this far but it’d be well worth it once I finally had Jake’s body. Immediately throwing off the headset as soon as the swap was complete and standing up to get a good look at the body I’d been striving towards. Meanwhile the real Jake would be too confused and dazed by what had just happened to even make sense of the situation. Only looking up at me in horror as I tested out my new voice and felt up the new body I had hidden underneath the suit he’d been wearing. The newfound bulge in my pants threatening to break out at any second as I reach down and rub a hand across the outline of Jake’s thick cock.

Of course I need to take care of the original Jake somehow but I don’t think that’d be too hard. Once he finally processes what’s happened, he’ll probably start to panic at the sight of his imposter feeling himself up and slowly undressing. By this point I’ll have already stamped on the headset to ensure it can’t be used again before letting him know that the swap can’t be undone now. Giving him the choice to either keep quiet and I’ll make sure he has an easy life from now on or I’ll find some other way to keep him quiet. And since I’d just stolen his body, I don’t think he’d doubt my threats.

Moving on however I then need to hypnotise someone. And I think you all know who I’m going for. Ryan Gosling of course. And now that I’m in Jake’s body it shouldn’t be hard for me to get close to these other high end celebs like myself. As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I’ll lace a drink of his with a hypnotic potion that’s got my new body’s cum mixed into it. And as soon as he drinks it, he’ll become a complete hypno slave to me.

Can you imagine? Ryan Gosling kneeling at the feet of Jake Gyllenhall. Willing to do anything he’s told. A former straight man being turned into a gay slut. Always eager to let me ruin his tight and once virgin hole at any chance we got. Practically begging me to cum inside him every time as each load I bred into him with Jake’s cock only drove him further under my control.

With Ryan being so attached to me I doubt he’d ever want to leave my side for long. Telling the world that the two of us have decided to become a couple would be inevitable in the long game I imagine but that wouldn’t be all bad. The publicity would probably do wonders. I’d have to make sure Ryan acts as normal as possible when we’re in public though… but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let a few of his new slutty elements shine through the cracks from time to time. Maybe with him telling a reporter that I really “opened him up” to a new world of possibilities with a quick wink.

Lastly though a TF is in order and we still have Henry Cavill on our list. I’ll be honest I had no idea what to go for TF wise at first but I think I’ve finally figured it out.

Once again getting close to Henry at some point or another shouldn’t be too hard thanks to my new body. And as soon as no one is looking I’ll whip out an ancient spell. One that if performed correctly will immediately begin to transform Henry’s body. Or rather force it to shrink away into nothing. Or so you’d think at first glance.

As his body seems to vanish, his clothes would fall to the floor in a heap. But there would be something left underneath those clothes. I’d pull apart the heap and reach into Henry’s crumpled pants only to pull out Henry’s cock and balls!? It was the only thing left of his body though at first glance it would certainly be mistaken for a dildo. However upon closer inspection it looked and felt very real from the way the balls swayed to how the cock reacted to the slightest touch.

Now for the real test though.

Assuming I was alone where nobody could walk in on me, I’d slip the disembodied cock into my mouth and started sucking. Feeling as it swiftly began hardening in my mouth. Being sure to use every dick sucking trick in the book until Henry’s cock finally blew a load in my mouth. And as soon as it did, the suit I was wearing started to rip.

Henry’s body and soul essence had all been trapped inside this dlido-like form of his cock. However this meant that anyone who drank his cum would gain his strength and muscle mass albeit temporarily. Hence my suit tearing a fair bit after I swallowed thanks to my body bulking up quite a fair bit. And naturally I didn’t waste any time checking out the results. Loving the look of an even bigger and buffer Jake Gyllenhall staring back at me.

Needless to say I was gonna be using Henry’s cock a lot. Thankfully it replenishes itself endlessly as far as I know so there isn’t a real limit. I can drink from it as much as I want and bulk Jake’s body up whenever I please. Hell I might even let Ryan drink from it as well. Lord knows it’d be hot to see him hulk out with some extra muscle as well. Giving Ryan and even thicker muscle ass for me to dominate! But I think I can say for certain that I’ll be the one using it’s power most of the time. All the extra muscle is bound to feel addictive. And who know? Maybe my body will start to adapt and hold onto some of that extra size even after the effects wear off. Only one way to find out I guess.

Now this one was fun to type up! Also wanted to give a quick shout out to an old story by @fantasyvessels called Trading Places With Gyllenhall which definitely inspired me a little here. Glad I was able to track down where they got those images from and make a hot gif outta it. Go check that story out as well if Jake is your thing!

[ohitslen]

Knowing in my head that Vashwood would never work out if they were in a sentimental relationship adds a fundamental layer of delusional in my own personal VW experience

[sixosix]

requested by anon!! hope u enjoy, warning for profanity, fluff

As soon as Wanderer’s eyes laid upon the ball of fluff in your palms, he had said with a disdainful glare to “discard of that at once.”

But you aren’t having any of it. The little kitten curled up by your chest is looking up at you so adorably that you simply can’t discard it, no matter what your boyfriend might say. In fact, the shade of the cat reminds you of his eyes—but saying that would provoke him further, and you’re already on thin ice, letting the cute stray run around your shared home while he makes a face at each sight of its fur.

You coo as the kitten licks your nose when you hold him up to your face. “Do I name him after you? Can I name him after you? I’m naming him after you.”

His eyes narrow, glaring at the impossibly tiny space between you and the animal. “You are not naming it after me.”

“Kuni,” you negotiate. Not that he has a choice anyway because you already have your mind set on it. “Kuni, baby, are you hungry? Do you want some food?”

Your Kunikuzushi bristles, hackles rising. “Seriously? You’re doing this?”

The cat, as if beckoned by his voice, paws at him. “Meow,” the little kitten says softly. Wanderer, to the cat’s dismay, doesn’t respond; he simply rises from his seat and leaves.

So it’s established that you’ve long accepted that Wanderer is not fond of your new pet.

A crying shame because the cat adores him. You don’t know if there’s anything deep to his hatred for your new stray or if he’s just jealous that your undivided attention is no longer on him, but you took pity and decided to own the responsibility of taking care of it.

Which makes it a surprise to come home one day and see your boyfriend nestled against your bed with the kitten curled up on his chest, meowing as he smiles faintly and rubs its head with a finger.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re hungry again?” he murmurs. If you had been in another room, you wouldn't have heard it yourself. “Don’t get too greedy.”

Your breath hitches, too afraid to shatter this moment by bursting into the room. Then again, you should’ve realized that the cat has been sticking too long around him too often without something at play. Perhaps the reason why it’s so fond of your boyfriend is because of secret tender moments like this.

“Your owner will get mad at me if I overfeed you,” he says conspiratorially, rubbing his finger against the cat’s chin while it purrs and nuzzles its face further into his palm for more.

Your heart melts, a tiny noise escaping your lips at the sight of the ever-so-haughty Wanderer on the bed, all but cuddling with your pet.

Wanderer’s eyes snap the crack of the door, perfectly meeting yours as if he knew all along that you were there. “Not a word.”

You gasp, enough to startle Wanderer and make him jump but not enough to wake the sleeping kitten on his hat. Lambad’s Tavern is a little empty, with only an adult or two hanging around to drink their sorrows away or loosen up to their heart's content. And you and your boyfriend are tucked in the far corner, where no one would bother to peep.

“Kunikuzushi!” you cry out, hands hovering around his head in panic. “Kuni, careful, what if Kuni falls?”

Kunikuzushi the human(?)’s face twists in confusion. “You should have never named it that.”

“Kuni,” you hiss as his movements have caused the cat to stir, yet miraculously not wake. “Don’t let him fall, ‘kay? God, I can’t bring myself to even leave my seat.”

He sighs, long and heavy. “I’m not going to drop him. Have more faith in me, will you? I have a better sense of balance than any of you in this Tavern combined.”

“But what if he falls and you accidentally attack him by trying to save him?”

“I’m not gonna wind blade the fucking cat.”

You’re staring at the kitten, who is, unfortunately, looking all too much at home on Wanderer’s hat as if it’s more comfortable than his own bed at home. It’s even worse that Wanderer spoils the cat rotten and lets him sleep wherever he wants. Now, wherever he walks, he has a tiny animal asleep on the top of his head.

Wanderer huffs, squeezing your mouth with a hand to prevent you from arguing. “If you love the cat, you will get us food and avoid waking it up with your yapping, got it?”

“Aw,” you smile, “you don’t wanna wake him up?”

He scowls. “Are you going to let us starve?”

The sight of him and the kitten looks too adorable. You can’t resist from agreeing to whatever Kuni the human is ordering you to do. You rise from your seat, leaving but not forgetting to kiss the cat’s head and Wanderer’s cheek, who flushes brightly and grumbles but doesn’t complain.

[yanderemommabean]

My dearest butterfly, 

I usually pride myself on having a way with words, never having my tongue tied, never having to stutter or stumble, and yet, with you, I find it hard to even breathe let alone speak. Ever since the day you stepped into my clinic, stepped into my life, I’ve found myself in a fog, never able to say what I feel, to speak with confidence, like without you I'm some sort of shell of myself. 

As a doctor, I assumed I was ill, sick, perhaps coming down with something that would pass with rest and time. However, I found out the truth- I was sick of course, but nothing that would be cured with needles and antibiotics. 

My dear butterfly, I have come to find out, my ailment is love sickness. As cutesy as that sounds, what I mean to say is- I'm utterly obsessed with you, and cannot rest or feel alive until I see you in my sight, or feel you by my side. 

The fact I am blessed enough to touch you, to examine every area, intimate or not, to be trusted with your darkest medical secrets-It fuels me more than any other patient has. With you, curing you and your health just has more meaning to me, has more depth and humanity. You have that way about you, making me feel deeper than any human ever has, reaching my core and burrowing deep within the walls of my heart. 

This letter is nothing but a love filled ramble, but one I simply had to write. I can no longer hide how I feel, how I crave. I don't expect you to know what to do with all of this information right away, so, I’ll give you a few good rules to go by while everything sets in and has time to process. 

This is all true. I adore you, deeper than anyone could ever adore you, and more intense than any past lover could ever dream 

I refuse to let you try and deny me. You can be coy, you can be shy, you can even need time and space, but you wont be with anyone else but me in the romantic sense. I’ll take whatever precautions I need to ensure this rule is followed. 

I mean you absolutely no harm, however, as mentioned above, I’ll do what I must. Just sit back and take in what you need, but know, I’m utterly sick for you darling, there’s no way you can turn me away, be your attempts silly or desperate. 

I’ll be sure to send this letter over the weekend to give you more time, but, if by chance the postal service messes up, a few days letting your mind wander at your work wouldn’t be awful either. 

I’ll see you soon, my love. We’ll discuss this more in person, where my words are sharper than the pen I used, and my voice will convey just how serious I am about all of this. 

All yours, only yours, 

-Doctor Lee.

(-Mommabean, hope you liked!)

[sweeterlovers]

LABYRINTH / FERNANDO ALONSO

fernando alonso x female singer reader / SMAU FIC

FACE CLAIM / TAYLOR SWIFT

WARNINGS / badly google translated spanish

-

INSTAGRAM

liked by vogue, ynfanpage, and 654,793 others

ynupdates in a recent interview for the upcoming release of YN/LN’s feature on vogue, when asked if she has anything coming up YN responded saying, “funny enough i actually have been writing some music lately. so i’m thinking about releasing a song about a special someone” what do we think about this? new boyfriend? new love song? let us know!!

view all comments

user7 she served that photoshoot

user2 seriously she ate it up

user07 i’m excited to get the magazine!!

user32 i wonder what the song is about?

user44 well she did say it’s about a special someone soo.. maybe a boyfriend or a friend 🤷🏼‍♀️

user08 well the last time YN has gone public with a guy was in like 2016 with harry styles so it seems unlikely and likely at the same time

user26 her hair looks so good !!!!!

user43 what i’m personally surprised about is that she mentioned her love life. usually YN is very secretive about her personal life so maybe she is very serious about this guy

user082 that makes sense. hopefully the song will give us more details 😅

-

INSTAGRAM

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, voguemagazine, and 789,065 others

yourusername super excited to announce that tonight (may 17th) at 12pm i’ll be releasing a brand new song titles “labyrinth” this song is about a very special someone in my heart 🤍 i hope you all enjoy it (and have fun guessing who it’s about)

view all comments

user26 AHHHHH!!!!!

user0052 i’m so excited 😆

user538 who else will be staying up 🔽⬇️?!????

user2 meeee

user06 ME TWO

user03 me threeeee !!!

user87 already taking my nap 😴

user1 she looks pretty

user8 the theme is very lilac yk

user78 AN THE GUESSING GAME STARTS NOW 👏👏👏

user6 can’t wait for the crazy predictions

user53 i’m guessing it’s about a new boyfriend

user51 right but whoo…

user5878 i doubt it’ll be another actor or singer soo maybe an athlete 🤷

user4 labyrinth out tonight!!!!!!!!!!

user70 can’t wait 😝

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POST RACE INTERVIEW WITH FERNANDO ALONSO

Interviewer: Fernando congratulations on P2!

Fernando: Thank you! It was a bit tough but we got through it. So ultimately I’m very happy with myself and the team!

Interviewer: Do you have any plans tonight to celebrate? Perhaps some dinner with the team or some partying? Hm?

Fernando: Well I was planning on listening to YN/LN’s new song but after that I may go out to dinner with a special someone.

Interviewer: Special someone? Girlfriend perhaps?

Fernando: Eh we’ll see.

Interviewer: Mysterious as always Fernando.

-

TWITTER

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INSTAGRAM

liked by landonorris, lance_stroll, and 566,287 others

fernandoalo_oficial celebrated my podium with the only other person i would want to be with. thank you for all the support from the fans and the team!

view all comments

user6 FERNANDO WHAT

user4 i’m not even surprised anymore 🤦‍♀️

user061 i wasn’t familiar with your game

user77 have you seen the man???????

user605 seriously, i’m a married man with kids but i’m gay for fernando alonso ✊

user15 real

user80 a blondeeeee i seee 👱‍♀️

user74 the cartier bag with the flowers 😍😍

user95 seriously tho!! go off mr alonso

user026 i would die for a man to get me that

user186 super cute

lance_stroll congratulations man! you did an amazing job 👏 tell her i said hi as well please!

fernandoalo_oficial thank you lance! she says hello as well 😅

user60 lance what do you know????????????????

user5 LANCE TELL US WHO SHE IS

lance_stroll sorry i’ve been sworn to secrecy 🤐

user520 if i was being sworn secrecy by fernando i would listen, that man scares me

*liked by fernandoalo_oficial*

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INSTAGRAM

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ynupdates YN has been seen in spain recently!! 🇪🇸 ❤️ any thoughts on why she is spain?

view all comments

user6 spain?????

user142 hmmm maybe just a vacation 🤷🏼‍♀️

user9 she looks good

user1 yeah i love her too!! the flowers are cute

user1347 🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸

user14 i have a theory but i will be called delusional…..

usee096 SAY IT RN! BE DELULU

user365 delulu is in fact the solution

user14 OK FIIINEE! the reason she is in spain is because she is visiting her boyfriend. you may ask why is she visiting her boyfriend in spain? the reason why is because she is dating SPANISH DRIVER FERNANDO ALONSO!!

user5 pls take your meds

user14 i’m right guys don’t even because why else has fernando revealed that he has a girlfriend?? hmmm and on top of that in a recent interview he said that he has been listening to YN!!!

user653 i see your point butttttttt it’s quite far off

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INSTAGRAM

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, selenagomez, and 347,861 others

yourusername a year with you my love 🤍 thank you for supporting me throughout my career and my writing and most of all thank you for being my muse 🤍🤍 i love you fernando! your my champion :)

view all comments

user6 power couple fr

user674 this is so random lmaoo

user8 i mean yeah but they are pretty cute together!

user22 this makes a lot more sense on why she was in spain

fernandoalo_oficial mi amor y mi tesoro, te amo mucho, eres mi mujer [my love and my treasure, i love you so much . your my woman]

yourusername fernando no words can express my love for you. there is no one else i would rather be with ❤️

fernandoalo_oficial your the only one in my heart ♥️

user55 😭😭😭😭😭😭 so so so so cute

user1 “my love and my treasure” i’m so down bad for them

selenagomez you guys are adorable 🥰

yourusername thank you babe :)))

user51 can’t wait to see them together!

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TEAM RADIO / SWEETERLOVERS - thought this would be funny considering taylor’s new song!!!! taylonso will live forever ✊

[randombush3]

Kinda miss Fleur and Alexia bickering 🫣 can I get a request a one short of them getting into a fight

sorry I took ages to do it - I've been trying to think of a scenario. I imagine that the dutch players have had a very miserable international window lol

[...]

I slam the door behind me. 

There are few things in life that cause me absolute devastation, but this week has been one of them. I’m tired, I’m angry, and, what’s worse, I’m resenting the fact that Alexia’s apartment is bright and happy. 

She smiles as she emerges from the bathroom, perhaps not hearing how I entered as I used my own key. 

I take it as smugness. (I want it to be smug.) 

“Hola, mi amor,” she says with caution, heading over to greet me after not seeing much of each other for the best part of a week. She must sense the tension because her smile dampens, victorious glow from winning fucking everything fading away. 

“Hey,” I mutter, tone clipped and curt and dripping with resentment. Alexia approaches, concern beginning to make her frown, reaching out gently to touch my arm. 

I jerk it away from her. 

For the briefest of moments, I feel a long-dead emotion: hatred. I loathe Spain’s success, am jealous of it, and it is not fair that it comes at my expense. Not when we are together, not when we are no longer enemies. 

It was easy to play against Alexia when I was her rival. I could tackle her freely and let my teammates foul her when she was too good to beat, able to watch on without remorse. Seeing her hit the grass brought about a vindictive, satisfied feeling, and I relished in it. 

Being her girlfriend is a lot harder, and it has been a while since I have had to play on a different team to her. It has been a while since we lost to Spain, but, just like they did in August, they have crushed our dreams once more. 

My dreams. 

The Olympics are more special to me than any other tournament, and will continue to be until the games are no longer valued in women’s football. They are my family’s history, the gateway into my relationship with my mum, and they are now out of my reach. 

I huff out a breath, struggling to contain my emotions. “We lost twice so we won’t be going.” I tell her what she already knows but she does not rub it in. “Jaimie is going to qualify.”

Alexia looks at me, piercing eyes seeing through the floodgates I have shut. She must realise that I have cried on the plane – maybe even that I hadn’t stopped crying since we played Germany, only reining it all in as I made my way up the stairs to her place.

“What do you want, Alexia?” I snap as she attempts to touch me again, blinking myself back into reality and hoping I don’t start to cry. 

Clearly, my wounds have not been nursed enough. 

Alexia recoils, hurt flashing across her features before she schools them into something harder. Her jaw clenches. Maybe she thinks I am being immature. “What’s wrong with you, Fleur?” she asks, her voice tinged with frustration. “I know you're upset….”

“Oh, like you care,” I retort, bristling at her words. “You seemed happy to run around with Jenni, celebrating your socks off!” 

Her eyes narrow, patience wearing thin. “Excuse me?” She doesn’t sound convinced that I am the real Fleur de Voss, looking me up and down to check I haven’t been replaced with someone else. 

“You clearly have let it get to you. Have you forgotten what it’s like to lose?” 

“Oh, of course,” she scoffs, “because that has never happened to me before. I was inconsolable after we lost the Champions League final; I didn’t come out of my room for–”

“Please, spare me the sob story.” I roll my eyes. “You’re on top of the world right now, Ale. Spain wins everything and you keep adding to your list of victories, crushing anyone who dares to get in your way. And the worst part is, you don’t even play! You don’t even play, and you act like you have done it single-handedly, with the biggest grin on your face–” 

“Do you think I enjoy seeing you in pain?” She trembles with anger. She shouts, and she hasn’t meant to be the first to do that because she instantly steps back in regret. I may have flinched at the shock of her volume, but now I square my shoulders, daring her to fix my heartbreak. “Do you think it didn’t take all my willpower to not go over to you, to not comfort you, or hug you, or try to make you feel better? Do you think I wasn’t trying to get to you as soon as I could? Or that, in Sevilla, I didn’t look at flights to Germany so that you wouldn’t have to spend the night alone?” She steps towards me. “I know how much going to Paris meant to you, to your family. Believe me, I heard what your mother said to you – even if my English isn’t that good.” 

“Your English is fine,” I mutter, instinctively destroying her stupid insecurity. 

“Fleur, how could you think I take pleasure in your losses? You know me better than that.” 

I shake my head, unable to quell the storm of emotions raging inside of me. “I feel like I don’t know anything right now,” I admit, hardly audible. 

I was going to the Olympics. I was sure of it. 

Jaimie and I were going together, and, although Mum competed for a different flag, we were going to follow in her footsteps; continuing her legacy because she promised me I would be good enough to do that. She promised us both, time and time again. 

She may have left us, but she was the one who wrangled me a spot in the Australian youth teams. She started my international career for me, and I was going to repay her by showing her it was worth it. 

What is it worth now?

“All I know is that I’m tired of feeling like my best isn’t good enough, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending everything’s okay.” 

Suddenly, this is about more than just losing the Nations League and not qualifying for the Olympics. This is the fallout of the Ballon d’Or, and we both know it. Alexia seems to have seen this coming. 

“I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me,” she begins, though guilt courses through me because I know it would have been asking the impossible of her, “but I’m here now.”

[dark-frosted-heart]

The Beast's User Manual - Clavis (His POV)

CLAVIS YOU ABSOLUTE CUTIE

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

In front of my fiancee, I’ve  always considered myself to be an elegant, magnificent, joyful, and loving gentleman.

If Emma feels even an ounce of unhappiness, it’s the loving gentleman’s disgrace—

I plan to keep working hard at it every day.

--

(It’s that time already…)

I’ve been holed up in my room dealing with documents for several hours already—

After the usual breakfast with Emma, briefing with servants, waking Chevalier up, time slipped away as I got to work. 

As I moved to relax my body, which had become stiff after sitting in a chair for so long, a wave of sleepiness hit me.

(Perhaps I’ve been pushing myself to hard lately)

(It’s been a fruitful time, but I still haven’t gotten enough sleep)

(I have a meeting later…I can afford a short break)

I stumbled over to the sofa and sat down, sensing that I’m at my limit with the yawn I let out.

I removed my ascot tie, loosened my collar, and lied down.

(Still, the situation’s calmed down considerably…)

~~ Flashback ~~

Clavis: Several jewelry dealers are scheduled to have dinner with us today. We’re having a small party, but what do you think will happen when we show off our love?

Emma: I think you can get the message across without having to show off.

Clavis: Yes, they’ll definitely pay us tribute. At any rate, the purpose of the company’s for me to arrange export destinations. I wonder how much jewelry will be collected to gain my favor. I’ll arrange a deal with the one whose jewelry best suits your taste as an honor to the winner.

~~ Flashback End ~~

Originally, the party with the jewelers was a strategy for Emma to gain footing.

(Jewelers' customers are mainly nobles…) 

(The information they see and hear spreads among other nobles)

(The more favor shown, the better the nobles’ attitudes toward Emma will be)

(Nothing wrong with taking measures)

(I also wanted to use that as an excuse to show off my cute fiancee)

~~ Flashback ~~

Merchant: I’ve heard rumors, but it looks like the real deal, Your Highness.

Clavis: Yes. Go home with that image of our wonderful bond seared into your memory.

Merchant: As you say. However, Your Highness must have a lot on your mind…

Clavis: Oh, what sharp ears you have?

Merchant: In our line of work, you’ll need to be well-informed or you’ll miss out on huge profits. His highness comes from a prestigious line that has served the Michel family for generations… I’ve heard that the head of the family is making some kind of move.

Clavis: What, it’s just some stubborn old man trying to play games with me. However, it’s not my intention for my fiancee to hear about this.

Merchant: Of course I’m aware of that. There’s already been rumors going around about Your Highness and the head of the family… People always want fresh rumors. I’ll do my small part to help. This is not just a quarrel between Your Highness and the head of the family… The huge profits coming from paying tribute to Lady Emma are what we merchants are after.

Clavis: Haha, you’re very competent. I also like to choose my business partners carefully, but I think I can work well with you. Can I expect great things…?

~~ End flashback ~~

(That party went well. Doesn’t look like Emma noticed anything was amiss)

(After all, there’s always troubling rumors when it comes to women related to royalty…)

(I can’t forgive such rumors that would wipe Emma’s smile away)

~~ Flashback ~~

Emma: Mhmm…All these sweets are just to my taste!

Emma: Their signature “Rabbit and Leopard love explosion cake” in particular is the tastiest…

Clavis: I see, I see. It was worth asking the owner for some privileges as an investor.

Emma: Ah, so it was Clavis’ idea after all.

Clavis: Haha. I didn’t think you’d notice. Your power of love never ceases to amaze me.

Emma: You’re just easy to understand. Hehe…I’m really fortunate.

Clavis: Hm?

Emma: With you, there’s always something going on every day, but I’ve never felt unhappy. Thank you always, Clavis.

~~ Flashback end ~~

(It’s my duty to protect that smile…)

(Both as a gentleman and as her fiance. I don’t want to be a useless man that causes her trouble)

Suddenly, my eyes landed on a rabbit plushie I had left on the table.

With this I could use as a substitute for Emma for when she’s not by my side.

I reached out for the rabbit and hugged it close as I fell asleep.

I’d be dead if anyone were to see me like this, but this room’s a safe space protected by a lock and key.

(Emma…)

(I wonder if you still feel fortunate at this moment…)

(...)

(...)

(...Mn…)

???: -vis…

(Wha…I think I hear…something)

(No…I’m still half asleep)

(Is it time…for the meeting already?)

(But…the bell hasn’t rung yet…)

Clavis: Nn…It’s not…time yet…

(I’ve been pulling a lot of all-nighters…lately…)

(Outside the rumors and the investments…there’s still more to do…)

(And…huh…)

(...)

Clavis: *yawn* I’m…sleepy…I’ve had enough, good night…

(I don’t want to…wake up…)

(...)

(...Mn…)

(That…scent…)

(Smells like Emma…)

(If…)

(If anyone could enter this room…it’d be Emma…)

(...)

(?!)

It took only a moment for me to wake up from my nap.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Emma right there, smiling at me.

Clavis: …

Emma: G-good morning…

Clavis: …

Emma: Are you still half asleep?

The moment I realized what was going on, I got to my feet.

I hurriedly grabbed my ascot tie hanging on the back of the couch and composed myself as I tied it.

(Damn it, I’m such an idiot…)

(I gave Emma the key to my room)

(If Cyril came calling for me and I didn’t respond, then he would’ve asked Emma for help…)

I casually stuff the rabbit into a corner of the sofa.

Clavis: Emma…

Emma: Yes?

Clavis: What did you see?

Emma: Your sleeping face.

Clavis: Did I say anything strange?

Emma: You said something cute.

Clavis: …I see …

I couldn’t put on my usual smile and hid my face with a hand.

(I talked in my sleep, and she probably saw the rabbit too…)

(...I feel like dying)

Somehow, my face felt hot enough to boil water.

Emma: Are you, by any chance, embarrassed?

Clavis: Haha, there’s no way. It’s just that, you know… Yes, I thought it strange for you to sneak into my room without permission.

Emma: Hehe…You prank me often.

I thought I’d return the favor.

Clavis: I see…you got me

(I never thought someone would try to get revenge at this point…)

(My cool front’s now ruined, isn’t it?)

(Does she think I’m cute or something…? It’s okay, really)

When the heat somewhat subsided, I removed my hand from my face.

Emma’s eyes weren’t filled with disappointmentーThey were sparkling.

Emma: And it’s my dream to become a Clavis master.

Clavis: Hm? What’s with that amusing title?

Emma: It’s a title reserved for those that you know ins and outs, and can hold the reins.

It was a great learning experience today to see Clavis after you woke up from your nap.

Clavis: …

(If you say so, then you’ve already become a master)

(Because you’re the only one that has me completely wrapped around your finger)

Emma: By the way, Clavis. Here.

Emma pointed at a spot above my ear and I quickly smoothed that spot down.

I felt the bounciness of my bedhead and wanted to jump into a hole.

Emma’s shoulders shake and she looks down as if she couldn’t hold back anymore.

(Well if Emma’s enjoying herself then it’s not so badー)

(ーNOT. I need to fix this as soon as possible)

Clavis: That’s a good attitude, my dear fiancee. I like your courage to prank me as part of your journey to becoming a master.

However…

I grabbed her hand and sat her on the sofa before pinning her down.

In the same way, I’ve mastered Emma.

I think about her all hours of the day.

In this case…I could think of one or two tricks.

Clavis: You should be more careful.

It’s too naive to be satisfied with a prank. You have to expect payback.

I kissed Emma’s forehead before sliding my lips down to her cheek and then jaw, turning her face a bright red.

(Good…)

Continuing my attack, I placed a hand on her smooth leg and let it crawl upward.

I fiddled with her skirt, which had hiked up from me pushing her down.

Emma: C-Clavis…It’s almost time for the meeting!

Clavis: I know.

Emma: But your hands are still wandering…!

Clavis: Thanks to you, I woke up ahead of schedule. I have plenty of time to tease you.

(If I want to call myself an elegant, magnificent, joyful, and loving gentleman, I’ll need to forget what just happened)

Any protest is silenced by a kiss.

This usually sweeps Emma awayーor so it would seem.

However, just as our lips parted, my cheeks were caught between her hands and pulled back in.

(Wha…)

Emma took the lead and kissed me. It wasn’t a sweet peck, but an adult kind with a lot of tongue.

I was taken aback, not expecting this kind of retaliation.

Emma: Don’t underestimate me.

I’ve been poisoned by you to the point that Cyril side-eyes me.

(...)

(Ah…Forget it)

(In front of such a lovely thing, my mistakes are not important)

Clavis: When did you get so good at handling me?

Emma: Hehe, does that mean you approve?

Clavis: Yes, I’ve lost.

(Emma is so much better than me)

Emma: You can leave yourself to me.

With Emma, my fatigue’s washed away by happiness.

(At the end of the day…I’m working for myself, not my lovely fiancee.

(To make this happiness eternal…)

(Let’s go the extra mile)

[homeofthelonelywriter]

K.I.A. | Oneshot

(A/N) This one could really hit hard. Please take care of yourself.

Pairing: Simon x Reader (no Y/N)

Warning: lots of angst, death of a loved one, depression, grief, alcohol, comfort in the end

Synopsis: I don't think there is a need for a synopsis. The title says it all.

It was supposed to be fine.

It was supposed to be safe.

“It’s going to be a quick and easy mission, love. I’ll be back in no time.”

That’s what he had said.

That’s what he had promised.

But he lied.

The mission wasn’t quick. It wasn’t easy. He wouldn’t be back in no time.

He was dead.

Killed in action, an honorable death.

To hell with them. To hell with their honorable death. Death isn’t honorable, death is death. And now he’s gone. And I’ll never see him again.

It’s his funeral and I can’t even look at them. The ones that survived. Price, Soap, Gaz. They all came back but he didn’t. He didn’t and he never will.

They hand me a flag, folded into a triangle. If I could, I would throw it at their heads. If I could, I would yell at them. If I could, I would I hit them. But I can’t. I can’t do anything, but stand there, hold that stupid flag and cry while they fire off their shots. I can’t do anything.

Well, I can do something. I can lie in bed. I can cry, a lot. I can ignore my hunger until I almost throw up. I can see his shadow, trick myself into thinking that he’s back. That he’s alive.

And I can think of him. Of all the good memories. How we met. The first time we kissed. How he asked me out. Our first date. The birthday he gave me the puppy.

The puppy…at the though of Riley, I sit up. At least until I realise that my mom took her after the funeral. She was safe, cared for. I was alone. So fucking alone.

I don’t know how much time passed, a week? Maybe a month. Perhaps even two.

I finally get up and take a shower. I smell after all.

The shower feels incredibly small without Simon behind me.

And that’s how I start crying again. I sit under the stream for what feels like hours before I finally find the strength to get out and dry off my body before falling back onto my bed.

But now it’s getting better.

I take showers from time to time.

Sometimes I even eat some food. I don’t cook anything, everything I’ve had, had spoiled by now, but I just order in.

It’s been four months since Price stood at my door and told me he was dead. That Simon would never come back. And I’ve finally found a way to dull the pain.

Alcohol isn’t the answer, of course. But for now it’s the only thing that is making me feel even slightly alive.

I spent most my day at the bar nearby, what else am I supposed to do?

Home makes me think about Simon.

Work makes me think about Simon.

Hanging out with my family or friends make me think of Simon.

We had never gone to this bar together, so I’m safe here. And the alcohol drowns out my thoughts of him. Well, most of them anyway. At least it leaves enough sense to find my way back home.

It’s become some sort of ritual. Get out of bed, get dressed, go to the bar, get shitfaced and go back home.

Today isn’t any different. Why should it be? But why…does it feel different.

I usually spend multiple hours there, but today I just want to get back home. After I pay for the drink I actually had, I make my way home. But I feel watched, the whole way back. At least I’ll feel better as soon as I’m in bed.

I unlock the front door and walk inside, not paying any mind to the big shadow standing in the hallway, or to how similar it looks to Simon. Instead, I lock the door behind me and shrug off the jacket I’m wearing, hanging it up.

I walk past the shadow and to the staircase leading up and to the bedroom I share…shared with Simon. But something stops me. One word.

“Love?”

I freeze not moving a single muscle. It can’t be him. But it sounds like him. But he’s dead. But it looks like him.

Stiff, almost like a robot, I turn around and look at the shadow. And I see Simon.

“You’re not real.”

I shake my head and start walking up the stairs.

“Love, it’s me. I’m sorry, I-”

I cut him off as I spin around and slap him across the face. That used to get rid of the hallucinations, but…he’s still here. His head whips to the right from the impact, but he doesn’t move.

“Simon…”

He looks at me. He is here. So I touch him.

I place my hands against his chest, against his beating heart.

And it is beating. He is alive. He is here.

I move my hands to his shoulder. They are as broad and hard as I remember.

I move them to his neck, feel his pulse. He is here. He is alive.

“Simon.”

I only realise that I’m crying when Simon lifts his hands and carefully wipes them away.

“Simon.”

A sob wracks through me and I let him wrap his arms around me.

Another sob and I let him pull me closer.

My body shakes as he holds it to his.

His body. Firm and warm. Hard, covered in muscles.

He is here. He is alive.

“You were dead.”

He tightens his hold on me.

“I know, love. I know.”

I claw at his jacket, trying to get him closer.

“I cried for you.”

Again, his hold tightens.

“I know. I wish I could’ve done something. All I could do was watch.”

I continue to cry and sob in his arms.

At some point, Simon picks me up and carries me upstairs. But not to the bed. To the bathroom.

Carefully, he sets me down on the edge of the bathtub before he turns on the shower. With hands, as gentle as I remember them, he undresses me, before he undresses himself.

He navigates me into the shower, before he carefully washes me. All the while, holding me close and consoling me whenever I have another break down.

And then, he leaves me there. He leaves the water on and it feels like he’s gone again. Maybe I just imagined him. Him being here. Him consoling me. Him taking care of me.

But I didn’t.

He joins me in the shower again after ten minutes.

“I just changed the sheets real quick. Let’s get you out of here, princess.”

Once again he picks me up and carries me to the edge of the bathtub. He had placed a towel there, so I don’t feel the cold of the metal when he sets me down.

Carefully, as if I were made out of porcelain he dried my body before he pulled one of his old t-shirts over my head. Once he is dry as well, he carries me into the bedroom and places me on the bed, before he gently tugs me in.

“I’ll be right back, my love. I’ll just get you a glass of water.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead and is about to walk away when I catch his wrist.

“Please don’t leave. Don’t leave me again.”

He turns to look at me and opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

“Simon, please. I…I can’t loose you again.”

Tears are rolling down my cheeks again. And this is what he needed.

He nods and climbs into bed beside me, immediately pulling me close against his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry my love. I’ll never leave you again. I promise. Never again.”

I nod but continue to sob into his chest. And this is how I fall asleep.

I wake up the next morning, alone in bed.

“Simon? Simon!”

Without thinking, I try to rush to the door, but my feet get tangled in the sheets. I fall to the floor, but get up immediately.

Please let him be there. Please let him be alive. Please.

Please please please please please pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple-

“Love? Are you alright?”

He is here. He is alive.

“You…you are here. You are alive.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist. His arms immediately wrap around me and support my weight completely.

“Ssh, it’s okay my love. I’m here. I promise you I’m here.”

Like a baby, he started to gently bounce me up and down until I slowly started to calm down. Now I know why that works on babies.

For the rest of the morning, I stay there, wrapped securely in his arms, while he cooks pancakes and cleans the dishes. I even eat in his arms.

And even after that, I’m hesitant to leave them. But I do. I let him set me down on the couch and watch him as he flies through the house and cleaned the messes that had accumulated since his ‘death’.

His ‘death’.

“Why?”

Simon stops in his tracks and turns to look at me.

“Why what, my love?”

I sigh, already feeling bad about asking this question. But I need to know.

“Why did you fake your death? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Now Simon sighs. He puts away the broom and sits down next to me.

“There was a mole in the 141 and we had to flush them out. This was the only way we could think of. I’m so so sorry love. I promise, I tried my best to get them to change their mind. Or to at least let me tell you, but the mole…he had to buy it and…”

“They were afraid I wouldn’t fake it well enough.”

Simon nods, sadness clear in his eyes.

I nod. And I can’t say that I don’t understand. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating him. I just never thought it would go that far.

“Si…please never do that again.”

He shakes his head and picks me up, putting me down on his lap.

“Never, princess. I’ll never leave you again. I swear on my grave.”

At that statement I pull back slightly and look at him. His lips were pulled into a slight smile. And then I start laughing.

“You are such an idiot.”

Simon chuckles and nods before pulling me back onto his chest.

“I’m sorry, love. I just couldn’t help myself.”

I shake my head and cuddle into him and I know this is going to be alright. We are going to be alright.

Please consider reblogging and following me! It helps a lot!

Call of Duty - Masterlist

Master-Masterlist

[mumms-the-word]

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 1

Ketheric, Selûne, Shar, and Aylin

I’ve played through the game a few times at this point and I always find myself struggling to understand the timeline or at least order of events that occurred with the Shadow Curse. I know some things conflict because there was one version of the story in Early Access (the version where Halsin accidentally killed Isobel) and it was heavily altered for the final version of the game, and some things just got *gestures vaguely* waved away, but I keep wanting to make sense of it anyway.

So that’s what this post (edit: I mean series) is going to do. After the cut, obviously. Long deep dive post ahead! Picture of a tired Ketheric for attention and because same bro c':

TLDR: These events happen either in the 1370s or the 1390s. Ketheric loses Melodia (his wife) and Isobel (his daughter) and turns to Shar. He captures Aylin, then builds a Big Dark Justiciar Army, training them and forcing them to kill Aylin over and over. Meanwhile, a Selûnite resistance is brewing in the town, and it's kind of making everything worse. One Selûnite rebel even goes so far as to make a deal with a devil. And all of that is BEFORE the Harpers and druids arrive as an army.

We don’t have dates, unfortunately, aside from knowing that the shadow curse itself was unleashed about a century ago, so “timeline” would be a loose term to use if/when I use it. But I have two theories about when it happened.

One theory is that because the Spellplague was happening between 1385-1395 DR (during which there was neither a true Weave nor a Shadow Weave, which is what the shadow curse is made of), the shadow curse likely started around 1396-1399, just shy of a full 100 years before the game’s events in 1492. But that’s just me conjecturing based on the idea that if the Shadow Weave is gone…how does the shadow curse stick around? 

The other theory is that the shadow curse was unleashed sometime between 1371 and 1374. This is because a) Dark Justiciars were still being sent by Ketheric Thorm to destroy Moonhaven (the Blighted Village) in 1371 (Ketheric writes a letter about attacking Moonhave and a journal dated 1371 boasts that Ilyn Toth, the basement apothecary-necromancer dude, got killed by Dark Justiciars) and b) because Khelben Arunsun himself, the literal Blackstaff (super powerful and very old wizard), wrote a letter negotiating surrender on behalf of the Harpers.

We cannot be party to the suffering of the people of Reithwin, and indeed, of the great loss of life that this war will visit upon the Sword Coast - and, perhaps, beyond it. So it is written, and so let it be done, Khelben Arunsun, on behalf of the High Harper Council and its allies.

Wiki says Khelben broke his alliance with the Harpers in 1370 due to some disagreements, but it’s possible his splinter faction was at the battlefield with the other Harpers. I doubt he was there personally, but who knows. I wouldn’t go any earlier than 1371, though, because Baldur’s Gate II happens in 1369, and Jaheira would have been too busy dealing with those events to deal with Ketheric too. But it can’t be later than 1374,  because Khelben Arunsun dies in 1374.

(I have questions about how the shadow curse survived the Spellplague and the loss of the Shadow Weave, but the answer to that could simply be All Magic Was Weird and Unstable at the time…plus Thaniel was already in the Shadowfell by this time, so the land couldn't heal.)

So it’s either 1371-1374 (because of the Khelben timeline, and I guess the Spellplague didn’t affect it) or it’s 1396-1399 (because of the Spellplague, but the writers just forgot Khelben was dead by that point, or maybe his ghost wrote the surrender notice idk). Both are good enough for Halsin and Jaheira to talk about things happening “a century ago,” but you can see why I’m avoiding dates.

But let’s push it back a few more decades. Back when Ketheric was a Selûnite and Isobel a very small child.

As we’re probably all well aware, during this time, Ketheric worships Selûne along with his wife, Melodia. At some point, he even commissions the local Mason’s Guild to build Moonrise as a testament to Selûne herself, according to Morfred the mason (who you can talk to in House of Hope, it’s pretty cool). Ketheric and Melodia have Isobel, but then Melodia dies while Isobel is still pretty young. Ketheric remains a Selûnite, mostly for Isobel’s sake, until she dies too.

Ketheric: I’ll tell you a story, True Soul. About a man who sold himself piece by piece. He had…everything. A wonderful wife. A brilliant daughter. They lived not far from here. His wife died too young. Grief tore through their home like a thief, snatching away the scent of her hair, the rustle of her skirts. But the man did not break. He could not break. His daughter needed him whole, after all. She grew up—grew strong. Challenged him. Filled his heart with such joy it supplanted all sorrow. When she was killed, the man…he tried to remain whole, but it wasn’t possible. Do you understand? Player: So the man fell to pieces. Ketheric: The pain was unbearable. All-consuming. He decided he’d do anything for reprieve. First, he sold himself to the goddess of loss. But the pain did not subside, no matter his obscene feats of devotion. Then a new god came—a god who promised the man something wonderful: his daughter. Her life returned. Imagine it. He would have to give everything: his body and soul entire. He did not hesitate. Not for a moment.

We know this story. Ketheric turns to Shar and everything goes Very, Very Badly. But the exact details/order of Ketheric's Sharran days are a little hazy. So here's what I've been able to piece together to sate my own curiosity.

While Ketheric is still a faithful (but waning) Selûnite, Dame Aylin visits as an emissary of Selûne. Moonrise/Reithwin is a Selûnite refuge and the Thorms are allegedly devout favorites of the moon goddess, so it's a big deal. While she's there, she and Isobel fall in love. Ketheric disapproves, in part because Aylin is immortal and Isobel is not (Isobel and Aylin both say this in dialogue).

Plus, and this is a personal opinion, I think Ketheric might have seen Aylin's interest in Isobel as another thing Selûne was trying to take from him. It isn't enough that Selûne let Melodia die, now her daughter is trying to woo his daughter and take her too.

But then Isobel dies. Somehow. The launch version of the game isn’t clear how. Aylin mourns but Ketheric spirals. He turns to Shar, hoping she will force him to forget about Isobel, but he doesn't. Nevertheless, he becomes a zealous Sharran.

[A journal spanning years, beginning with the birth of a child and ending with what appears to be a series of dateless tragedies.] How can she be gone? Where did she go? The Moonmaiden cannot be so unfeeling - so cruel. Not toward her most devoted servant. Not after Melodia. It makes no sense. It makes no sense. I won't survive it. That much I know. Forgetting is the only possibility. The embrace of oblivion. The reprieve of nothingness. It would not be possible for a man to survive knowing what he knows. Knowing what can be lost. Shar understands that. Hers is the only mercy I can comprehend. My mind is full of holes - yet not enough. The emptiness. The time. The nothingness. And still I remember. Still I remember it all. There is no mercy in this beating heart. There is no mercy in life at all.

He builds the Gauntlet of Shar (or maybe renovates and Shar-ifies it, maybe it was already there) beneath the Thorm mausoleum, connecting it to the much more ancient Grymforge area. Grymforge becomes a kind of base or stronghold for the Justiciar army while the Gauntlet is designed to test their mettle and prepare them for the task that will make them official Dark Justiciars—killing Aylin, though it's not clear when Ketheric and Balthazar lure her into the Shadowfell.

I'll get back to that later.

We know that Grymforge was used as a Dark Justiciar stronghold and possible training ground because of all the Sharran stuff we find there. It's like super obvious. The feasthall room, the dormitories, the weapons that lay everywhere. There's basically a whole Sharran city in the Underdark beneath and near Reithwin, some of which we can see from various points in Grymforge. In fact, if you go through the poisoned room where Nere is, you can see the Gauntlet down below.

(It's a little hard to see here 'cause I play on console but there's a glimpse of the giant Shar statue that takes up a ton of space in the Gauntlet. Somehow, the two places used to connect.)

Ketheric's new Sharran teachings are ruthless and vicious. He encourages his Dark Justiciars to kill a Selûnite once a tenday or more as part of their training and service to the Lady of Loss.

The Law of Nightfall: From the moon falls the foulest of lights. iIt peeks through cracks and fissures, illuminating the most remote recesses of the Underdark. Light bestows hope, a pernicious notion which must be extinguished. At the darkest hour, pray to your Lady and feast in Her honour. The second day after, slay a disciple of Selûne. If none may be found, a Lathanderian or Mystran are an acceptable offering. Do this once a tenday, and the Lady of Loss shall know you.

Reithwin and the surrounding village soon become a hunting ground. Most people convert. Those who don't get hung in the square as examples (according to a shadow memory). All faithful Selûnites are forced to practice their devotion to the Moonmaiden in secret, led by Morfred the mason and his brother Halfred the innkeeper of Last Light Inn. Halfred hides Selûnite relics beneath Last Light (you can still find them) while Morfred plots a true resistance.

[Hidden amidst columns detailing the income and expenditure of a tavern is an aside, written in tiny, urgent handwriting.] I have concealed the sacred relics of our revered goddess in the darkest corner of this place. Morfred, my loyal brother, seeks to forge a network of allies to stand against the oppressive reign of Ketheric Thorm. Sadly, fear has gripped the hearts of many, turning them away from our cause. I cannot truly blame them, for trepidation fills my soul as well - but I must put aside my own fears and reunite with Morfred in the bowels of the Mason's Guild. Together, we shall preserve what we can of the Moonmaiden's light, and hope that the banners of the faithful soon rise against that treacherous dog, Thorm.

But as time goes on, Morfred grows increasingly distressed with the events happening in Reithwin and the ease with which people are eager to switch faiths.

- How quickly things change. The Thorms are Selûnite through and through - or so I believed. Perhaps Ketheric only converted for Melodia, and with her death - and then his daughter's - his faith died too. But to turn to Shar? It beggars belief. - Ketheric's Justiciars are growing greater in number, and more determined to rout out any traces of Selûne in Reithwin. Why do they think this town was built? One cannot rip out the foundations of a building and expect it to remain standing. - Brother and I remain the last two bastions of Our Lady of Silver in the town. A few - the trusting few - come to worship in secret by moonlit nights. Others - converts, all. Whether they truly believe, I cannot say. Impossible, isn't it?

(Don't worry, the second page is further down lol spoilers!)

Life is not going well in Reithwin, even if you're not a Selûnite. Ketheric is determined to destroy all traces of Selûne and treason of any kind. His Dark Justiciars begin tormenting citizens to reveal pockets of Selûnite resistance. He also suffers no treasonous word against him, even if the citizens in question aren't Selûnite. We see a glimpse of this and of the Justiciars' cruel influence during the questline with He Who Was and Madeline, who ratted out her friends' innocent(?) complaints about Ketheric to some Justiciars, resulting in their brutal deaths.

Eventually Morfred realizes that the Dark Justiciars are too powerful to resist and turns to Raphael, offering his soul in exchange for something to destroy the Dark Justiciar army.

- Sick of standing idle while Justiciars gain power in our humble town. What will become of us if we allow it? I met a man who was no man. Touched by a devil. Or maybe worse. But he offered me something I couldn't refuse - help. - The time is now. Ketheric's Justiciars, their stronghold in the temple below - they will be wiped out. All of them. I didn't ask how. I just want them gone. Let the Harpers have at Ketheric now. They'll make short work of him.

You can ask Morfred about this in the House of Hope, actually, where he confirms the details. I mean, he's in Raphael's house, so it's pretty obvious the he did, in fact, make a deal with him.

Infernal Mason: When tragedy came, my master fell into darkness and despair. He marshalled a great army to ruin the world and bring all into shadow. I could not let it happen. I sought out the devil Raphael and signed an infernal pact with him. He promised to destroy my master’s army, and I promised him my soul in return. The devil was true to his word. Fiends slaughtered my master’s forces, but he endured somehow, and blighted the land.

The Fiend in question here is Yurgir, who ends up crashing through Grymforge and the Gauntlet to kill all Dark Justiciars in his path. (He misses one, because Raphael is a sneaky bastard who let one get away by turning him into a swarm of rats, but I digress.) We know Yurgir caused the destruction in Grymforge, too, because of the Merregon masks and hellbeasts we find around the area, and the fact that if you pass all the checks with the Duergar mason examining the stone, he helps you piece together this narrative:

Stonemason Kith: An ancient city, hewn from the stone by the disciples of Shar, later abandoned. Untold centuries later, a new tribe revives it. Fresh walls, fresh sculptures...until a great hellbeast charges through, toppling the walls and crushing the people! Heh - that explains the infernal plate I found. Perhaps you might have use of it.

Further proof that Grymforge and the Gauntlet were once connected...somehow.

Anyway, by the time Yurgir is called in, Morfred's already been found out. Thisobald overhears him drunkenly complaining about Ketheric in the Waning Moon and informs Ketheric of his treachery. Ketheric orders a raid on the mason's guild, leaving Halfred the lone source of Selûnite resistance. It's unknown what becomes of Halfred, but considering the fact that the inn was still taking guests (like Art Cullagh) and housing the Harpers right before the shadow curse descended (there's a shadow memory of a Harper toasting his comrades in Last Light right before the battle with Ketheric long ago), it's likely he's a victim of the curse and not Justiciar brutality.

I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.

It's unclear when Morfred dies, though he admits to witnessing the first part of the shadow curse (i.e., "...but he endured somehow, and blighted the land"). But Morfred's deal coincides in some ways with the arrival of the Harpers and druids. I think he probably makes the deal with Raphael before the Harpers officially march against Ketheric and then gets caught after he hears rumors of the Harpers.

Raphael makes good on his deal around the same the Harpers arrive, perhaps a little afterward. This means Yurgir's slaughter of Justiciars in the Underdark must happen concurrently with the battle happening topside between Ketheric's army and the Harpers/druids, meaning Ketheric is losing his army on two fronts at the same time. Victory seems assured for the Harpers and druids, but of course we know now that Ketheric had a way of cheating death already in place.

He had already imprisoned the Nightsong in a Shadowfell soul cage.

Again, we’re not sure exactly when this happens, but it’s after Isobel dies and before the shadow curse, which unleashes with Ketheric’s supposed death in the battle against the Harpers and druids. However, Aylin herself says that Ketheric and Balthazar lured her into the Shadowfell under the pretense of saving an innocent.

Dame Aylin: He and his loathsome advisor Balthazar lured me into the Shadowfell, claimed they'd found someone in need of my aid. There they trapped me in their infernal cage. I was killed, murdered, made dead, over and over and over by Justiciars of every make and kind. I was reborn, for it is my nature. And Ketheric fed upon my immortality all the while.

This makes me think that Aylin wasn’t aware of Ketheric’s conversion yet, so it must have been very soon after, because otherwise, why would she trust a known Sharran telling her to enter the Shadowfell, the realm that is entirely under Shar’s control? I also suspect Ketheric built (or renovated) the Gauntlet around Aylin after her capture, perhaps at the behest of Shar due to their collaboration in making up new Justiciar teachings, or perhaps out of a sick, vengeful desire to see Aylin tormented for daring to love his daughter.

If this is true, then there’s a very real chance that Ketheric was unkillable before he truly started to torment Reithwin town, and well before the Harpers stepped in to take him down.

Anyway we at least know that Ketheric trapped Aylin in the Shadowfell before the big battle against the Harpers because a) both Isobel and Aylin talk about her being there for a century and b) because Ketheric is already using her invulnerability to survive assassination attempts on his life prior to or during the actual battle against him and his army:

23 Elient The Harpers came too close - they poisoned Father Ketheric himself, yet he professes no ill effects. Malus insists it a fluke. Doctor he may be, but he is no less a fool for it: Father has achieved that of which I can only dream: immortality. I have long suspected. I can guess Father's purpose, but I cannot fathom the means.

This brings us to the eve of the battle itself. But this post is already hella long, so keep an eye out for part 2, all about the Harper and druid battle against Ketheric!

[sanzaibian]

Life is really unjust.

My name is Killian Ndiaye, and I’m intimately acquainted with its bad side. My father died while I was young, leaving me to be raised along with my younger sisters by only my ma. We weren’t rich by any means, so it meant that my ma made ridiculous hours at her job, and that us, when old enough, had to pitch in with part-time jobs.

Thankfully, I was quite an intelligent kid, and still managed to have quite good grades. However, that didn’t mean that school life was easier, as I was always labeled as the “poor nerd” in class, wearing the few simple clothes I owned and sporting the buzzcut my ma cut for me. As she always said, others just cared more about looks than about life.

However, this was not the last of my struggles, quite the countrary as it turned out that I wasn’t the cis straight man I was supposed to become. High school was formative in that sense, as it’s in there that I noticed that I wasn’t into girls like the other guys my age were, and like ma expected me to be.

I… had a very hard time admitting that I was gay. Ma always told me that those “queers” didn’t know what life was like, and that they were just living carelessly, wasting their parent’s efforts… I didn’t want to wast my ma’s efforts, as I love her, yet I couldn’t hide from the truth. I’m gay, and that’s just it.

I vainly thought that I just needed not to be like “those gays”, those who live in the hairdresser’s, the clothing store and the clubs, looking all like fairies, and that everything was going to be alright. How shameful it was when, at 17, I started questioning my gender, so disconnected I feel to masculinity and other men’s experiences, and so uncomfortable I am with the facial hair that just won’t stop growing…

I thought that if I just suppressed it, if I was just the most “normal” I could be, then everything was going to be alright. That perhaps, I just needed to alleviate a bit my dysphoria, and everything was going to be alright.

However, my ma is a very observant person. As I was approaching majority, she started to make comments about a girlfriend, and about me stubbornly shaving my face. I just dismissed those questions, still foolishly hoping that everything would end well.

When I was 18, she asked me whether I was gay. I couldn’t lie to my ma.

And we arrive to now, a few years later. My ma “didn’t want a fairy in her house”, so I stayed with a few friends. But when they went to college and I couldn’t, I was left to fend for myself alone. Now, I live in the streets, and spend my time alternating between finding part-time work and begging in the city. I do it whenever I need to go somewhere, and though I don’t do anything illegal – I even spend some of my meager funds on a transports card – it absolutely does not mean that I’m suddenly well-liked.

Few are those who spare any money. And on top of that, because I’m a black man, I hear plenty of racist comments. As if they thought I didn’t hear them asking me to “return to my country”, even though I’m already there…

And the most depressing fact of this all is, because I can’t really shave anymore, my dysphoria is going through the roof. My life is hell, but I keep at it in the vain hope that I’ll be able to climb back to a respectable life.

However, today was especially terrible. I had found an interesting job of installing the equipment for a big concert, and actually ventured quite far from the center of the city to go to the big theater. When I arrived there, they told me that they weren’t looking for anyone, they had all the help they needed. Dejected, I left, but as I was leaving, another young guy entered. I hang out a bit to hear what was going on, and I heard that he was hired for the temporary job. I guess they thought I would steal from them or something…

It’s so unfair ! I love music, and at school always wanted to do something that had a link to it ! I was so hyped to work in this job ! I thought that if I worked hard enough, people would even notice me and my good knowledge of the equipment, and would consider me as a good partner for further work ! But, as ever, all those dreams were, once again, cut short…

On the way back, I started begging, but as I reached the back of the first bus, I saw what looked like a man in a dress, wearing makeup and nail polish, being harassed by an older-looking woman.

“(…) and any sensible person ! How do you expect me to do nothing while a pervert is preparing to go to women’s bathrooms and assault girls ? You should be ashamed of endangering others !

- Miss... please stop… I swear I won’t do anything bad…” The person in a dress said, clearly on the brink of tears.

- And how can I trust you ? I know you snakes, you’re just saying this to then go and continue your business unharmed !”

As she was about to continue harassing that person, I decided I needed to step in. I want there to be justice at least somewhere, even if it can’t be in my life. I step between her and the person in a dress, and ask calmly :

“Miss, please stop. They are clearly really hurt by your comments, and everybody around us is uncomfortable with this display.” I say, as I watch everyone else looking away, as if nothing’s happening. Courage shines ever so hard…

- Oh, now a beggar is coming ? You should go back to your country or find a goddamn job rather than profiting off of our hard work !” She said, clutching her designer bag, as if I was going to steal it.

- Miss, these comments are really racist. Please stop.” I stay, choosing to remain calm and composed.

- What, can’t I say what things are ? That’s really all the wokist’s fault, nowadays we can’t say anything, we have to walk on eggshells at all times ! I’m not racist, but if you want racism to stop, you have to stop overreacting at everything !”

She looks at me with a smug look, as I’m about to lose it. I can’t answer anything, because, unfortunately, one can’t argue out of nonsense ! Especially someone like me who’s not trained in rhetoric – I had part-time jobs at the time !

… at least, I can shield that person with a dress from further harassment. I look behind, and see them smiling to me, thankful for my help. If I can help at least one person, I’ll be happy.

Suddenly, the sound of thunder rings in my ears.

No one seems to be bothered by it, save for the old woman who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am. I turn to see the person I was protecting, however their eyes glow an unnatural color… What’s-

Before I can even try and understand what’s happening, a headache strikes, and I instinctively put my hand on my face. Fuck, I hope I haven’t gotten a cold or something, medication is hard to come by…

As I’m holding my face, a few fingers make their way in my beard (ugh). But suddenly, I feel it shifting. Intrigued, I touch my beard more thoroughly, and feel the hairs receding, growing smaller and smaller, until they finally come back under my skin.

How did that happen ? I mean, I like not having a beard, but still, it’s not normal… I look in front of me and it seems that the woman is losing wrinkles. What’s happening !

The bus stops. Quite a few people leave. Why was I here ? … yes, I had to do something with the people on it… was it work ? I don’t quite remember…

However, as I look around me, I suddenly notice that the people who looked away previously looked a little bigger. As if they were… bulking up ? As I notice that, I feel pain on my body. When I look down, it seems that my undernourished body looks more healthy… No, not just healthy, it looks… muscular ? I’m… inflating, somehow ?

The bus starts again, yet this time, its course seems smoother… I look in front of me and notice that the old – now young – woman’s hair is now tied up in a bun. Almost instinctively, I take my hand to my hair, and feel it moving.

What was a short messy afro is growing, however, something even weirder happens. As it grows, I feel strands joining, growing into large spirals. It’s no longer a sponge-like mass, it’s more like… coils ? My hand presses less and less. I need to be careful about my hair, I don’t want to have to go to the hairdresser again !

I stop myself at my thoughts. Hairdresser ? They’re a waste of time ! Only those who don’t care about life – or don’t have to care about life – go to those and try to look good. Yet… it feels good. No, actually, it feels... right…

Like, it’s right to want to look good ? I mean, look at me, I have muscles, I have good hair, I look good ! Suddenly, I feel my t-shirt straightening and softening. I look down as its color drains, and it splits in the middle. I smirk, and as the collar hardens and folds, I open it the shirt up to the middle of my chest, right as buttons materialize.

The woman in front of me, now sporting a much more formal costume, sighs and gives me a black jacket. I take it and put it on expertly on top of my dress shirt, fitting it right down to the belt holding my dark jeans. She then sits on one of the seats, more in the front of the bus.

She really looks stylish, as one should… after all, fashion is the be-all and end-all ! One of the other passengers comes to me, quite a muscular guy dressed in a black suit, and starts putting makeup on me. I close my eyes as foundation, concealer, mascara, and tattoos are put on my face and body. I can do it all myself, but having a professional do it is always better. That’s why I always go around accompanied.

I suddenly open my eyes. What the hell is happening ! I don’t have a tattoo ! I don’t do makeup ! Hair and clothes suffice ! ...

I scratch my shaved sides, until I reach my earrings. Yeah, it suffices… good hair, good clothes, good makeup and good accessories… it suffices…

“Are you good, Mx. Ndiaye ?” The makeup artist asks me.

- Yes, don’t worry, I’m good.” I say, with a deep yet feminine voice. It seems wrong somehow…

- Do you want to see the results ?

- Of fucking course !”

The makeup artist grabs a pocket mirror and holds it to me.

Oh yeah, I’m so fucking gender ! Plus my necklaces oozes fanciness. Like, it makes me look so fucking rich !

I look around me. The vehicle somehow seems more… cramped, even though at the same time it seems more spacious, with its large seats. My head hurts, it really feels like something is wrong…

Suddenly, the limousine stops. Annoyed, I shout to the chauffeur :

“Magdalena ! Why the hell are you stopping ? We’re not at the villa yet !”

The chauffeur looks back. Wasn’t she an old grumpy woman just now ? She looks so young and has such fancy clothes, even though it’s quite clear that she isn’t from high society.

Ugh, my head really hurts...

“I’m sorry, Mx. Ndiaye, we have new guests to pick up at your request.”

I look around and see that person with a dress leaving. Suddenly, it all comes back as a flash of light. I’m not supposed to be an ultra-rich person, I don’t need all of these fancy clothes and accessories ! … I’M SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE STREETS !

That person, as if they were reading in my mind, answers in a rich and deep yet slightly unsettling feminine voice :

“You have the gratitude of the calamities, Mx. Ndiaye. Accept this… gift.” They say, smiling as they get out, followed by the makeup artist and one of my two personal guards – the other staying at the front of the vehicle.

Suddenly, it’s as if a fog descends on my mind. Like, what was I thinking about ? Oh, yeah, I was thinking about my next song that I’ll film in the villa ! Ugh, it’s so annoying that my agent asks me to pump out banger after banger like, I have all the money in the world… but I guess it’s alright to work a little. This way, I get famous and get laid, and that’s the only thing that really matters.

As I’m about to shout on the chauffeur to ask why she’s not turning the limousine back on, two guys, a cute twink and hot hunk, climb aboard. I lick my lips. It’s gonna be a great night.

“So, guys,” I say, letting them take place in my arms at my right and my left. “have you heard of my new song that’s gonna come out ? If you’re good enough, I might even let you in in the filming for the clip…”

And the limousine sets off.

The sun comes to my eyes, and I wake up in a giant luxurious queen bed, with my two conquests sleeping tight at my left and my right.

I smile as I get up, naked. Yesterday’s clothes were flung in all directions, and as I approach them, I see they’re all crumpled. I chuckle. We had a ton of fun last night… Besides, Magdalena’s gonna be the one to pick that all up.

I take from the closet a nice pair of white pants and a white shirt, and put them on quickly. I go to the balcony, and look at the view.

Life is really unjust.

I get to live the perfect life, while others are left to pick up the remaining pieces.

But when you’re on its good side,

Life is fucking lit.

[pippytmi]

For the fake dating thing 11 with whomever you want!

“Do you always get into fist fights on first dates, or am I just lucky?”

There is a bruise already forming on Kara’s jaw, and her hand still has a phantom ache that won’t go away. There might be a touch of blood on the lapel of her shirt, too, but she has been unable to confirm without ready access to a mirror. But it’s this—the firm click of silver six-inch heels against pavement announcing Lena’s arrival—that brings Kara an instant sense of uneasiness.

“It’s kind of in the job description,” Kara shrugs off the rhetorical question. “You know, of being a girlfriend.”

Lena Luthor has an uncanny ability to make Kara feel completely, totally inept in any situation just with a quizzical quirk of an eyebrow and a ruby-red lipsticked frown. Not because she deliberately tries to, but because that’s just the Luthor™ way. Every member of that family seems to have mastered the ability to stare hard enough to make anyone squirm. Even though Kara has known Lena since they were kids—even though they know each other better than anyone else in the world—the effect is the same.

“That might be the most idiotic thing you’ve said all night.” Despite her stoic expression, Lena’s voice is surprisingly soft. “You should have walked away.”

“That would have been worse than not punching Mike Matthews, I think,” Kara says. “Really, I’m ninety-five percent sure I’m supposed to defend your honor, or… whatever the saying is.”

And the strangest thing happens; a glimpse of amusement cracks through Lena’s frown, visible in the ever-so-gentle upturn of the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, did I miss the part where we time traveled a hundred years ago?”

“It’s—you know what I mean,” Kara says. “If I was your real girlfriend everyone would expect me to punch guys in the face for you.”

“Or,” Lena counters, “it might be overkill, since everyone knows you are not inherently a violent person.”

Kara sheepishly tugs at her collar, unable to stop herself from flushing when Lena gazes at her so pointedly. “Does it matter if everyone who meets Mike wants to punch him? Because I’m pretty sure he could make a nun violent.”

“Wow,” Lena says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a mean thing about anyone before this.”

“Yeah, well…” Kara grimaces. “Mike Matthews brings it out of me. Or maybe this stuffy party does.” Her hand unconsciously goes back to her jacket, and she has to shrug it off all at once, suddenly feeling constricted in her suit. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Lena must be far more uncomfortable than Kara is, with those high heels and the skintight dress and the overall burden of familial expectations hanging on her shoulders, but she masks it remarkably well. “Practice,” she says—sighs. “And whiskey.”

“Gross,” Kara says, unconsciously crinkling her nose as she works at undoing her tie next. “I’m more of a Capri Sun girl myself.”

A short, stunned laugh emerges before Lena can likely quell it. “Right, how could I forget,” she says, and tilts her head in that curious way she does whenever she has a question she isn’t sure how to ask. But it must pass, because her actual question comes out in the form of: “Is there a reason you’re stripping in full view of the paparazzi?” 

“Fan service?” It’s a weak joke, but it makes Lena roll her eyes in that mock-exasperated way that Kara knows would be a laugh out of anyone else. “I just need to cool off, maybe. Then I promise, I’ll be your doting girlfriend for all the cameras again.” She allows a beat before she adds, perhaps unnecessarily, “Without any violence.”

“Yes, I think my mother would very much prefer that.”

Kara laughs, remembering the horrified look on Lillian Luthor’s face with—admittedly—a bit of glee. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m sure she’s thrilled with how tonight is going.”

“Well, she does think it’s all part of a rebellious phase,” Lena muses. “She’s convinced I’m doing this just to spite her.”

Kara has felt the brunt of Lillian’s disapproval back since she first befriended Lena when they were kids, back when they were auditioning for the same movie. Honestly, there is no telling why Lillian has always disliked Kara. Maybe it was because she wasn’t a nepotism baby like all the rest of crowd, or maybe it was because Kara would sneak Lena out of the giant Luthor mansion to go to the movies, or maybe it was because when they were teenagers Kara had wrecked the Porsche (on a dare)...but that disdain has been steadfast ever since they were young, and it’s never once wavered. Everyone knows it. Lena knows it.

Which is why Kara is unable to keep the confusion out of her voice when she says, “Uh. Aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I…what?” Lena repeats, lost.

“Pretending to date me to spite her?” Kara prompts. “You know. Since she hates me?”

Lena’s brow furrows ever-so-slightly. “I didn’t mean dating you,” she says. “I mean dating in general. She thinks it’s a distraction.” She absentmindedly picks at one of the sequins on her dress, a nervous tic that she has never been able to shake. “God, it’s getting cold out here.”

The temperature is just right for Kara, but Lena has always run cold; Kara’s poked fun at her for it once or twice (or for their entire childhood, but who’s keeping track). An unbidden smile, fonder than it has any right to be, inevitably forms. “Well sit down, so you can leech some of my body heat. Besides, you make me tired just looking at you in those heels.”

“Then I’ll be colder,” Lena objects, eyeing the stone of the fountain edge that Kara is currently sitting on. “No way.”

“You’re the most high maintenance fake girlfriend ever,” Kara feigns annoyance. “Here, then. Sit on my lap. And you can put my jacket over your legs.”

It’s hard to exactly tell with the dim lighting of the streetlights, but Lena—blushes? Maybe? And immediately shakes her head. “I’m too heavy.”

“No such thing,” Kara retorts. “I’ll keep stripping if you don’t sit down, Lena. Then your mother will really have a reason to hate me.”

“You are trying to create scandal everywhere you can tonight, aren’t you?” Lena says, but doesn’t move, only crosses her arms and gives Kara an exasperated look. “It would be a hell of a front page.”

“Wow, Lena, if you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask,” Kara says, undoing the first two buttons of her shirt while Lena continues to glare. Then, for fun, she continues up until she hits the top of her bra and Lena’s jaw fully drops in alarm.

“Oh my God, Kara, stop!”

But the ruse works, because as Lena moves forward as if she’s about to button Kara’s shirt back up (or just push her into the fountain), Kara is able to wrap an arm around Lena’s waist and tug her down. Lena yelps in surprise, arms coming up to squeeze around Kara’s neck, and Kara has to hide a grin into the curls that hit her full force in the face.

“Geez, Lena, you’re like an ice cube. Don’t you own a sweater?”

“You asshole,” Lena says, but there is no bite in her voice, only annoyed defeat. “If I get glitter all over you, I’m not going to apologize.”

“I’ll let it slide, this once.” Kara doesn’t mention that there’s nothing in the world that she wouldn’t let Lena get away with. That’s the inevitable truth of being in love with this girl pretty much her whole life—Kara caves first, and she always has. Whether it was what flavor of Gatorade to get from the vending machine, or whether it was who got to sit down in the only remaining chair for a last minute casting call, or whether it was to tag along to Lena’s prom date so the boy wouldn’t try to kiss her, Kara always let Lena call the shots.

Lena exhales; Kara feels the warmth of Lena’s breath against her temple, feels the steady weight of Lena’s body as she shifts on Kara’s lap, feels the rough pattern of Lena’s dress sequins against her fingertips. “You know you’re my best friend, right?” Lena says suddenly.

Those words always make Kara’s heart skip a beat, like they’re right back to being fifteen and nervously holding each other’s sweaty hands while poring over crumpled scripts. “I’d better be,” Kara quips, if only to keep her sappiness at bay, “or I’m returning the BFF necklaces I brought as our first-anniversary gift.”

“I’m serious,” Lena huffs, and her grip around Kara’s neck tightens just a hair. “Will you let me be serious?”

“Okay, okay. One hundred percent seriousness from here on out, I promise.”

For a moment, the only sound is that of cars passing, of the trickle from the water fountain, of the faint music coming from the party. And when Lena speaks at last, it’s quiet. “I know my mom’s not the…easiest person,” she says. “And if pretending to be my girlfriend is going to make you uncomfortable because you have to deal with her, you don’t have to do it.”

“I’ve been dealing with your mother forever, Lena,” Kara says lightly. “She hasn’t been able to scare me off yet, for as much as she’s tried.”

Lena scoffs, but her hand is unmistakably tender as she fiddles with Kara’s shirt collar. “What happened to being serious?”

“I am serious! Do you or do you not remember that time we went to the water park? I swear she cut a hole in my water tube slide. And let’s not even bring up the whole prom incident, because I swear my hip has never been the same since falling out of your window.”

“She didn’t even know that was you.” Lena laughs, and it’s still somewhat hesitant, but just affectionate enough to reflect her feelings about that memory. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Kara inhales, shakily, both the sweet scent of Lena’s perfume and some much-needed air. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Lena presses her forehead into Kara’s jaw, her skin still cold enough that it makes Kara sympathetically squeeze her tighter. “Can you just promise to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable?” she asks, and ignores Kara’s question entirely. “Either with my mother, or…just the pretending part with me.”

“I feel plenty comfortable,” Kara tries, but Lena just reiterates,

“Promise me, Kara. I don't want to lose you.”

Something about the urgency in Lena's tone shifts the mood entirely; Kara swallows tightly and nods obligingly. “Okay. I promise. But you have to tell me, too, if anything becomes…I don't know, too much.”

“Fine,” Lena agrees readily.

“No, wait, but listen,” Kara presses. “Being friends is one thing, but dating is another, and—even if it's fake, we're going to have to do couple things. And I don't want it to ruin our friendship.”

“I also don't want to ruin our friendship,” Lena says. “Which is why I brought it up first.”

“Good. Okay. I just wanted to be sure.” Kara awkwardly shifts, all too aware that this might not be the ideal time and place for this conversation. Much less when Lena's still in her lap, clinging to Kara as if afraid to let go. “So on a scale of one to ten, how badly have I messed up the friendship by fighting Mike?”

Lema hums, considering. “That depends on what he said about me.”

“Um, nothing nice,” Kara says haltingly. “I'd rather not repeat it.”

“Then I'll let it slide…this once.” Lena's hands find their way up to Kara's face, fingertips gentle against the bruise on her jaw. “But you are still an idiot.” She thumbs warmly against the apple of Kara's cheek and gazes at Kara from underneath thick mascaraed eyelashes, then whispers, “And you're my favorite.”

“Your favorite idiot?”

“My favorite person.” Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Kara is sitting on Lena's bedroom floor still tugging at her tux because it itches. Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Lena is biting her lip and unable to catch Kara’s eye. Suddenly they’re seventeen again, and Lena is whispering I wanted you to make sure he didn’t kiss me because I want you to be my first kiss.

Kara blinks, mouth opening and closing for a pause, before she has to fall back on a safe feeling—fall right back to humor, so Lena does not comment on the way Kara’s body automatically tenses. “Aw, Lena,” she manages, “that sounded a lot like you like me.”

“I’m just a good actress,” Lena says mock-haughtily, but her eyes are searching as they lock onto Kara’s, expression softening the way no one else ever really sees. To the world she’s always been some cold, aloof superstar, but to Kara she will always be the best friend who wanted her first kiss to be with the person she trusted most in the world.

“Well for the record,” Kara swallows thickly, “you’re my favorite, too.”

There is a split second—a charged, electric second—where Kara swears Lena is going to kiss her. Her eyes are hooded like they’re about to close, and her face sways closer, her hand still resting on Kara’s bruised jaw. But then she sighs, and Kara can feel the distance before she sees it.

“We should go back inside,” Lena says, abruptly stumbling off of Kara's lap. “Sooner or later we'll have to do damage control.”

It takes a beat for Kara to catch up. “Right,” she says, hastening to button up her shirt and follow. “It wouldn't be a Luthor party without damage control.”

“It's the first time you're the cause, though,” Lena throws over her shoulder. “And don't forget your tie!”

“Got it,” Kara calls, undoing her tie entirely and tossing it into the bushes. “Hey, wait up! Come back and hold my hand.”

That makes Lena freeze in place. “What?”

“For—you know, the cameras,” Kara says, shrugging her suit jacket back on. “So we can show a united front.”

Lena gives her an inscrutable look. “You say the weirdest things sometimes,” she says, but she allows Kara to catch up and intertwine their hands together without further complaint. 

“How else is everyone supposed to know you're not mad at me?” Kara reminds her. “Or that I'm the best girlfriend you've ever had?”

“I doubt they're going to make that assumption based on hand holding.” But as they climb up the steps to rejoin the gala, the low, golden light illuminates that dimpled smile of Lena's that makes Kara breathless. “What makes you think you're the best, anyway?”

“Just a guess,” Kara says, squeezing Lena's hand as they reach the entrance. “Am I?”

“Let's see if you end tonight without any more fights first,” Lena quips, and while her voice is teasing, her smile grows exponentially tender. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Kara echoes quietly, and allows Lena to lead her right through those double doors knowing that she would follow Lena anywhere.

[rippersz]

𝖰𝗎𝖾 𝖲𝖾𝗋𝖺, 𝖲𝖾𝗋𝖺

───※ ·❆· ※───

───※ ·❆· ※───

(An OC/Named Reader x Larissa Weems one-shot) (Bittersweet/angsty. Possible part 2 depending on feedback.)

Summary: Odette sends a letter and it ends up in the wrong hands.

───※ ·❆· ※───

‘January 11th, 2023

Odette,

I am terribly sorry to inform you that the letter you sent to a woman named Mirabelle did not end up in her hands. I believe the mail carriers fell short along the way and got it mixed up within my pile of documents; thus my wayward response to you. Considering the nature of your words (I must admit I read them - my actions were caused by split curiosity and confusion), I suggest you re-envelope and reseal your letter before sending it again. I have slipped it in with this one. And if you choose to listen to me, then we shall both hope your sentiments arrive to Mirabelle in a timely fashion with no surprise stops along the way. Until then, someone must tell her that she is a very lucky woman.

And that I am very sorry she broke your heart.

Happy New Year Odette. Be well, Larissa W.’

‘January 18th, 2023

Larissa,

Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness. I am far sorrier than you are. Obviously if I knew that was going to happen, I would not have let it. Okay that doesn’t make much sense, but I’m sure you know what I mean. I think. Hopefully? Anyway, thank you very much for sending the letter back. I gave myself some time to think it over and did as you suggested. New envelope, new seal, new everything. Except the perfume on the letter was different. Are you wearing Jean Paul Gaultier? It’s very nice. Mirabelle may appreciate the mix of scents (I’m wearing Marc Jacobs - Daisy), so at least she’ll get something out of it. The words, on the other hand, I’m not so sure. That ship sailed a long time ago - I’m just not the type to give up easily. That’s a big flaw, I think. Oh well. I guess rambling’s a flaw too. And here I am. Forgive me?

Thank you again. Happy New Year. Odette’

‘January 23rd, 2023

Dear Odette,

Please don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault, as you know. And if I knew the letter did not concern me at all, I would not have read it. But, I’m sort of glad that I did. It was perhaps one of the best letters I’ve ever read in my entire life. Are you a writer, by any chance? If not, you should consider becoming one. The rambling could add a nice personal touch - it’s not as big a flaw as you think it is. It certainly introduced me to your keen sense of smell. Speaking of which, Daisy is wonderful. I may have a roll-on tube of that somewhere. Otherwise, you’re correct. La Belle was released in 2019, it has become my new personal favorite. Are you a perfume collector? Or perhaps a bloodhound? I jest, I jest. Though I do appreciate the follow-up. If Mirabelle doesn’t appreciate your love, I may have to send her a letter myself. That being said, please let me know what she says? If it isn’t too much of an inconvenience.

Be well, Larissa W.’

‘January 29th, 2023

To Larissa,

You are far too kind. I write in my free time, yes, but I’m not sure I’m good enough to become a writer. However, your support still means a lot - even from all the way in California. Quite a long way, right? Crazy how paths cross. Anyway, I’m not a perfume collector, no. But my friend, Cassie, wears the same kind. I know for certain that she’d say you have good taste. And I’d agree. That bloodhound comment was funny. I know you can’t hear my giggling, but trust me when I say I am. I wish I could be as witty, but I don’t know what to say. My humor is typically made up of making fun of people. Do you have a guilty pleasure I can harp on? An embarrassing secret? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours. And as soon as I get something back, I’ll let you know. Don’t start writing just yet.

Best, Odette’

‘February 5th, 2023,

Odette,

Telling you my secrets already? My, I believe we’ve skipped a few steps. What happened to a favorite color? A favorite memory? An age or profession, perhaps? If you couldn’t tell by now, I am still jesting. One of my guiltiest pleasures, though you may find it juvenile and silly, is the fact that I am a huge chocolate fiend. Many of my coworkers are aware that the best drink to buy me is a hot chocolate - hold the whipped cream. I am watching my figure after all. And because I pity your lack of matched wit, I’ll tell you that my biggest secret is the fact that I quite enjoy Taylor Swift’s music. Don’t ask me about my favorite song, I don’t think I could choose just one. Oh is that- is that the sound of your giggling? Maybe I can hear it from here, Ms. California. Now it’s your turn to hear mine. In the meantime, enlighten me on what you write about. I’m thinking poetry and free-form, with a focus on romance. I do a bit of writing myself from time to time, but it’s always in a diary. Never further. Perhaps you can do both of us justice and contemplate publishing? I’ll be the first to run to the shelves.

I hope you are well, Larissa W.’

‘February 13th, 2023

Dear chocolate fiend,

White. My first trip to New York City after Mirabelle. I arrived in the afternoon, went to see a movie, grabbed dinner and headache pills on the way back to my hotel room, and couldn’t sleep for the entire night. So I went out at 3 AM to see Times Square. It was only a block away and let me tell you, Larissa, it was beautiful. It was unlike anything. I felt safe for the first time in a while - beneath all of those lights. I was invincible. Not even loneliness could touch me. 27 and counting. Secretary. And potential writer. Someone I met recently has been trying to push me further into my hobby- to really adopt the lifestyle. You wouldn’t know them, though. Them? They/them? Please correct me if I’m wrong, Larissa. These letters wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable if I was calling you something you weren’t. As for me, I go by she/her. Mirabelle did as well. Does? Did? I’m not sure - I haven’t heard anything back yet. But that may be for the best. Horrid segue here (shame on little writer Odette), but Taylor Swift? Wow, I must be giggling quite loudly. HA HA HA HA HA!! HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!! I swear that one day I’ll get a laugh out of you as well. In the meantime, as you say, I’ll happily inform you that you’re a psychic of some sort. Yes, I write poetry and free-form romance. Novels have never been my thing though. But if I did write any, I’d have to say psychological horror is a favorite. I may give it a crack if you’d edit for me? Unless you’re terribly busy, Ms. Vermont. Then please don’t worry your pretty little head.

I hope you’re ‘weller’ than I am, Odette

(P.S. Happy Valentines Day)’

‘February 19th, 2023

Dear sweet poet,

Do forgive the late response. Work has been keeping me busy; but if you’re serious about editing, I’m sure I can set some time apart for you. That memory of yours does sound quite glorious - nearly heavenly. Such freedom is a dream for many people, myself somewhat included, so I admit I’m the tiniest bit jealous. However, I could always visit the city in the summer. Times Square is already calling my name… maybe I’ll even see a certain 27 year old stranger there. Maybe we could even grab hot chocolate. But I suppose you’d rather enjoy your independence. That being said, you are quite correct - they/them is one of my preferred pronouns. Much like yourself and the mysterious Mirabelle, she/her is another. And I’m glad we both agree that these letters are quite a treat. I have not had a pen-pal in quite a long time. My old roommate and I used to talk after we graduated, but times change. Much like they did for you and Mirabelle. I believe I may have loved my roommate in that way, too… but it’s as I said. Then again, she was always more of a psychic than me. I just got lucky. As for the answers to my questions, I’m quite sure none of those were secrets. Unless, of course, your favorite color is known only by myself. In which case, I’d consider myself lucky again. But either way, come to the table please Odette. Tell me yours - but only if you wish to.

Weller is not a word, Best, Larissa W.’

‘February 23rd, 2023

Dear Larissa,

Weller is a word if I want it to be. That is my secret. No, but in all seriousness, you’re correct. Fair is fair. So I’ll grant you this: I’m a redhead. Ugh I know! I know! It’s terrible. Horrible. I’m sorry. If you find that you can’t stand me anymore, I understand. A writer, secretary, AND a redhead? What’s next? An FBI agent? I can’t disclose that information. Speaking of which, you have yet to answer your own questions. All is fair in love and pen-paling, am I right or am I right Larissa? It’s okay. You can admit it. I’m right. Just like I’m right in saying that your roommate made a big mistake if she’s not with you now. Speaking from experience, love like that is not something one finds often. I’d say I’m glad you experienced it, for it has its good moments, but I know that the ache can be bad. Quite bad. Not to worry, though! If you figure you want to send her a letter, you may get a pen-pal out of it. Kind of neat, huh?

I’m sorry she broke your heart, too. What a foolish woman. Tsk tsk.

Best, Odette’

‘February 28th, 2023

To the resident redhead,

How could you betray me like this? A redhead? On the other side of these pages? I feel scorned. Scorned and touched. Very much like a writer to offer comfort for an offhand comment. I appreciate the sentiment more than you know. And just for your information, Ms. I’m-Always-Right: Silver. Getting my teachers certification and celebrating with a few friends before life pulled us in different directions. It was a wonderful night. I haven’t laughed so much since - and that was quite a while ago. 32 next year. Principal. I do hope that was enough to sate your burning curiosity; I’m sure you can be at ease now. And since I do so enjoy meeting you halfway, I’ll tell you that I’m very fair-haired. Very. Perhaps one day you’ll see. Until then, don’t let the curiosity kill you little cat.

Best, Larissa W.’

‘March 5th, 2023’

‘March 12th, 2023’

‘March 16th, 2023’

‘April 14th, 2023’

‘May 21st, 2023’

‘June 9th, 2023’

...

And the months went on.

And on.

And on.

And every few days, another letter came. Another letter went. Another letter was written. Another letter was sealed. Another letter was received. Another letter was cherished. Kept. Forever a lovely memory. Larissa and Odette went and went and went- on and on and on- exchanging and smiling as each paragraph grew in length. From this to that and whatever else they could find to think about; they formed a banter and connection like no other. Poking fun, making jokes, referencing previous letters, gossiping until their hearts were content. Purring within their chests, eagerly awaiting another letter. It kept their days moving. It kept their souls dancing. From miles away, they cheered each time they saw the thin familiar scrawl of Larissa’s writing and the loopy tilted words of Odette’s penmanship. At one point, they even tried copying each other’s style. It was hilarious. It had both of them laughing at the same time - and later doing it purely to mock. Such things, little but large, were frequent and lovely. One time, Odette mailed a perfume scent strip of her new favorite; and Larissa, never one to be outdone, sent a roll-on tube of La Belle. Odette got so ticked off she made her promise that they stick to letters and paper only. Larissa, usually a stubborn soul, agreed. That was their dynamic. Their push and pull. Their agree to disagree. Never did they fight; rarely did they not see eye to eye; and constantly did they playfully argue. It was small things- small insignificant little things- but they moved the conversation along. And it made them smile. It made them laugh. And during the hardest parts, the parts in which life pinched at their skin and dragged at their souls, it made them cry. It made them weep. It made them open up. It led to Odette confessing that Mirabelle had left her and it led to Larissa confessing that Morticia had left her as well. Two women, two ships in the night, both of which got away. And not gently, not two slow drifts into the night, but a harsh yank. Morticia left school with a man on her arm and Mirabelle returned to California one day from a business trip in France with a ring on her finger. The two of them agreed that it was funny how life likes to slap lovers in the face. That it was funny how life likes to get in the way. And enjoys ending good things and ruining them. Taking them away too quickly. With no warning at all. Without a single goodbye.

The last letter Odette sent was on October 28th, 2024.

Larissa hadn’t responded to her previous one. Or the one before that. And eventually, after much contemplation, she gave up. It wasn’t healthy- worrying so much. Odette figured that perhaps, finally, her worst fear came true and that Larissa realized their little arrangement was more odd than she thought. That she knew virtually nothing about Odette, not even her last name. And that she didn’t find her amusing anymore and didn’t want to associate with her anymore and didn’t want to even say hello. Or goodbye. Or anything in between.

It broke her heart a little bit.

Okay it broke her heart a lot a bit.

The radio silence left Odette living on autopilot for weeks. Months. Nearly half a year. She’d get up, check her mailbox, and go to work - only to come home, check her mailbox, and go to bed - just to do the same thing over and over and over again. Day and night. Night and day. It was worse than Mirabelle. It was worse than anything. No amount of teenage angst or familial grief could get over the deep void left within her soul once those letters stopped coming. Once the friend she found by accident, the kindred spirit she stumbled upon, the woman she lov-…. well. Once that one person decided never to write again.

Though like most difficult things that left her raw, Odette’s heart began scabbing over. She cleared her desk, packed away the special pens she used, put the paper neatly into a box, and tucked the leftover Larissa letters away right along with those sweet memories. Then she put them into the back of a closet she rarely rifled through… and tried to forget it was all there. The La Belle, which she rarely touched, was hidden in her pajama drawer at the very back- wrapped up in old T-shirts she no longer wore. And every other thing that existed around her, that reminded her of Larissa, was pushed out of sight. Out of sight and out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight… out of mind.

The company was celebrating her 5 year anniversary. They wanted to fly her out to Vermont. Jericho, Vermont. To have a little vacation there. To enjoy life. To fucking torture her.

She almost didn’t go. She almost canceled entirely. She almost quit her goddamn job because that was the same job she had when she first met Lar-…..

But she went anyway. Vermont was large enough. She’d be fine.

And she was, much to her surprise. She was entirely fine. It was a beautiful change of season; the air was crisp, the trees were changing color- morphing back into sunny greens. The world enjoyed its rain as April introduced May to Jericho and as the year of 2025 blossomed into being. Odette spent her days reading, taking walks, basking in the beauty of the log cabin the company rented for her. It was truly lovely. Truly a dream come true. And she didn’t even think- didn’t even wonder- about the other ship that got away from her. That barely even brushed past her, or lingered, before parting the water and skating away into the night all those months ago.

It was blissful. It reminded her of New York. Of that freedom- that independence- that song within her soul, dredged up from the depths.

But there was one thing.

One tiny little thing.

One little reminder that never left her. That she didn’t let go of.

“Hot chocolate, no whip, for Odette?”

A small smile grew on her lips as she slid out of the booth and made her way up to the counter. The young man met her eyes, returned the smile, and gestured to the warm cup on the counter with a nod of his head.

“Thank you lots.” And with that, she retreated to her booth.

Hot chocolate.

She wasn’t going to give up hot chocolate, let alone any chocolate at all, just because a distant soul enjoyed it. The whipped cream was something she wanted, but… old habits did always die hard, didn’t they? Oh most definitely. And as Odette reclined against the comfortable seat, eyes tracking the screen of her work laptop, hot chocolate firmly placed on the coaster to her right, she lived up to that sentiment with no room to spare. Leaving work at home was hard. She dove into it some time ago; dedicating more time, thinking, and hours into the well-oiled machine of her job just to distract her from everything outside of it. When she was there, responding, taking calls, managing dates and meetings and this, that, and the other, the world fell silent. Into a distant buzzy din. Into a land of muffled sounds and unimportant chatter - like her head was dunked under water as soon as she opened her emails. To a certain extent, it was calming. Repetitive and not at all that difficult after she figured out a proper routine; the worst part was dealing with those who couldn’t write properly. And in the professional world, that was rare. Well- if a person wanted to keep their job of course. And she definitely wanted to keep hers. It was fulfilling. Enriching. She made some friends, she shook some hands, she reassured her bosses. They knew she was reliable. Friendly. Odette never faltered. And they counted on that. Counted on her. Gave her the time of day. Responded when they could. Cherished her like a human. Like a friend. Unlike-

“Larissa? Hot chocolate, no whip?”

Odette blinked.

The muffled bubble popped. The world flooded back. She looked up from her screen.

Was she going mad? Crazy? Bonkers, finally? After all that time? Had she misheard? Maybe the young man said Patricia. Or Melissa. Or-

“Larissa! Hey, long time no see!”

Larissa.

Odette turned around in her seat so fast, she nearly broke her neck. She shuffled to the end of the booth, peered around the side, eyes wide and hands gripping the edge of the table… only to feel her excitement die as soon as it existed.

Of course. Foolish her. She didn’t know what Larissa looked like. She never got a proper description. Never got a photograph. Or a phone number. Or anything at all. Just a P.O. Box and a state. Just… nothing.

“Hello Jerry, it has been a while, hasn’t it? How are you?”

No, she- well she did get something. She got little things. Details. Odette’s brow furrowed as her eyes, hazel and starry and glazed over with apprehension and fear and admiration and horror, ran up and down the woman’s body. She was tall. Larissa never mentioned tall. She was curvy. Larissa never mentioned curvy.

‘I am watching my figure after all.’

…She was stylish. Larissa never mentioned style and fashion.

“Oh I’m good, I’m good. What about you? How’s the semester going?”

“I’m well, thank you. It’s… well it’s definitely going, Jerry.” They shared a laugh.

She was English. Larissa never mentioned being English. She wore gloves. Larissa never mentioned gloves. She-

Wait. Semester?

‘Getting my teachers certification…’ ‘Principal.’

Odette felt her heart drop.

But-

“I’m sure it is! I- oh shoot. More customers. Sorry, Larissa. Can we catch up later?”

“Of course Jerry. You know where to find me. Until next time.”

Hazel eyes watched the stranger wave. Then turn around.

Oh.

Dear lord…

She didn’t recognize her- not really- but the fair hair, which only registered then… and the silver jewelry. And the… the…

Odette watched as the woman walked past. She watched and she felt her heart in her ears- pounding, clawing, dancing- as she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. So deeply. So deeply it made her lungs ache. So deeply it made her soul tear in two.

La Belle.

Odette had never packed up her things so quickly. She never slammed her laptop closed so fast, never slid it into her bag so messily, never threw the bag over her shoulder or shoved her wallet into her pocket or grabbed the hot chocolate with such vigor ever before. Not once in her life. And rarely did she act so impulsively- not after Larissa. But seeing her then, somehow knowing deep within her soul that it was her… it broke- snapped- the thin resolve of Odette’s sanity and sent her flying out of the Weathervane like a bat out of Hell. She was burning up inside. Electric. Her eyes held fire and ice and so much warmth, so much desperation, that she nearly toppled over herself in her hurry.

The woman- Larissa- was a fast walker. Her long legs took her far as she distractedly typed on her phone with one hand and held the cup of hot chocolate in the other. Odette, being short and clumsy, was red and out of breath by the time she got close enough to call out her name. And call, she did. Call, cry, silently plead, she did.

“LARISSA!”

It was loud. Like a roar. Like a harrowing yell. Like something that held months and months and months of pain and sorrow and grief behind it. It instantly made her throat hurt, running it raw in only a second, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. Not when her voice got Larissa to stop in her tracks and turn around, eyes searching and confused.

Of course, as to be expected, she had no clue who she was. Not even an inkling. Larissa got no description either - not even a photo. All she knew was that Odette had red hair. And that a woman with red hair was storming toward her, all fucks thrown to the wind, sneakers smacking the pavement hard as she stomped down the sidewalk. Larissa looked utterly puzzled, slightly mortified, entirely put off by the sight of such a determined stranger. Like she wasn’t sure if she had done something wrong and if she had, she wasn’t sure how to fix it. But Odette would tell her. Odette would make it known.

“What the fuck?” was the first thing out of her mouth.

A rather harsh introduction, but necessary nonetheless. She didn’t even really mean to say it, but the surprised widening of Larissa’s eyes had a twisted spark of satisfaction spiraling up within her soul.

And her outburst, naturally, meant many things. Not just ‘What the fuck?’ but ‘What the fuck? Why did you disappear? What did I do? Did I hurt you? Did I say something? Did something happen to you? Do you feel sorry? Do you miss me? Do you wish you responded? Do you hope to never hear from me again? Did you always know this would happen? Did you ever even bother to think that you should tell me you’re that beautiful? What the fuck, why are your eyes so blue? And why are they piercing? Staring at me? Heavenly and deep and never-ending? Like.. oceans… and why are your lips so soft looking and plump and red? Where did that scar come from? Do you hate it? Do you know that I like it even though I’m only seeing it now for the first time ever? Did you always wear your hair like that? How long does it take you to get it like that? How does it feel to take it out after a long day? Did you know your makeup is flawless? And that your jawline is magnificent? And that you’re so tall… and you look so strong… inside and out… and why the fuck did you not mention you were British? English? What does it matter? Just what the fuck? Why the fuck? How the fuck? What the fuckity fuck?!’

But overall, it only meant ‘What the fuck? Why didn’t you say goodbye?’

“I beg your pardon?”

Unfortunately, Larissa could never read minds. Or hearts. So the vague pangs of longing, like old rusted blood, only ached harder as the taller woman blinked and frowned.

A blush painted Odette’s cheeks. Right. Somehow, along the way of admiring, she’d forgotten. Larissa had no idea who she was.

“Um.” Clearing her throat, she adjusted the bag on her shoulder. Suddenly, things were very awkward. Terribly awkward. So horribly bloody awkward. It was a wonder if Larissa could feel the odd lull in conversation, the sudden dousing of Odette’s flames, but it didn’t really matter. If she wanted to, Odette was sure that if she chose to walk away, if she chose to take one last look before turning around and never coming back, then Larissa would never know. Then she’d just be another story. Another odd memory to tell her children one day, if she ever wished to have them. In her letters, the taller woman admitted that she didn’t think she ever would. But Odette always had a feeling that she’d be an amazing mother. Looking at her then, taking in the perfect posture and the crisp seams of her clothing, the feeling became fact. Larissa would be the best mom.

Funny that… there was a time, long ago, where Odette fantasized about making sandwiches for picnics and uprooting her entire life. Just to see the proud smile on her pen-pal’s face as her child grew and grew and grew and flourished. And maybe even ended up calling her ‘mom’ one day too.

But as Larissa wrote once upon a time, things changed. Time went on. And that was how it was.

So she could turn around. She could very well wrench herself from her spot and drag herself back the way she came. She could apologize, tell her she was mistaken, and that she was sorry - and then she could walk off into the sunset and pretend nothing ever happened. She could burn the letters. She could burn the very memory of her. She could forget the name ‘Larissa’ entirely and all would be left to rest. And that would be that. Que sera, sera.

But Odette was never the type to give up easily. Mirabelle, wherever she was, could attest.

So instead of abandoning ship, she powered through.

“It’s Odette,” came her firm tone. She straightened her back and tilted her head to look up properly, trying to stand tall in the face of heartache.

But heartache didn’t recognize her.

“Have we… met before?” Larissa blinked, turning to present her full attention.

Odette flushed red. Angry. Sad. Liberated.

“Have- have we met before?” She repeated, scoffed, outraged by her old friend’s obliviousness. “Just how many Odettes do you know?!” Her hands ran to her hips, firmly rooting themselves there as she began tapping her foot and glowering.

Such a display had Larissa scanning her from head to toe, desperately scrambling for understanding and recognition. The loose T-shirt, the black leggings, the sneakers, the hazel eyes, the pretty features, the freckles, the plump cheeks and curved body, the bag on her shoulder, the hair on her head. Red. Fiery. Standing out against the blue of the sky like a stain on white fabric. Messy curls and natural red red red.

Red… red…

Odette watched as Larissa froze. Her lips fell open, her eyes widened, she could practically see the way her heart stopped in her chest.

She remembered.

She remembered.

“…Odette?”

The shorter woman nodded, slowly feeling the anger and excitement drain from her body. It was fun being anonymous for just a moment. It was fun being the only one that remembered - having the chance to feel properly scorned and betrayed. But that didn’t last very long. The come down was harsh. Quick. A fall from immense grace. Especially when she saw the tears. They welled up in Larissa’s eyes, glossy and wet, making those sapphires shine. So swift they were. So rapid. As if sparked by Odette’s very existence.

Though maybe Larissa wasn’t the one that was tearing up. Maybe it was just her. Maybe the haze of the world, growing slightly blurry, was caused by the water that threatened to fall over her own lashes.

“Yeah.” It was all she could think to say.

For even with all of her passion, even with her love of words and her many discarded story drafts (all coincidentally started in the year 2023), even with whatever eloquence she was naturally born with, Odette couldn’t come up with a single meaningful thing to say. There was much, of course. But none of it fit. None of it made sense. Everything that lingered on her tongue, finally unlodging itself from the stickiness of her throat, was too heavy. Too heavy for the moment. Too heavy for the sidewalk. Too heavy for the side of the street. Too heavy for Jericho. Out in the open. Vermont. Miles away from home. Too close too close too close. Too much all at once. Maybe running after her was a bad idea. Maybe taking the vacation was even worse. Maybe sending that letter to Mirabelle in the first place was the poignant moment in which she should have changed her mind and threw it away when she considered it.

But she hadn’t.

And so there she was, staring up at Larissa, suddenly helpless. That ship that passed her in the night all those months ago had come back around; except that time she had stumbled upon it herself. And she wasn’t entirely sure if she was grateful- or terrified. Maybe the ship hated her. Maybe the ship would crash into her and ruin her and maybe the ship would begin shooting cannons. Maybe the ship would continue right past her. Maybe the ship would-

-hug her?

Odette blinked, very much unsure of what was happening as soon as she felt the comforting weight of long arms pushing themselves under her biceps and interlocking behind her back. La Belle and the soft clean smell of faded shampoo filled her senses. Her nose. Her lungs. Her eyes. Her heart. And soul. Part of her was so confused it wanted to grasp Larissa’s shoulders and shove her off. And the other part of her, the part of her that had dreams about receiving another letter from the one that broke her heart, wanted to give in.

‘That ship sailed a long time ago - I’m just not the type to give up easily.’

Odette’s arms pressed against Larissa’s waist. Their holds were odd, skewed by the cups of hot chocolate they held and the other items in their grasps. But nonetheless, it was… it was unlike anything. Each breath died on Odette’s tongue. She felt the atoms in her brain disappear. Like they never existed at all.

“I’m sorry.” It was said so softly, she was near certain it wasn’t uttered at all. But then Larissa was pulling back, hands shaking as she brought them to her lips. “I’m sorry.”

There was grief in her eyes. A sadness that not even the most haunted of poets could explore, nor understand, nor emulate. It gleamed. It cut Odette in half. It had her taking steps back, suddenly unsure. Suddenly disoriented.

“What-… what happened?” She was breathless, bewildered at the sight of regret swimming in Larissa’s eyes.

The taller woman opened her mouth… then hesitated. Her gaze burned through her old friend- then twitched away and ran over the world around them. The sidewalk, the street, the shops, the Weathervane, the town itself. They were out in the open. And their… reunion… was too good for that. Too painful for that. Odette watched as Larissa’s lower lip quivered; as the thoughts ran through her mind at the speed of light. And before she even spoke, she knew what she was going to say.

“Please, come with me,” her voice was soft. Silken. Heavy with guilt. Pouring with unspoken words.

It was Odette’s turn to hesitate. Years… nearly. However much time. She didn’t really know. She stopped keeping track once she realized she was losing sleep over it. Hours upon hours of sleep. It affected her work - it affected her body. It slit the throat of her life and dragged it through dirt. ‘It’ being the silence. ‘It’ being the goodbye that never came. ‘It’ being Larissa, Larissa, Larissa.

The same Larissa who held an apology wound up in her lungs. The same Larissa who looked down at her as if she couldn’t quite believe she was real, standing before her, breathing and living. The same Larissa whose shaking hands held a cellphone and a cup of hot chocolate that was swiftly running cold. The same Larissa with the same shining eyes that glistened with tears and crackling memories and affection, warmth, that seemed so out of place. Years without the comfort of that dove-like soul… years without the… the love? Love? Is that what they had? Perhaps it was too little too late to wonder. Perhaps Odette was just dipping into wishful thinking. Giving into the dreams she repeated over the years. With every word, every breath, every letter - she found herself begging. Pleading. ‘Please. Please please please invite me to Vermont. See me. Know me. These pages are killing me.’ All of it secretly scrawled between her slanting lines. Running in circles behind her hazel eyes. Displayed for Larissa, even though Larissa did not exist before her at the time.

Not like she did in that moment. In Jericho. In tears.

“Let me explain, Odette. I meant- I… just- give me a chance.” Larissa blinked her tears away and straightened her shoulders, tone growing desperate, body growing tense.

Never before did she sound like that in their letters. But never before did she leave Odette for so long. Interesting circumstances… Funny how life ended things so quickly. Funny how life brought out the truth in a person when they felt themselves tugged at a loss. Pushed to their knees. Though she said she had an explanation… and her old friend had never been a liar.

“Okay,” Odette breathed, clearing her throat. “Okay.”

“Really?”

‘Yes of course, really,’ Odette thought, looking at her with a mix of surprise and anger and devotion. ‘What are you, mad? I’d never just walk away. I’d never just give up. I can’t help myself. I never could. You know this. You know me.’

───※ ·❆· ※───

I quite enjoyed writing this. Might take a break from writing 'Heat' and 'To People Watch One Person' for a bit- same with requests. For the foreseeable future, whatever comes to mind will be written. I've started watching GOT again... and a certain Ser of Tarth has strummed the strings of my heart {as always} so maybe expect something with her? Dunno. Either way, thank you for staying with me. You mean the moon and stars, believe me. - Ripley x

───※ ·❆· ※───

[hughhowey]

Writing Insights -- Part One

I started writing my first novel when I was twelve years old. I was thirty-three when I completed my first rough draft. That’s twenty years of wanting to do something and not knowing how. Twenty years of failure and frustrations and giving up.

A big part of the problem is that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I didn’t know which questions to ask, much less who might have the answers.

These days, people write to me as if I know what I’m doing. Or like I have a shortcut to success. I’m not sure either is true. One thing I’ve learned is that luck plays a massive role. But what I do have are some insights today that I wish I’d had twenty years ago, tips and pointers that might’ve saved me a lot of headache and heartache if I’d known them sooner. Maybe it’ll help some aspiring writer out there if I jot them all down now.

I’m going to share what insights I have in four parts. The first part is a list of all the things I wish I’d known about becoming a writer before I set out. The second part is tips and tricks for completing that first rough draft. In the third part, I discuss the important art of turning a rough draft into something worth reading. And finally, I share some tips on how to get your story out into the world.

These are my insights now that I’ve written over a dozen novels, sold a few million books, been published in over forty languages, and have seen all angles of this complex industry as a reader, bookseller, writer, editor, and publisher. My first novel was published traditionally through a small press; I’ve self-published many on my own; others are with some of the biggest publishers in the world. I give this advice knowing how much it would’ve been worth to me while understanding that it all might be worthless to you. I only have my own experiences and observations. I wish you all the best of luck.

Insight #1: Anyone can become a successful writer; the only person who can stop you is you.

I spent twenty years stopping myself from becoming a successful writer. The biggest obstacle I faced is thinking success meant selling a ton of books, which meant writing something that millions of readers would enjoy. As I began writing my first attempts at a novel, watching the sentences form on the screen, I knew the words weren’t good enough, and so I stopped in order to spare all those readers from what I was writing.

The problem is that I had the definition of “successful writer” all wrong. A successful writer is one who finishes what they start while striving to improve their craft. It’s as simple as that. And the only one who can stop you from doing this is you.

Imagine if NBA all-star Steph Curry attempted to learn to play basketball with a million people watching. Or if the first pickup game he ever played was his only chance to land an agent and get signed to an NBA team. This is the pressure writers put on themselves, and it makes no sense. Basketball players will put all the hustle and energy into a thousand practice games before they ever get a shot at turning pro. Most will spend a dozen years playing almost every day of their lives before they make it onto a high school or college team. Writers should have the same expectations. Perhaps you write a dozen novels before you write one that blows you away or becomes a bestseller. The point is to finish them all. Play all four quarters. Steph Curry played a thousand games to the end before he turned pro. Every game he finished was a success. He didn’t stop himself, and neither should you.

Insight #2: You can’t compare your rough draft to any of the books you’ve read.

If you’re just starting out as a writer, there’s a good chance that you’ve never read a rough draft in your life. So don’t compare what you’re working on to what you’ve read from your favorite authors. Their rough drafts were nowhere near as wonderful and polished as the final product that you loved as a reader and that made you want to become a writer. Just like you, they had to get the words down on the page first. And then they had to go back and rewrite much of what they wrote, several times. At this point, they probably gave it to their spouse or a friend to read, and that person saw lots of room for improvement. Which meant another revision. The same process took place again with their agent. And then their editor. Each time, the rough draft got better and better. So will yours.

The books that made you want to become a writer were rewritten and revised as much as a dozen times, with the input of several other people. You don’t get to see all of the mistakes and boring bits – all of that has been cut away. It’s just like when you take a thousand photos on an epic vacation and only share the thirty or forty very best ones. This is what it takes to be a successful writer: You have to learn how to write the good and the bad all the way until the finish. Trust the revision process. No one will have to see your rough draft but you. And you can’t revise a work to perfection until it already exists. So make it exist.

Insight #3: There is no special qualification required.

I used to think writers belonged to a special club that had all sorts of requirements for admittance. You had to graduate from a special school, or live in the right city, or own a turtleneck. Nothing could be further from the truth. The best writers have the most diverse backgrounds. They come in all ages, all genders, all races, all sexual persuasions. They all have unique things to say. Anyone can be a writer, if they put in the work. Like most things in life, it takes lots of practice. How much practice you get is entirely up to you.

I first started dreaming of being a writer after reading Ender’s Game. I was around twelve years old. This novel blew me away, because the heroes of the story were children my age. It made me think there were no limits to what I could do. At the end of the novel, there was a brief biography of the author, Orson Scott Card. I was shocked to read that he lived in my home state, North Carolina. I always thought writers lived far away in little shacks in the woods or tall glass towers. I always thought kids had to wait to be adults to do amazing things. This book got me thinking that both assumptions might be wrong.

Related to this insight is the idea that there are too many novels out there in the world. This is rubbish. There are always readers agonizing that they can’t find something great to read. Maybe your next book will fill that void for a reader. Or it’ll be the book that leads to the book that fills that void in many other readers. Either way, there should be joy in the act of creation. My mother started knitting for the pure joy, then grew her talents until she was giving away works, then having people pay for them, and then owning and running her own yarn shop. The lady at the farmers’ market you buy tomatoes from started gardening to see if she could. Steph Curry enjoyed shooting hoops with his dad and grew hooked on the sound a perfect swish makes. There is nothing wrong with starting something as a hobbyist and asking for compensation for your art. We can all turn pro whenever we like.

Let the readers decide if you’re worth supporting with their time and money, not the cycicism of other writers who don’t want you playing ball with them.

Insight #4: The best writers are the best readers.

There aren’t any shortcuts around this. Successful writers read. They read a lot. And the best writers read a wide variety of books. It’s impossible to stress the importance of this insight. When aspiring authors ask my advice on making it as a writer, this is my most common first response: Read.

Writing is a lot like singing. There’s a musicality to good writing, and I don’t mean florid writing like you might encounter in a literature course. I mean the simple flow and cadence of sentences, how they run together, how long paragraphs should be, how much dialog to sprinkle among the action (or action among the dialog). Every sentence in this blog post is an example. I listen for the rise and fall of stresses, the iambic pentameter, mixing short punchy sentences with long comma-filled breezy ones. It should come naturally. You don’t want to even be aware that you’re doing it. Eventually you won’t.

Of course, your style will be different than my style. This is called “voice,” and we’ll talk more about voice and constructing sentences in the next part of this series. For now, it’s important to know that you’ll have a very difficult time creating pleasant prose without absorbing years’ worth of it first. Books are like tuning forks. We hear the pleasant ring of words on key, and it helps us recognize when our own pitch is a little off. The avid reader will know when a sentence needs more tinkering.

It would be convenient if we could dismiss this advice and say, “I’m going to write my own way, rules and tuning forks be damned.” But it doesn’t work that way. There are millions of effective voices and styles, but all share a common framework. Just as there are an infinite number of songs in a single guitar, but that guitar needs to be properly tuned. The way we tune our writing instruments is to read, and to read as writers. Recognize sentences that make you smile, or think, or laugh, or cry. Pore over them. Ask yourself how this writer made you care about the protagonist, or feel revulsion for the antagonist, with so few words. Where is the conflict in the story? How are the characters different at the end of the novel? This is the craft that we’ll discuss in the next part of this series, and it’s what we should look for as readers.

It’s never too late to start. And it’s impossible to do too much of it. Above all, branch out. I wrote my first novel after months of reading and reviewing detective and crime fiction for a friend’s website. These were not my preferred genres, but I was reading and reviewing a book a day. I learned so much about intricate plotting, misdirection, tension, danger, and the crafting of horror. These elements now appear in my young adult novels, my science fiction, my romance. Every type of story has many elements of all other types of story. Study all the genres deeply. You may even uncover a new passion or write a completely different kind of novel.

It also helps to not be too deeply immersed in the types of stories you want to write. If you only read within your writing genre, one of two things will happen: You’ll write something derivative and unoriginal, or you’ll be so terrified of doing this that you’ll be closed off to exploring themes that your colleagues are also delving into. Both are terrible risks.

As a science fiction author, I’ve found it better to read non-fiction. Many of my story ideas come from newspaper articles and the latest works of science and philosophy. History books are a great inspiration, because they reveal the cultural patterns that forewarn the future. Satire is impossible without a deep understanding of history.

Romance novels benefit from books on psychology. A thriller featuring a tortured couple gets new layers by reading self-help books meant for those going through a divorce. Even fiction authors have to do research. Certainly read enough in your genre to understand what readers expect (even if your goal is to defy expectations). But don’t get trapped. The more adventurous you are with your reading, and the more avidly you read, the stronger your writing will become. There is no better writing advice than this. All writing advice, in fact, presupposes the truth of this: that we must be readers first and foremost.

Insight #5: This is a marathon, not a sprint.

Despite what appears to be exceptions to this rule, writing is not a get-rich-quick scheme. You don’t sit down, bang out a rough draft, and watch the money flow in. Your first novel will quite likely not be your best. When I was starting out, I gave myself ten years to see if I could make this work. Ten years! The plan was to write two novels a year, twenty novels in total, hoping that eventually one of them would be decent.

I get emails all the time from writers who have heard this advice from me and credit it for the success they eventually found. It helped them to not give up. It’s exactly what this philosophy did for me. It also allowed me to concentrate on the writing and not the promoting. Promotion is a waste of time until you have enough material out there for each one to feed on the other. It’s not like those books are going away or growing stale. Wait until you have five or six novels published before you start to spread the word. Pour every spare minute and every ounce of energy into the writing while you can.

This is one of those bits of advice you simply must trust and believe in. I was lucky to stumble upon the truth of this early on in my career. These last two insights truly distill what a writing career is all about, and the simplicity can blind us to the quality of the advice: Read and write. Just keep doing this and you will surprise yourself.

Insight #6: Whoever works the hardest will get ahead.

This insight is for those who measure their success as a writer by readership, sales, and the ability to make a full-time living from their craft. The biggest, most daunting, terrible, awful truth working against this type of success is this: There are only so many readers. It really is as simple as that. If there were twice as many books being consumed, there would be a lot more seats on the bus to successville. Ten times as much reading would be even better. You’d have ten times the chance of making it as a writer. There’s a lot we could do as a society to increase the number of readers, but that’s a blog post for a different time.

Because of the limited number of readers, and the ever-growing number of distractions and hobbies that aren’t reading, only a limited number of people can find an appreciable audience and make a living with their writing. But there’s good news as well: A larger share of the readers’ dollars are now going to writers, which means more writers today can make a living than at any time in the past. The other bit of good news is this: Not many writers are willing to do what it takes to make that living. Which opens the door for you.

I know a lot of people who make a living with their writing. Many of my close personal friends are among those who do. And this isn’t a self-selected sample, where I end up meeting other writers at writing conventions, so all my friends are successful writers. What I’ve seen happen over and over is people who want to know how to get this done, and then go out and do it. What they all have in common, bar none, is a work ethic that borders on obsession.

This is true of all careers with more dreamers than open slots. Going back to sports, imagine the number of times Lionel Messi kicked a soccer ball off a brick wall, passing back and forth to himself, while his friends played Nintendo or watched TV. Successful people find a joy in the thing they do that allows them to do more of it than their peers. I guarantee I’ve read more books than 99.9% of aspiring writers. For many years of my life, I had a goal of reading a book a day. I did this throughout college and most of high school. And when I started writing, I carried the same obsession into my craft. I joined a writing group, read writing theory and advice, and wrote two to three novels a year, plus many shorter works.

This meant getting up at four in the morning to write before work. I wrote over my lunch break. I wrote all weekend. I revised my rough drafts a dozen times. I hired, traded, and begged for editing advice. And I’m not even a good example of proper work ethic. I have friends who write, revise, edit, and publish a novel a month. Year after year. I have friends who have published over fifty novels in their first handful of years of writing. Both of my friends who publish a book a month make millions of dollars a year, and they are among the best writers I know when it comes to craft. I can’t put their books down. They pass like Messi.

When I hear writers brag about how little they publish, or how long it takes them to finish a novel, I hear Steph Curry brag about how little he shoots hoops, or how he only practices once a year. I turn on the TV to watch athletes who obsess over their craft. I admire writers who have the same level of obsession. This is what anyone who wants to make a career at writing should expect from themselves. Stop listening to anyone who brags about how little they write and how much they procrastinate. Surround yourself with the Messis and Currys of the writing world.

Please note here again that making a career at writing is very different from being a successful writer. They’re two different goals. Successful writers are out there completing works and making those works available to readers. These writers might dream of making a living one day, but unless they are outworking everyone they know, their chances are slim. A dream is not a plan. There’s nothing wrong with writing for the pure joy of creation. There’s nothing wrong with shooting hoops with friends, or playing in a community basketball league and wanting to win every game without ever being paid one dime. Know your goals, and know what it takes to achieve them.

Insight #7: Competition is complicated

It might be true that there are a limited number of readers, and that you have to outwork your peers to turn writing into a career, but that doesn’t mean we’re all in competition with each other. We’re only competing to a certain degree, and then we’re in cahoots. Believe it or not, this is a team game.

Steph Curry played for Davidson College, not far from where I grew up. I watched him play college ball. Steph was competing with every player on his team, and every player in his division, for a spot in the NBA. But once he made it to the NBA, he was now reliant on not just his teammates but on his opposition to advance his career. The better Lebron James played, the more spectators and the more money Steph Curry enjoyed. And vice versa. Every NBA superstar grows the pool of viewers, hence advertising dollars, and so all NBA pros benefit.

I see a lot of writers get this wrong, claiming it’s a zero-sum game and we’re all competing with each other. This is nonsense. None of us can write fast enough, or a wide enough variety of material, to please all readers. We rely on our fellow pros to keep interest in the hobby high. JK Rowling did so much for all writers when she increased the number of young avid readers. I rely on my colleagues to keep people reading while I’m working on the next book. Just as Steph and Lebron both work to keep ratings high, advertising dollars flowing, and salary caps increasing.

The biggest fear NBA players, team owners, and executives should have is that viewers might change the channel. The real competition at this level is the NFL, MMA, CNN, the great outdoors, and so on. The paradox is this: You compete up to a point, and then you rely on each other. This means it’s never too early to foster great relationships with fellow writers. Which leads me to the next insight…

Insight #8: Be helpful and engaged

If there’s a shortcut to writing success, it’s here. Be helpful to other writers, and you’ll find your generosity will pay dividends. It’s not the reason you should try to be helpful, but it doesn’t hurt to know that being a good person will be rewarding. I’ve seen it over and over in this industry.

One author I know was a brilliant illustrator. While still working on his first novel, he started helping indie authors with their cover art. He did much of this work for free, and then for much cheaper than he should, all because something most of us find difficult came very easily for him. His generosity and kindness made him incredibly popular. When Jason Gurley finished his novel Eleanor, there was a long line of people eager to give it a read, offer blurbs, and promote the hell out of it. Your novel still has to be good, of course. But you won’t believe how difficult it is to get even family and friends to read your work. Writing good material is a necessity, but it isn’t enough.

Another friend of mine got her start by being a beta reader for other writers and later an editor. You could learn how to format ebooks and offer this service. Or start a blog reviewing and promoting new releases (I’ve watched several bloggers move into writing; it was my path as well). You could join a few writing forums and contribute as much as you can to the helpful discourse among writers. Be yourself. Be kind. Form relationships. Share your journey. Soon you’ll meet and get to know those who want this as badly as you do. And if you’re lucky, you’ll find yourselves on opposing teams one day, realizing that you are now both colleague and competitor, but that you only go as far as you can lift each other up.

Insight #9: Know your readers

My first reader was my cousin Lisa. Other people had read my rough drafts and manuscripts before her, but Lisa was the first person who – under no obligation to read my work – sought it out, loved it, and started asking for more. She also – crucially – began telling all her friends how much she loved my debut novel and asked me if she could send copies to them. At the time, my book was just a Word document. I told her to feel free to send it to anyone. By the time I received a book deal and had the novel ready for pre-order, Lisa had dozens of friends and family excited about the release and securing their copies.

When Lisa talked about what she loved in the book, I listened. As readers began leaving Amazon reviews, I read them closely. I started a Facebook page primarily to connect with readers. I’ll never forget the day I friended my 1,000th reader and realized I was reaching well beyond friends-of-friends. Now I was connecting with strangers from all over the globe. Cultivating these relationships, and giving back every ounce of the love and passion that was streaming toward me and my works, was profoundly satisfying and paid enormous personal and professional dividends.

Connecting and getting to know your readers is critical. Set up platforms that allow this as early on as you can. The important thing is to make it easy for readers to find and connect with you. Don’t waste time trying to win over new readers by spamming social media; this does not work in a sustainable manner. Instead, spend your creative energies writing more works. And use your downtime to connect with the readers you already have. Other readers will come. It all starts with one, like my cousin Lisa.

Insight #10: Know your industry

My last insight is a peek ahead at the final part of this series, but it’s one of the things I wish more aspiring writers thought about before they began honing their craft. The writing industry is a business. Whatever your goals and aspirations, you should learn as much as you can about how books are made, distributed, sold, published, edited, translated, purchased, read, shared, and recycled. Working as a bookseller gave me an advantage that I didn’t appreciate until many years later. When I realized how little most writers knew about their industry, I was shocked at first and then later dismayed. Dismayed, because I saw how many writers were taken advantage of or disappointed simply by not knowing very much about the field they’d devoted their creative lives to.

Most students who go into medicine have at least some idea of the work that will be involved, the hours, the expected pay, the time it will take to get through their residency, the fact that they’ll be working graveyard shifts before they ever catch a whiff of their own practice. Before they take on several hundred thousand dollars in student loans, they look into what an anesthesiologist might expect to make in the state of Indiana upon graduation.

Very few aspiring authors know how much they’ll earn from every paperback sale. Or that most works of fiction are now purchased as ebooks. Or that most physical books are now purchased online. If the goal is to sell enough books to raise a family, the dream should be to have a great online presence for one’s books, and to concentrate on ebooks. However, if the goal is to place books into bookstores and submit for awards in particular genres, the plan should be very different. Understanding these choices and managing expectations will be the subject of the fourth part of this series. For now, my advice is to start learning as much as possible. Read Publishers Weekly, The Passive Voice, Kristine Rusch, JA Konrath. Spend time in bookstores. Follow authors who blog about their experiences. Know what you’re getting yourself into.

Those are the top ten things I wish I’d known before I got started. Next up, I discuss what I wish I’d known about finishing my first rough draft. Maybe it’ll help you, however far along your own writing path you happen to find yourself.

Bonus Insight:

Many of the challenges and frustrations you’ll encounter along the way are the exact same as those felt by every other writer. The exact same. Writing requires long stretches of uninterrupted concentration. This sort of time has always been difficult to carve out. We have children, pets, and spouses who require our attention. We have day jobs to work around. We have the stress of bills, mortgages, student loans, rent, empty gas tanks, empty stomachs. We berate ourselves for not writing more. We judge ourselves when our works don’t sell. We watch as other writers get ahead, as markets change, as retailers come and go.

Every generation of writer thinks that their challenges are unique, and that every other cohort of writer had it easier in the past or will have it easier in the future. That’s because the past highlights those who succeeded there, and their success seems to have come all at once, without the failures, frustrations, and challenges that all writers feel in the moment. The present for a struggling writer is certainly suffering, but this never stops being true. It’s always been true.

The only thing that truly changes over time is the stories and rationalizations that we tell ourselves when we feel these universal pangs of self-doubt, envy, and exhaustion. We tell ourselves it’s because Barnes and Noble is killing indie bookstores. Or that it’s Amazon destroying B&N. Or that it’s Amazon introducing a new program. Or the Nook not doing enough to compete. Or James Patterson and his stable of co-authors. And so on and so on and so on.

The excuses and the stories we make up vary. The challenges don’t.

The fact is that the writing landscape today is as vibrant and viable as it’s ever been in the history of mankind. Authors have more power and control over their careers than ever before. They have more access to readers, to each other, to foreign markets, to the tools of publication, and to the infinite manufacture of goods at almost zero cost. Ten years ago, it was almost impossible to reach readers. Ten years from now is a complete unknown. Seize the day, my friends.

[onemustalwaysbecarefulofbooks]

Why I Dislike Rhysand, Part 1: Not a Martyr Like You Think

So. . this rant has been a long time coming. I finally came to the conclusion that it would be too much to include all in one post. There are so many different things I feel the need to touch on and include that I decided I’m going to be breaking it up. Enjoy Part 1. 

I also feel the need to start off by saying that I’ve been an SJM reader for nearly ten years now. I remember when ACOTAR first came out. I remember reading ACOMAF upon its release and nearly being blown over by my intense disgust and dislike for how a story was handled. ACOMAF was released in 2016, so I’ve been holding on to a lot of this for the better part of seven years. I don’t know how many of you were a part of the ACOTAR or SJM community here on Tumblr back in those days but let me tell you. . .it was something else. The fevered Rhysand obsession and worship was WILD. The fans were CUT THROAT and had no mercy. If you even HINTED at the fact that you felt like Rhys was not All That, they came for you and they came hard. I have never been one to engage in ridiculous arguments with strangers on the internet so I kept most of my feelings to myself. It’s giving me immense satisfaction and validation to see so many people begin to express things that are so like minded with how I feel. Keep fighting the good fight!

SO! We’re going to dive deep with this and go back to before the series chronologically even started. 

A huge part of why I so strongly dislike Rhysand is that I find it very hard to sympathize with him regarding his time UTM. 

Yes, you read that correctly.

Now, I realize that that sentence alone is enough to cause a lot of people to click away from this in disgust immediately. I challenge those people to keep reading and to hear me out. I try and make it a point to back everything I have to say with canon facts and logical sense. One of the fatal (or perhaps not so fatal) flaws I have as a reader is that 99% of the time, I am not able to just let things go and absorb them at face value for the sake of an entertaining story. You can sell me just about anything and I’ll be able to find some enjoyment in it. . .if it makes sense. If something exists in a scenario that is contradictory or just plain illogical, I tend to fixate on it and not be able to let it go (I call this the Ravenclaw in me). Sometimes I almost resent that I’m like this because I feel like it prevents me from just having a good time with literature, but for better or worse, this is the kind of reader I am. 

Unfortunately, the ACOTAR series, specifically many things that have to do with Rhys and the Inner Circle, are riddled with things like this. Now, it’s no secret to any SJM reader that Sarah J Maas is OBSESSED with Rhys and the Inner Circle. Like. . .OBSESSED. I’ve truly never seen anything like it from an author. She so plainly and clearly holds these characters on pedestals and believes them to be the best of the best. She also so plainly and clearly works very hard to try and get the readers to feel the same way. This is why I say that SJM is one of the most confusing and frustrating authors I’ve ever read about. She clearly feels this way and wants US to feel this way. So you’d think, if that was her end goal, that she would simply just write characters who really ARE the best of the best and deserve to be on pedestals. Easy, right? She has total control over the actions, thoughts, and words of these characters, every other character, the plot, the narrative, the direction of the entire story. So just. . .write them as being perfect saintly beings, as you so clearly view them as?? You have the power to do this?

But here’s where the confusing and frustrating part comes in: She doesn’t.

Instead of giving us these characters who truly ARE as virtuous and amazing and wonderful as she thinks they are, she instead gives us characters who do horrific, selfish, and highly questionable things across the span of the series and then gaslights her readers by continuing to hold these characters on pedestals and laud them as being The Best In Every Way. . .while their atrocious deeds are sitting RIGHT THERE on the page being completely ignored in every way. It’s one of the most unaware and bizarre things I’ve ever witnessed from an author and honestly, from a group of readers. The amount of people who just blindly accept anything SJM says as Gospel is wild to me. I really don’t understand how people just swallow this stuff and can’t see it for what it is. Open your mind to just an ounce of critical thinking and I really do believe you’ll begin to see things in a new way. 

So. . .my point in all that being: SJM clearly wanted us to have a ton of sympathy for Rhys from his ordeal with Amarantha and his time UTM. The scene is set perfectly! Valiant and selfless Rhysand volunteers himself to play Amarantha’s whore in order to keep her attention from the city and the people Rhys loves so much. He lives for 50 years having to “service” a psychotic evil woman who actively tries to bring destruction to his entire country. Horrible, right??? Unthinkable. What he went through!!! What he had to do!!! No one has a selfless heart like he does!!!!

The only problem is. . .this entire scenario has a million holes in it. Let’s explore some of them. 

So, when Amarantha returns to Prythian, Rhys heads to her little party without any backup from the IC. He plans to kill Amarantha himself but of course, she tricks all the High Lords and captures their power before this can happen. 

Sidenote: This is another thing I can’t stand about Rhysand’s power: We are told over and over and over that he is THE MOST powerful High Lord not just of the seven current High Lords, but in all of Prythian’s HISTORY. In the High Lord’s meeting during ACOWAR (top contender for my least favorite scene of the entire series), Feyre says: 

The others, who had been watching with disdain and amusement and boredom, now turned to my mate. Now possessed a shadow of fear in their eyes as they realized who and what, exactly, sat amongst them. 

Brethren, and yet not. Tamlin was a High Lord, as powerful as any of them.

Except for the ones at my side. Rhys was as different from them as humans were to Fae. 

Okay, first of all:

Second of all. . .once again, we are faced with SJM’s convenient Whatever-I-Need-To-Happen-Will-Happen story telling. She claims that Rhys is as different from all the other High Lords as humans are to fae. And despite this, he still gets tricked and overtaken by Amarantha, the exact same as all the rest of them. His powers were ripped away by that spell just the same as all the others. Being the so-called “Most Powerful High Lord in Prythian’s History” didn’t mean anything in that situation. He’s the mOSt POwerfUL HiGH LOrd iN HiSTORy, but was able to be totally overtaken by Amarantha just like everyone else. Looks like that title really should have gone to HER!

Anyway. . .as Rhys feels his powers being ripped away, we are told that in desperation, he “threw the shield around Velaris”, binding it to my friends so that they had to remain or risk that protection collapsing and used the last dregs to tell them mind to mind what was happening and to stay away”. 

What a noble sacrifice right??

INCONSISTENCY ALERT: There were ALREADY spells and protections hiding Velaris and there had been for years!!!!!! 

The first time I read Rhys’s explanation of this, I was super confused. SJM tells it like he was the one who created Velaris’s shield and protection right there in this moment. That this act was the only thing that kept it hidden and safe from Amarantha. But like. . .this is not the case!!!! 

Don’t believe me??

“Did you even think for one moment,” I said, my voice like gravel, “to extend that luck to anywhere else? Anyone else?”

“Other cities,” he said calmly, “are known to the world. Velaris has remained secret beyond the borders of these lands for millenia. Amarantha did not touch it because she did not know it existed. None of her beasts did. No one in the other courts knows of its existence, either.”

“How?”

“Spells and wards and my ruthless, ruthless ancestors, who were willing to do anything to preserve a piece of goodness in our wretched world.”

(ACOMAF, page 144)

The Velaris Wiki page states:

To preserve it, an ancient High Lord kept Velaris a secret, and so did his descendants. There are many spells on the city itself—laid by him, and his heirs, that make those who trade here unable to say anything about the city and possess the skill to convincingly lie in order to keep the origin of their goods and ships, hidden from the rest of the world. Rumor has it that an ancient High Lord doused his blood upon the stones and river to keep that spell eternal. 

And then in ACOMAF, we get:

“I used the remainder of my power to shield them all from sight and sound. I had only enough for one city--one place. I chose the one that had been hidden from history already. I chose, and now must live with the consequences of knowing there were more left outside who suffered. But for those here. . .anyone flying or traveling near Velaris would see nothing but barren rock, and if they tried to walk through it, they’d find themselves suddenly deciding otherwise. And because my powers were focused on shielding them all, Feyre, I had very little to use against Amarantha.”

So, which is it?? Did your ancestors shield and protect Velaris or did you?? 

Do you see the contradictory writing here? 

Again, in ACOMAF:

“You are safe here, and safe anywhere in this city, for that matter. Velaris’s walls are well protected and have not been breached in 5,000 years.”

According to what Sarah J Maas herself has written, the city of Velaris already had extensive wards and protection on it for millennia. The city had been a safe haven from the rest of the world and a complete secret for 5,000 years. So I was very confused as to why it was being made out to be that Rhys made this Grand Ultimate Sacrifice to shield the city and its inhabitants from Amarantha, when this was already the case before this. She wouldn't have touched it because she didn’t know about it. . .words from Rhys’s own mouth!!!! 

I’m sure in Sarah’s mind, she just needed to make a way for the IC to not come after Rhys and try and help him, so this is what she came up with. Regardless. . .Velaris already had protection on it that did not rely on Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Amren. You’re saying that with the last shreds of his power, Rhysand undid centuries old ancient blood protection of his ancestors, created an entirely NEW foolproof protection plan, and bound it to the Inner Circle?? 

I’d also like to point out that Kallias, High Lord of Winter, did essentially the same thing with Viviane and the Winter Court. 

And in those last moments, when his power was ripped from him by that spell. . .Kallias had flung out the remnants to warn her. To tell Viviane he loved her. And then he begged her to protect their people.

So she had. 

As Mor and my friends had protected Velaris, Viviane had veiled and guarded the small city under her watch, offering safe harbor to those who made it. 

(ACOWAR, pages 410-411)

These situations are exact parallels of each other. Kallias and Rhysand couldn’t protect their entire courts, but they were able to throw shields and protections around the one city where their loved ones were. The Winter Court was ravaged by Amarantha’s troops, we know this from the story. But evidently, this one city where Viviane was remained protected. And in this situation, I have infinitely more respect for Kallias than I do for Rhysand.

Rhysand claimed he became Amarantha’s whore in order to keep enemies from looking too closely at who he really was and who he loved. He serviced her in bed and committed atrocious deeds in her name for 50 years. All this, he claimed, to protect Velaris and his loved ones. 

So please explain to me how Kallias was able to do the same thing. . .WITHOUT doing Amarantha’s dirty work. 

As I said, I know fully well that the Winter Court in general was not spared by Amarantha. We all read about the children who had their minds wiped (conveniently by some OTHER daemati who we never learn about or hear about ever again). It sounds like Amarantha tried her hardest to destroy the Court in general. But remember. . .the Night Court is not exclusively Velaris. If you look at the map of Prythian, the Night Court is huge! It’s the largest of all the Courts. We have no idea what happened to the rest of the Night Court that was outside of Velaris’s protection. Since it’s such a big deal that Velaris is such a whole, untouched city, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that it probably wasn’t spared any more than the rest of Prythian was. So it stands to reason that both the Night Court and the Winter Court had one city that remained protected while the rest of their Court was destroyed.

Even further than that. . .it is specifically stated that Viviane offered shelter and protection to anyone who made it to that protected city where she was. Kallias begged her to protect their people and she did. It was a city of safe haven for any refugees who could make it there. (Viviane was Prythian’s first High Lady and that’s the tea). 

Rhysand KNEW what was happening all throughout Prythian during this time. . .he helped partake in it!!! Did he think to offer the same protection for innocent refugees in Velaris during this time??

We all know the answer.

I’m not saying that Rhys was obligated to do this. In a horrible situation like that, I’m sure many people would enter survival mode and adapt an “every man for himself” mindset. It’s an extremely Slytherin move to make, and I don’t really mean that in a bad way. But at the end of the day, Rhysand prioritized his friend group over every innocent citizen of Prythian. 

Kallias and Viviane didn’t do that. 

Again, I don’t entirely blame Rhysand for this!! I think a lot of people would have made the same decision!! But just. . .don’t ask me to act like Rhys’s decision was some grand ultimate sacrifice that was more than any other High Lord made. It’s not. SJM, if you want Rhys to be my fave, why are you putting characters in here like K and V who do the more noble and honorable thing?? 

Kallias didn’t have mind powers where he was able to erase the knowledge of Viviane from every one UTM who knew about her as Rhys did with the Inner Circle. There weren’t already extensive, centuries-old shields and protection guarding the city that she was in. And despite this, he STILL asked her to protect their people, and she kept the city open for refugees who could make it there. AND he remained true to his cause and didn’t do Amarantha’s dirty work for her to “keep people from looking too closely”. 

And yet Feyre and everyone else tell us constantly that “no one sacrificed as much” as Rhys. Yeah, no. My respect for Kallias and Viviane is 10000000x greater than Rhysand. Sorry, not sorry. 

And this leads me to my next point. 

One of the biggest issues I have with Rhys’s time UTM in general, is that his actions are treated by the narrative and the other characters as the MOST sacrificial out of all the High Lords. 

As I’ve expressed above, I do not buy this for one second. And I actually find it pretty insulting on behalf of all the other High Lords!!

Rhysand’s choices and actions were entirely self-serving. He did nothing to fight against Amarantha or protect citizens of Prythian in general. It was entirely about his city and his friends. Again, I’m not saying I condemn him for this! It was a horrible situation and this was what he chose to do. People do crazy things for the people they love. But that’s my point. . .it was a CHOICE. He CHOSE to “service” Amarantha. He CHOSE to do her dirty work and commit atrocious deeds in her name. And every choice he made protected no one but the people who were important to HIM. So I’m just not really sure how/why I’m expected to feel the greatest amount of sympathy for HIM, over the other High Lords, many of whom stayed in open rebellion and never aided Amarantha. How easy would it have been for any of the other High Lords to attempt the same thing he did, and pretend to sympathize with Amarantha? Maybe not “servicing” her as Rhys did, but pretending to deflect to her side, doing dirty work for her, in order to attempt to spare their Courts and THEIR loved ones??? Did anyone else do this??? NO.

Rhys says he bows for no one but that isn’t true. He bowed for Amarantha. The other High Lords did not. 

The High Lords of Summer, Day, and Winter lost their lives by refusing to submit to Amarantha. (ACOTAR, page 284). 

And I’m supposed to have the greatest amount of sympathy for Rhysand??

People talk about how horrible it was for Rhys during those 50 years Under the Mountain. I’m not here to say his life was pleasant. But what I AM here to say is that in comparison to what the other High Lords’ lives were like. . .I find it hard to have MORE sympathy for him than the others. 

“If that was what she wanted, then that was what she would get. I made her beg, and scream, and used my lingering powers to make it so good for her that she wanted more. Craved more.”

“For fifty years--whenever I was inside her, I’d think about killing her. She had no idea. None. Because I was so good at my job that she thought I enjoyed it too. So she began to trust me--more than the others. Especially when I proved what I could do to her enemies.”

Rhys is “so good at his job” of killing Amarantha’s enemies (and one assumes that Amarantha’s enemies are, you know, PEOPLE FIGHTING FOR PRYTHIAN AND AGAINST HER OPPRESSION) and so thorough in their sexual acts, that Amarantha begins to trust him. He is allowed certain freedoms that no one else has. He is not trapped for 50 straight years Under the Mountain. In ACOTAR alone, we see him visit the Spring Court three different times. Do you think any of those other High Lords saw daylight even once during those 50 years?? 

He is clearly allowed to move about as he wants to Under the Mountain. He visits Feyre in her cell several times, seemingly without Amarantha knowing. She is a prisoner of Amarantha, but he’s allowed to do whatever he wants to and with her. 

Essentially. . .Rhys lived as a member of Amarantha’s court UTM. He served as her fuck buddy and one of her main attack dogs. To our knowledge he wasn’t tortured, starved, or forced to watch, powerless, as someone or something he loved was dangled over him. High Lords were losing their lives living in open rebellion against Amarantha, while Rhys lived with a level of security that no one else had. I am NOT saying that servicing Amarantha was pleasant for him, obviously it wasn’t. But at the end of the day. . .this was a choice he made. Everyone makes choices and has consequences of those choices. Rhys chose to serve Amarantha in bed and was given a position of power and security that no one else had. The other High Lords chose to openly oppose and resist her and subsequently had to suffer and live in terror with none of the freedom or choices Rhys was given. I honestly fail to see how Rhys’s decision was more valiant than all the rest. 

Again, this is NOT me trying to say that Rhys did not suffer at all UTM. I completely acknowledge that he suffered his own type of torment. I just get very sick and tired of him being treated as if he is the Greatest, Most Suffering, and Only Martyr in all of Prythian. 

I often say that Sarah writes all of these characters and this entire story in a way that elevates and favors Rhysand, even if in doing so she has people saying and doing things that make absolutely no logical sense. Everything that happens after UTM is a prime example of this. 

The fact that the other Courts and High Lords are so quick to trust Rhysand and work so closely with him after the events of UTM is downright ridiculous and makes absolutely no sense. All of them have EVERY reason to be extremely mistrustful, if not openly hostile to him, after what they witnessed for 50 years. I myself do not understand most of his actions during ACOTAR. Let’s dive into all of THAT.

I made a post separately on this, but I’ll still comment on it here. Rhys claims that he “thought” about killing Amarantha the entire time he worked for her. However, he claims:

“I couldn’t use my powers to harm her, and she had shielded herself against physical attacks”.

There’s nothing I hate more than contrived convenient story-telling. To me, this is on the same level as Feyre not being able to have a C-section in ACOSF. We need it to be true, so we’re just going to say it’s true. . .no matter how little sense it makes in this context. 

Rhys says that he, the most powerful High Lord ever born, had his power ripped away by Amarantha. On page 520 of ACOMAF he says, “Within a few seconds, my power belonged wholly to Amarantha”. 

But does it??? Let’s take a look at all the things Rhys is able to do with his power during his time under Amarantha, without her knowledge or consent:

Uses it to enhance the sexual experience between him and Amarantha, making her beg and scream, and crave him (ACOMAF, page 520)

Broke into the minds of the three fae who cornered Feyre on Calanmai, reshaped their lives, their histories, and then made them confess to Amarantha that they were rebels (ACOMAF, page 523)

“Against my violation, my body straightened, every muscle going taut, my bones straining. Magic, but deeper than that. Power that seized everything inside me and took control: even my blood flowed where he willed it.” (ACOTAR, page 239)

“I couldn’t move. An invisible, talon-tipped hand scraped against my mind. And I knew--one push, one swipe of those mental claws, and who I was would cease to exist.” (ACOTAR, page 239)

Broke into Clare Beddor’s mind when she was captured and took away her pain, told her to scream when she was expected to, then finally slipped into her mind and ended her life (ACOMAF, page 524)

Visits Feyre in her cell UTM and heals her shattered arm completely (where was this power to save her from a C-Section???)

Mentally controls and commands the guards to stay out of Feyre’s cell and not touch her. “If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?” Dazed, numb nods, then they blinked and straightened. I hid my trembling. Glamour, mind control--whatever it was he had done, it worked. They beckoned--but didn’t dare touch me. (ACOTAR, page 344)

Enters Feyre’s mind to influence and help her during her second task

Convenient storytelling at its finest. He may not have total control over the full extent of his power, but it is abundantly clear that he definitely has control of some of it! And yet we’re told that Rhys is completely unable to do anything to harm or kill Amarantha, because she holds all his power!! It belonged “wholly to her” as he said! But he’s able to do all of this stuff without her knowledge???

Forget killing her with his power!!! Lysandra killed Arobynn Hamel by slitting his throat in the middle of the night! I’m sorry, I do not find it believable that the Most Powerful High Lord in Prythian’s HISTORY was completely unable to find a way to end this bitch’s life in 50 years, ESPECIALLY when it’s explicitly stated that she allows him certain freedoms and he does things without her knowledge. I just don’t!!!! 

So if I’M thinking that. . .what do you think the rest of the people UTM were thinking??? Can you see how they might be very suspicious of him??

In addition to this. . .his actions regarding Tamlin, and eventually Feyre, make zero logical sense in the context of their situation. Let’s take a look at THAT mess.

So Rhysand is suffering in this horrible awful torment, having to play Amarantha’s whore and do evil things for her. He hates every minute of it, he grows to hate himself, he claims. 

And in this giant mess, there is only ONE road to freedom for not just him, but for everyone. And that’s Tamlin.

“Then she cursed Tamlin. And my other great enemy became the one loophole that might free us all.”

Rhys knows about the curse. He knows the stipulations and what Tamlin must accomplish. He knows that doing so will free them all.

Wouldn't you then think that he would do everything in his power to attempt to aid and assist Tamlin during the course of those 50 years?????

I know he hates Tamlin by that point anyway, due to the rivalry between their families. But, my God. . .would that really matter at this point?? If me and my entire country were stuck in the position Prythian was in, I don’t really think I’d give a shit who our freedom depended on. It could be my greatest mortal enemy and I’m pretty sure I’d still be like Okay Buddy, let’s do this. I wouldn't say I’d LIKE it. But I’d use whoever I could to get me and everyone else out of that situation. 

If Rhysand, the Inner Circle, Velaris, and every other High Fae in Prythian’s lives and futures depended on Tamlin getting a human girl to fall in love with him, I would think Rhysand would be doing whatever he possibly could to further this along and make it happen. Don’t try and say that he couldn’t do it because Amarantha would find out. Rhys WAS able to keep secrets from her and do things she didn’t know about (see my big list up there! ^^) Don’t try and say that he wouldn't risk dropping his Bad Guy Mask because it would make people look “too closely” at him and possibly target Velaris and the IC (I would have a million comebacks to that. As I’ve already said, there were ALREADY extensive shields and protections guarding Velaris and had been for years. Rhys had wiped the knowledge of the IC from the minds of everyone who knew about them. And wouldn't the safer, better option for the IC be that the curse was broken??? So if he really wanted to protect them, this was the #1 thing he should be doing!!!!)

When it became clear to us all in ACOMAF that Rhys was not in fact, really a bad guy, the very first thing I immediately wondered was, “If this were the case, why was he not trying to HELP Tamlin all those years???” If that was their one loophole and their one shot at freedom and ending the nightmare they were in, why on EARTH did Rhys spend 50 years bullying, manipulating, and tormenting the ONE PERSON who had a shot at freeing them??!?!?!? 

Rhys tells Feyre in Chapter 54 of ACOMAF:

“I didn’t know. That you were with Tamlin. That you were staying at the Spring Court. Amarantha sent me that day after the Summer Solstice because I’d been so successful on Calanmai. I was prepared to mock him, maybe pick a fight.”

Again, do not tell me that Rhys was a slave to Amarantha so there wasn’t anything he could do. That is NONSENSE. After Calanmai he crafts an entire fabricated story to tell her and brings people he’s mind manipulated into validating what he’s saying. 

Instead of offering Tamlin support, or at the very least, leaving him alone, he chooses to terrorize him and his people. He leaves severed heads on the manor house grounds, taunts Tamlin about the curse, and taunts Lucien about his mother and his dead lover. Listen to what he says to Tamlin and Lucien, before he knows Feyre is there: 

“What a pity that you must endure the brunt of it, Tamlin--and an even greater pity that you’re so resigned to your fate. You might be stubborn, but this is pathetic.”

“Little Lucien. You certainly gave them something to talk about when you switched to Spring. Such a sad thing, to see your lovely mother in perpetual mourning over losing you.”

“She’s already preparing for you. Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you’ve already been broken and will reconsider her offer.”

This is flat out disgusting behavior. This is the man you want me to have sympathy for, to view as the “better man”. Tamlin and Lucien were even greater victims at this point than Rhys was himself. They were running out of time after desperately fighting a losing battle, with the entire weight of Prythian on their shoulders. Rhys’s actions do not make sense. He is digging his own grave by behaving this way. If he wanted himself and everyone to be free so badly, I’m really not sure why he’s going out of his way to mock Tamlin, make his life difficult, and taunt him about not breaking the curse. 

But things don’t stop there! They get even MORE illogical when Feyre enters the picture!!

So once Rhys discovers Feyre’s presence, he immediately picks up on the emotional connection between her and Tamlin. In this situation, I would expect his first reaction to be glee. He didn’t know who Feyre was at that point, other than a girl he’d been dreaming about (and he later reveals that he first believed these dreams meant that she would be the one to save them all). Did anyone really expect Tamlin to break that curse?? Did anyone really expect him to find a human girl with hate in her heart for the Fae and have her fall in love with him?? I don’t think for a minute Amarantha actually believed there was even the slightest chance of this happening, just like she didn’t really believe Feyre had any chance of winning all three of her trials. It’s a mind game, nothing more. But here Tamlin is, on the very brink of meeting the very specific standards set by Amarantha. 

But what does Rhys do? Amp up the dramatics to scare Tamlin into sending Feyre back across the wall, therefore ensuring that the curse will never be broken. 

His reasoning, he tells us in ACOMAF, is:

“I made Tamlin beg--as Amarantha had made me beg, to show him how powerless he was to save you. And I prayed my performance was enough to get him to send you away. Back to the human realm, away from Amarantha. Because she was going to find you. If you broke that curse, she was going to find you and kill you.”

Um. . .if Feyre breaks the curse, that means that Tamlin gets his powers back. If Tamlin gets his powers back, Amarantha is dead. If Tamlin didn’t do it, certainly one of the other High Lords would have. If you’ll recall, Feyre DOES break the curse and when that happens, Amarantha is dead in literally seconds. Her power isn’t brute strength, it’s trickery. She is no match for Tamlin whatsoever. She literally backs away in fear and pleads for her life. It’s not even a close competition!!! She doesn’t get a single scratch on him! 

Now, I will fully admit. . .this was also something I always found kind of dumb on Tamlin’s part as well. It’s seen as this grand act of love that he sends her away and puts her safety before all of Prythian’s but I’ve always been like. . .dude. You were literally A DAY away from getting out of this thing. Tamlin, as a High Lord with his full power returned, really couldn’t shield and protect Feyre in the time it would take him to kill Amarantha? Yes, he wouldn't be able to properly protect her under their current circumstances without any of his real power, but that was the whole point of the curse. . .if Feyre told Tamlin she loved him and meant it, his power would be returned. The way in which he would be able to protect her would not be the same. You’d think at the point they were at, both Tamlin AND Rhysand would be bouncing around like the singing candlestick and clock from Beauty and the Beast trying to woo a confession out of Feyre. Kallias was able to shield Viviane for 50 years while his Court was under direct attack, I have to believe Tamlin could shield Feyre for the very short time it would take him, or any other High Lord, to end Amarantha. 

Rhys later says:

“If there was a shot of freeing us from Amarantha, you were it. I thought. . .I thought the Cauldron had been sending me these dreams to tell me that you would be the one to save us. Save my people.”

So. . .if this were the case, wouldn't it make more sense to just get a happy little “I love you” out of her before the 50 years were up? Tamlin and the High Lord’s powers would return and Amarantha would be “bloody ribbons”, as SJM likes to say, in seconds. Which is exactly what happened. All the struggle and strife of her trials UTM totally avoided!! 

What I’m essentially trying to say here is that most of Rhys’s actions during this time were in direct contradiction to what he claimed he really wanted. If Tamlin was Prythian’s only shot at freedom for all those years, you’d think he would be trying to secretly aid him in some way, or at the very least, not go out of his way to torment him. If Feyre was in Tamlin’s house, clearly in love with him, and the Curse was expiring in one day, you’d think he’d go back to Amarantha and be like “Nope, sorry, nothing to report” and pray the two of them would get it together for the sake of Prythian. 

Essentially, what I’m trying to say here is that I struggle to have a ton of sympathy for Rhys during this time because I feel as if the explanations that are given for his behavior and actions are flimsy and don’t hold up against most arguments. He felt as if he HAD to become Amarantha’s lover and lapdog in order to keep her from figuring things out about his friends and trying to hurt them. . .who were concealed in a city that hadn’t been breached for 5,000 years and the knowledge of them had been wiped from every person who knew them UTM. He “couldn’t” kill or hurt Amarantha because his power belonged “wholly” to her. . .but he was able to use his powers in ways that worked against her without her knowledge or consent about tons of other things. He was so tormented and miserable in his time UTM that he. . .mocked and tormented the one person who had a shot at freeing them all. When he saw that Tamlin was right on the brink of actually breaking the curse he. . .manipulated him into ensuring that it would never be broken. All the while being surrounded by other leaders who did not have the luxury of shielding their loved ones in an anciently protected city, who worked to help all innocent citizens of Prythian, and who were losing their lives over their refusal to submit to an evil tyrant. I have a vastly larger degree of sympathy and respect for these other High Lords than I do with Rhysand. I find Rhys to be either very self-serving, or doing things that seem to directly contradict what he claims he wants. I do not blame any of the High Lords for being wary and mistrustful of him after UTM--it makes perfect sense that they would (but that’s a topic for another section of this rant!). This is a prime example of SJM self-sacrificing through her writing. I can guarantee you I wouldn't feel as strongly about this as I do after hearing it beaten into my head over and over what a noble, selfless, honorable hero Rhys was during this time. I’m sorry, it doesn’t add up to me. Too many holes, too many contradictions. Which, unfortunately, is pretty standard fare when it comes to Rhys.

Remember, this was only Part 1!! Part 2--Why Rhys is actually a terrible High Lord--coming soon! 

[cherryskyies]

What your favorite slasher says about you

includes: rz michael myers, thomas hewitt. hannibal lecter

coming next: og michael myers, bo & vincent sinclair, jason voorhees, the grabber

Masterlist || Navigation || Ao3 || pt.2

RZ Michael Myers

Not to start off on a sexual note, but you’re heavy into size difference — both the security it brings and the idea of it being so easy for him to pick you up and manhandle you is like, the best thing ever for you guys.

I think a good amount of you rz michael myer fans are plus size, mainly because I myself am so I see the appeal of a man that is strong enough to lift you with ease, when the average man might have a struggle — even if they don’t, it’s hard to let go of the insecurity and fear that they will, whereas michael has flipped a damn car so no worries there.

You like the dominance, the fact that he could kill you with one hand, but he doesn’t. It makes you feel protected, even though he’s the one you should be protected from. 

It’s giving knife play and a choking kink. You’re into the idea of being marked by another, permanent scars left behind as a reminder of them and a hand large enough it covers your entire throat, other hand holding your wrists above your head. 

You prefer forced submission.

Something about being stalked everywhere you go is appealing

Probs an air or fire sign

Thomas Hewitt

Again with the size difference — you guys go crazy for a man that can throw you around like a sack of potatoes. 

Family is important to you, someone who goes to any length to protect and provide is something you never really had, so you find comfort in those who give what you wish you had.

I’m feeling like there is a breeding kink going on here, the idea of someone loving you so tenderly and selflessly sends you into overdrive — maybe you’re insecure yourself with your own looks, so having someone like Tommy makes you feel better — not because he is ugly by any means, but because he himself knows what it is like to think lesser of yourself for not being able to conform to society's norms of what is desirable. 

I feel like your morals clash with the average person. You wouldn’t be too against cannibalism; perhaps you wouldn’t mind trying it if it was consensual or maybe you would try it as a means of survival, much like the Hewitts. Either way, I don’t sense a lot of distaste on the subject of cannibals. 

Probs a water sign

Hannibal Lecter

You enjoy the finer things in life, maybe you’re an artist or musician of sorts – might be a slight alcoholic with a preference of wine or champagne.

Similar to Thomas Hewitt fans, you are not against cannibalism, you see it no differently than killing an animal for its meat, just less accepted by society. You’d probably help Hannibal with the designs he does on the dead bodies he doesn’t eat. 

Domestic life doesn’t seem like a bad thing to you. Having a loving husband who will stop at no means to keep you safe, Sunday dinners you share with friends and coworkers, the occasional ball or fancy dinner — it’s a dream, really.

Kids are hit or miss with you. Maybe you’d rather be the frequent babysitter or adopt, but you almost prefer your life to be child free so you can do your own thing with no other responsibility – maybe you were the child that “ruined” your parent’s love and do not wish the same thing for yourself, because much like you, a child does not deserve such a burden.   

When someone asks you “What is a trait you’d like in a partner?” possessive is a word you use often. You yearn to feel sought after, desired. You want to be worth something to someone, to be held close and whispered sweet nothings to. 

Last thing, but I feel like promises have often fallen through; people promise this or that and never go through with it, so you have some major trust issues on top of the obvious daddy issues and love for dilfs. 

Probs an earth sign

[nerdpoe]

TWINcognito mode Part 6(Tim and Danny Pretend to be Twins AU) (lmfao nah they adopted Danny they ain't pretending anymore)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, AO3

Alfred looked up from where he was polishing the last segment of the giant penny, just as one of Master Bruce’s civilian cars came to a rather sudden halt. The doors opened to an unholy cacophony of shouting and adolescent rage, and an almost desperate Master Bruce attempting to gain control of the situation.

With a clatter of a dropped school bag, Master Duke stumbled down the stairs, looking as perplexed as Alfred himself was.

Miss Barbara appeared on the screen, looking very much like she either wished to throttle the shouting siblings or was about to retreat to her bed.

Miss Cassandra appeared on the screen as well; the only one of any of them who looked amused. Well bully for her, then. If only they could all be so lucky as to be in a different country at that moment.

“Master Tim,” Alfred started, raising his voice just enough to warrant a pause in the ongoing argument, “Would you be so kind as to tell us why you are dressed like Master Danny?”

That was the wrong question.

That was the entirely wrong question to ask, and Alfred knew the second he saw the expression on Master Damian’s face.

“Timothy thought that running away from his problems instead of facing them was the answer, as usual, and-”

“-I do not run away from my problem you insufferable little-”

“-Opted to trade places with Daniel instead of standing and fighting for him-”

“-So are you saying I’d able to win against Bruce-”

“-Now Todd is on the run with Daniel at his mercies-”

“-It’s fine; Jason seems to like Danny, he’s-”

“-Perhaps we should let Master Bruce speak,” Alfred interrupted, cutting into their particular version of bonding.

Master Bruce looked like he very much did not want to speak.

“...Master Bruce, please enlighten us as to the reason for this meeting.”

Master Bruce avoided Alfreds gaze.

“B tried to kill Danny.”

“I did not!”

“You are overreacting, Timothy. But yes, father did inadvertently attempt to murder the superior twin.”

“I’m sorry,” Master Dick’s voice echoed through the cave, as cold and as terrifying as his eyes, “Bruce did what?”

Oh dear.

~~~~~~

Jason threw his helmet against the wall in rage.

Danny, very helpfully, staggered over to it and brought it back to him, taking care to only scorch it a little bit with his uncontrolled energy arcs. Jason did not take it back.

“Do we feel better now?”

No, no he did not. 

“Jason, you gotta take Danny to the Cave; Dick’s on a warpath,” Barbara sighed through his earpiece, “I’ve muted myself on their side but he won’t calm down until he sees Danny. You know Danny will be safe there, and I’ll take over the security systems to guarantee an easy escape if I’m wrong.”

“Jason, why does Tim wear these suits?”

“Jason, please, just-”

“-I feel like my skin is fighting me-”

“-Take Danny to-”

“-Was the sky always pink?”

“-Shut up!” Jason snapped, only to end up with his own helmet braining him.

“You shut up, you…you fruitloop,” Danny hissed, sounding for all the world like he’d just gravely insulted Jason.

That was adorable, but Jason was too pissed to acknowledge that.

He did file it away for use later, though. As blackmail material, obviously.

“Okay, fine. I’ll take the little menace to the Cave, and I want a guaranteed easy escape.”

“Done. Good luck getting him on your bike.”

Danny struck one of the sloppiest fighting poses Jason had ever seen in his life, literally hissing like a cat. Jason heard a click as Barbara disconnected, the coward.

“You can’t or he’ll kill me! And I’ll kick your butt to prove it!”

“How does that make any sense?”

Danny attempted to throw a punch in response, but overbalanced and landed on his face, using his bad hand to attempt to stop himself. Jason watched apathetically as the younger of the twins dragged himself off of the ground and cradled the burned appendage, before making seal-eyes at Jason.

“You did this to yourself,” Jason said flatly.

The eyes started to water.

“But it hurts,” whined Danny.

“I don’t care,” mocked Jason, “Suck it up, pipsqueak, and get on the bike.”

~~~~~~

Duke was not hiding.

He absolutely was fucking not.

He was just…staying out of the line of fire.

Watching as the scariest version of Dick he’d ever seen glared Bruce, Damian, and Tim into silence as the eldest forced them all to wait for Danny to get there.

Duke opened his mouth to ask for maybe some clarifying information, possibly to learn what exactly had happened while he’d been at school, before closing it with a quiet click.

He wasn’t sure that drawing Dick’s attention on him would be a good thing.

Instead, he made himself scarce and waiting for oh thank god he could hear the motorcycle.

Jason came to a screeching halt, and looked just as pissed as Dick, and Danny was…stumbling like he was drunk.

“Dude, are you drunk?” Slipped out of Duke’s mouth before he could stop himself.

Danny immediately course-corrected to beeline towards Duke, which was very unfortunate because that would take him off of the vehicle pad and into the dark, deadly abyss between them.

Jason didn’t even look over as he grabbed Danny by the collar of his very expensive looking jacket and hauled him down the walkway.

“No,” Danny whined, making grabby hands at Duke, “Save me Duke they’re gonna make me suck it up!”

“Suck what up?” Duke asked, stepping out of his not-a-hiding-place and hurrying over.

“My hand,” Danny wailed, waving a bandaged hand in the air as proof.

Jason manhandled Danny to his front so he could shove him at Tim, who caught his twin and glared at the crime lord.

“You couldn’t be a little more gentle?”

“He burned my helmet and then hit me with it, fuck you.”

“As expected, even incapacitated Daniel maintains the ability to attempt to defend himself. Timothy, learn from this.”

Tim attempted to reach out to presumably throttle Damian, but Danny decided to fully lean on his twin and forced Tim to put all of his efforts into keeping an inebriated meta upright.

Duke diverted his eyes from their antics to keep focus on the bigger problem.

Dick.

Dick, who actually looked like he was slowly relaxing as his shoulders fell from their tense position.

Dick, who now looked much more likely to listen to people talk since he’d confirmed that Danny was…not fine, but would be.

“So…can we know what happened now?” Duke asked, really needing to wrap up whatever this was so he could get started on his…homework. Yes. That was what he was going to do.

“I’m a god,” Danny answered, completely serious as he hid his face in his twins chest, “I can see it all so clearly now; everything is connected and I control all the realms and tax laws need constant reformation.”

Duke, as well as almost everyone in the room, elected to ignore this.

Well, he would have, if it hadn’t been for Bruce suddenly looking very, very ill. Duke supposed he would; the rich were afraid of taxes, after all.

“Bruce?” Duke asked cautiously, drawing attention to the man, “Hey, tax reforms aren’t that bad, you don’t have to be scared!”

“Bruce,” Dick ordered, much less cautiously, “Spill.”

~~~~~~

Dick, contrary to what he let his family believe, did not allow himself to be blinded by familial love to what was right in front of him.

He did allow his emotions to get the better of him, he would be the first to admit that. Second, if he couldn’t say it faster than Bruce.

He was quick to anger, tended to catastrophize, and generally did not have a sleep schedule to speak of, which only heightened the emotions he felt on a daily basis.

And he had worked so fucking hard to overcome all of that.

He wasn’t proud of who he had been, but he was working to be better than that. Every day was a chance to be a better person, and he was getting better about the frequency he fucked it up.

When Tim had left on his date and left Dick with Danny, Dick had been able to read the excitement and nervousness in the younger twin like an open book. He’d also taken note that Danny did not seem as able to hide his emotions as Tim, and okay, maybe he’d taken advantage of that.

He would blame the cop in him if he didn’t know for sure it was the Bat.

It wasn’t that Danny wasn’t as smart as Tim, it was just that Danny wasn’t as crime-oriented as Tim. Danny wasn’t constantly on guard or gathering information or reading people’s body language. He didn’t have to.

Danny, Dick discovered within five minutes of Tim leaving, loved engineering and space and hyperfixated on the topics just like Tim hyperfixated on cases.

Honestly, they hadn’t even watched the movie right away; Danny had let slip that he wanted glow-in-the-dark stars and Dick had pulled up all open toy stores on his phone.

Danny, Dick discovered, gave away information he did not mean when he was lecturing about something he was obsessive over.

So Dick had gotten a ladder, let Danny ‘forget’ he could fly so that his little brother could order him around, and set about decorating the ceiling with every single constellation Danny could pull from memory. In between placing the stars, he’d ask small, inconsequential questions. Questions Tim would never answer, but Danny was so distracted and unsuspecting that he answered them right away.

The thing that stuck out to Dick, immediately, was the way Danny worded things.

“Because ever since we’ve been introduced, we’ve literally never hung out,” Danny had said.

“Do you have anything else to say?” Tim had asked.

Danny kept commenting how he’d never known XYZ about Dick, that Dick had never told him about whatever story Dick was regaling him with, informing Dick about whether or not he liked or disliked something, and just…acting like he’d never met Dick before, and was doing everything but outright saying it.

The most damning evidence Dick managed to gather, however, was how Danny would pause before being introduced to a snack. Like he didn’t know if he would like it or not, like it was new to him.

So Dick chose a movie he’d seen a million times before, something he could easily pretend to watch while he compiled what he’d found out in his head. 

It was an old movie, a cult classic, and the attention Danny was giving it indicated that he’d never even heard of it before.

So.

Danny was a clone, then.

If he had been an alternate version of Tim, he would have known some things about Dick’s personal tastes, and if he had been Tim’s twin from a different dimension, then at least some of the things they’d talked about would have overlapped.

But it was all new to him.

That left cloning.

Danny looked nothing like Kon, and Dick was certain that he and Superman had successfully shredded Tim’s cloning lab, soTim and Luthor were out.

But Tim had a lot of enemies.

The issue was finding out which one…

Tim’s spleen.

That would have been a good source of DNA material, and only one person had both the remains of Tim’s organ and the money to afford a cloning operation.

Ra’s Al Fucking Ghul.

It wasn’t enough that the freak was chasing his little brother’s skirts, he’d resorted to creating his own version of Tim to play with.

And Tim had gotten him away, without reaching out to the family for help. Again.

It would match Danny’s cover story about being deep cover, but it snagged on one thing.

Why hadn’t Tim taken Danny out with him when he’d infiltrated the League to get Bruce back?

So Danny had been in the League, and if he was a clone then that would explain…well, everything.

Dick watched Danny through the corner of his eye, noticing for the first time what his small fidgets were for.

Lightly rubbing fingers on rough surfaces, check. Reaching up to touch a specific area of his face, check. The small undercurrent of fear that would rise when the movie slowed, check. Deep, controlled breaths when the movie touched on certain subject, check. Slowly but surely burrowing his way into his oversized hoodie until the only skin visible was his face, check.

All pointed towards grounding himself, all pointed towards previous trauma.

Dick decided to ask for confirmation, without asking for confirmation.

“Man, I forgot how cheesy this movie could be,” he chuckled, leaning further into the couch, “Real assassins don’t move like that.”

Danny snorted, nodding in agreement.

“Way too many useless moves; they’d get seriously punished for the excess time it took.”

Yup.

Yup yup yup.

That was the League speaking.

And from how Danny had tensed his shoulders, how that flash of fear had briefly shown in his eyes, that was also experience speaking.

Dick had thought he’d protected Tim from Ra’s, but apparently Ra’s had found a workaround.

Dick wasn’t worried about brainwashing; that would have been the first thing Tim dealt with. 

Tim had taken this clone, cleaned him up, gotten him on his feet, and declared him his twin, and okay; that was their choice, and if that was what they wanted their identities to be, then that was what they were. They wanted to play a prank on the family? Fine, Dick didn’t have any issue with it.

He was thrilled to have another brother, if he was honest. Especially one insistent on being a civilian; that was one less sibling he had to worry about on his patrols.

What he did have an issue with, however, was that Ra’s had managed to traumatize one of his little brothers, and had done it with Dick none the wiser.

By the time the movie had ended, Dick had worked himself up too much about it, and could feel the explosive outburst teasing the edge of his mind.

So he’d all but run from the penthouse, and crime in Gotham that night feared Nightwing far more than it did Batman.

Presently, he could feel the explosion that had been building ease back as he watched Danny make a nuisance of himself to his twin. He watched them for another moment, before turning his attention to Bruce. 

Bruce, who looked like he knew something, but clearly had made a move without knowing everything.

All this talk about Bruce trying to kill Danny was making Dick consider putting that same fear he’d put into the criminal underbelly of Gotham that night into his father.

“Bruce,” he ordered, fighting to keep his voice level, “Spill.”

~~~~~~

Damian used Timothy as a distraction, grabbing Daniel’s hand and ensuring that its bandage was not removed or knocked loose. It was not going well; the hand was occasionally sparking and Daniel kept trying to pull it away.

Daniel only stopped trying to squirm away when he realized it was Damian who was touching him, whereupon he took it upon himself to transfer his weight from Timothy to Damian with a cry of “El-witwaat!”.

Damian used the momentum to make Daniel sit, allowing for the undamaged hand to wrap around him in exchange for free access to the injured hand.

He finally managed to re-tighten the slightly-burned bandage in time to listen to Father’s lackluster explanation.

“I was under the wrongful impression that Danny was from another dimension, and wanted to send him back so that his version of Bruce would not worry,” he started, laying out the most relevant facts and keeping his hands at his sides and his stance non-threatening, “I was unaware I was implying that I would send him to his death; I will no longer be pursuing that course of action.”

There was an unimpressed silence from Richard, before he spoke but a single word.

“Clone.”

Damian heard Father let out a soft exclamation, but tuned him out to look down at the twin plastered to his front.

Damian went over their past interactions, the way that Daniel had worded things, how Daniel interacted with the world; and Damian was surprised that Daniel had gone out of his way to never once lie to Damian, personally. Certainly, he’d lied to the others to keep the charade going, but everything with Damian had been worded so carefully that it had never strayed out of the realm of truth.

Damian did not feel betrayed by this.

He felt relieved.

He did not have to walk on eggshells, wondering if his current actions would stay on track for past actions. He no longer felt that he had to outdo a past version of himself that he could not recall.

Damian would begrudgingly grant that Timothy’s idea was an excellent training exercise in jumping to wrong conclusions, or accepting the facts presented before him without question.

The youngest Wayne turned to glare at Timothy even as the older twin-progenitor? Twin. Damian could see them as nothing else-attempted to console Daniel.

“Do you intend to throw him away, now that you’ve utilized him as a tool for your test?”

Timothy had always been against Damian, and Damian had always been against Timothy. They had a history of fighting each other, and were more likely to draw blood than to agree on something.

But Damian had never seen the look of hatred on Timothy’s face that his brother directed at him after he asked that question.

Good.

“He’s my twin, I don’t care where he came from-”

“-Good, then we actually agree on something for once,” Damian interrupted, not wishing to hear whatever monologue the buffoon was about to prattle on about.

Daniel was his brother, and the only brother he had a normal relationship with.

Luck was with Timothy, as Damian had been fully prepared to fight to keep it that way, and thought that Timothy could stand to gain a few more holes in his body.

~~~~~~

Bruce took in the scene in front of him.

Danny was coddling Damian, who was mother-henning over Danny in his own way. Tim hovered over them both, unsure of how to handle himself since his twin had attached himself to their youngest.

Jason had turned on his heel and marched towards the stairs, presumably to raid the kitchen, Dick had collapsed into a chair and was taking deep, meditative breaths, and Duke looked like he was having fourteen epiphanies at the same time.

Alfred stood with perfect poise and raised an eyebrow at Bruce.

“I’m so sorry sir; given that you had not informed me of your ongoing theories as to Master Danny’s existence, I assumed that you knew.”

It was blindingly clear that Alfred knew that Bruce had not known, and that not telling him was payback for Bruce not including Alfred in his research.

Barbara had chewed them out for lack of communication, and she had been right. If they had just talked to each other, then the massive misunderstanding he’d had wouldn’t have happened.

Fine.

“I also have to report that according to Constantine, he’s acting as the eyes for a god of some sort in this dimension.”

“Yeah, that checks,” Tim piped up, obviously distracted.

Dick stopped his meditative breathing.

Bruce turned slowly to face Tim.

“What,” Duke said flatly from behind him.

Tim looked a bit cornered.

Luckily, Danny had zero self-control.

“Beelzebub stole me from my Lair and put me in a mortal body and now I’m alive again and sometime’s people want to talk to me so Tim put a tracker in my leg.”

Bruce kept his gaze on Tim.

Tim kept his gaze on Danny.

“Tim,” said Bruce.

“Bruce,” answered Tim.

“Isn’t Beelzebub a demon?” Asked Duke.

“Beelzebub is a bitch,” clarified Danny.

“Language!” 

“Sorry, Alfred,” Danny moaned, before whispering to Damian, “But he is, though.”

“Why does he need a tracker, Tim?” Dick cut in, looking exactly how Bruce felt.

“He may have been a big name in the afterlife, and people can sometimes summon him and he’ll just…poof,” Tim mumbled, miming an explosion with his hands, “So the tracker alerts me if he just randomly jumps locations. I can set it to alert on your phones too, if you give me fifteen minutes.”

Bruce frowned.

The tracker was a good idea then; they’d be able to find Danny if he was summoned and retrieve him back home safely.

Dick looked rather like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“So you just…violated his autonomy?”

“No, he actually agreed to the tracker.”

“Cultists are scary and I like being alive.”

Damian nodded solemnly, fully agreeing with Danny’s decision.

Bruce sighed, electing to ruffle Danny’s hair as he walked past him to the BatComputer.

He had a PR shitshow to navigate, and Danny needed to sleep off the morphine before he made Duke’s head explode.

“So one of my brothers is a prophet?!”

Too late, it seemed. Duke was falling down the conspiracy rabbit hole that Tim’s boyfriend loved to swim in.

@terzatheunderscorerima @darkbiscuitvoidstudent @akikkobara @reach-for-the-horizon @bitter-coffeecup @moodycow210 @kisatamao @thefantasmarex @fisher-with-the-morbs @jaguarthecat @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair @moonshell25 @tundra1029 @hoarder-of-gender @depressed-bitchy-demon @kisatamao @countessdragon @sara0055